S'more In Store
We came, we saw, we derbied and ate smores. Yeah. Take that.
Under an atmospheric misty fog, thirteen pilots and one guest
navigated through the
cambridge and somerville systems.
All was chill. We arrived at a distress call to launch
sculpilot Rotwang into deep space. Kamikaze sanctified the ceremonies
with amazing gymnastic feats involving a trampoline, trash can,
bookshelf, and several large lawn chairs.
From there, the fleet headed off to a secret location for
smores-making and derbying. Unfortunately, high levels of radiation
residue on all nearby sources of fuel required us to eat our smores
raw. But all was good, and Nosepicker was just happy there was candy
at all. Raw smores eating was accomplished with gusto.
A StormTrooper had apparently been called to investigate our
operations at our secret location. After communicating his disbelief
that anyone had even noticed our activities, let alone complained
about them, he called in the following report into his radio:
ST (into radio): Yeah, these individuals are in the middle of nowhere.
They're just riding their bikes around.
ST (to us): Just turn the music off and you guys are fine...
US: Okay, thanks!
We then commenced with two officially-ST-sanctioned derbies.
After a bit more R+R, the fleet headed back to the landing
pad, where mission leader Ehawk congratulated us on completing all our
mission objectives. Success!