ISSUE #4 | Transmission Scumm
Illustration by Sam Rheaume;
“Johnson, Johnson–is it light? Feels like I haven’t seen daylight in forever.”
“Yes, sir. Morning is coming. It’s over.”
“The visitor?”
“Reports indicate the craft is in low orbit, on an exit trajectory. Broadcasting a final message before departing our planet.”
“But why? Why leave after coming so far?”
“Burn-out, sir. The visitor partied too hard. In the end the people of Earth–our people–were far more radical and righteous dudes.”
“More radical dudes. Hmm. I wonder–at what cost? The coastline cities are gone–the Midwest an irradiated husk. We haven’t heard from London in over twelve hours. Hard-partying, yes. But at what cost? Johnson? Johnson, can you hear me? Johnson….”
***
Oof. Good morning, remaining peoples of Earth. Was that as good for you as it was for me? Sorry if things got a little weird there towards the end – your pal Scummy’s never tried ouzo before. Y’all probably have a spare “Greece” lying around somewhere, right?
Anyway–folks, it’s been a blast. I mean that mostly metaphorically and only, like, twenty-five to thirty-five percent literally. You people have been so gracious hosting Planet Scumm these past few days and it warms my distributed network of mitochondrial “hearts” whenever I see such a fine bunch of primitive, barely sapient apes. Godspeed, Earth. I hope to visit again when you’ve got a few more cycles of weapons research under your belt.
But before I leave, one last broadcast from the upper atmosphere of that kooky planet we now all know so well. The place they call the Big Blue-Green Space Marble. Here are the stories from across the cosmos.
Lemme tell ya, it gets lonely out here when you’re traveling from system to system. That’s why I can sympathize with the subject of Laduke Ely Loomis’ The Rewilder. Rewilding is tough work, made all the tougher by roaming gangs of mutated neo-Luddites. Sometimes all that keeps you going is good food, good tunes, and a good partner at your side. Or, barring any of those, a creepy robot with a bunch of stim syringes.
Our next report comes from the war-torn planet of, uh, of… well, it’s really hard to pronounce. But you all know the place I’m talking about. Seems that after all the bloodshed there, the two warring parties are finally coming to an uneasy peace. “Uneasy,” in this case, means there’s still a fair amount of gun-waving and knife-sharpening. M. Raoulee brings us a first-person account in Memorial.
Lobsters! Maybe you hate ‘em, maybe you love ‘em, but there’s one thing we can all agree on: the lobster is the natural ally of the robot. That bond couldn’t be any clearer than in Arno’s Claw by Klaus Wenzel, the latest addition to Planet Scumm’s venerable (and delicious) catalogue of true crime reporting.
Finally, we have a terrifying tale that I’m sure many of our listeners know all too well. The Foundling by Chris Moylan features a monster so frightening, so cunning, and so flat-out disturbing that several members of our production staff literally died from shock upon hearing it. The creature I’m talking about is, of course, an itty-bitty baby. Don’t you laugh! Scummy technically can’t have “children” in the traditional sense but whenever I start budding, you better believe I squish those little cloned bastards while they’re still small. They plot against you otherwise!
All that and more coming up later. For now, as I gaze down upon this beautiful planet, I only have one thing to say: If it isn’t warp-jumping away from the wreckage of a once-civilized world, it isn’t… Planet Scumm!
