(Not the gluteny kind. More like… what you’re doing when you’re not doing anything much.)
Scrap Harrington dashed through the blistering hatchway as blaster fire burst all around him. “You’re in the thick of it now, old boy!” he muttered to himself, as he always did, to add flavor to the exciting, though somewhat repetitious, space exploits that propelled him at every turn into some other adventure or scrape. Why, just yesterday Scrap’d gotten into fisticuffs with a five-armed Zlorg barbarian from the planet Zlorg (well, really the moon orbiting around it, but you’d really have to be a local to care enough to make that distinction. I mean, it’s not like Zlog or its moon were really great shakes in the tourism department. Unless you liked bubbling tarpits and vast and noxious fields of stinkgrass). That hadn’t ended too badly. A couple scrapes, but Scrap had definitely given better than he got. He fired his blaster wildly behind him, purple light spraying and pewing everywhere. There was the sound behind him of bodies diving frantically out of the way. Also, a high-pitched scream. Scrap rolled through a doorway, not because he needed to, but because it just felt right. “Yes, I’m a creature of impulse, a man of action, a florid being of instant–” Scrap ran straight into a glass door and fell to the ground stunned. Moments later, he was dragged away. “Prison escape it is!” Scrap muttered between gritted teeth, nose swelling purple and bloodily. His captors rolled their eyes. Every last one.