chapter=Chapter 12 Enjoying the feeling of being right about something has been determined to be one of the fundamental signs of life. Proteins push and shove their way through billions of years of evolution, but remain robotic contraptions of biological misfortune until at one moment, they are shocked into feeling good about forming, analyzing, and finally coming to the irrefutable conclusion that they are right about something. It is this sensation of grandeur that stimulates the next journey of synaptic firing that incubates the swirling helix of intelligent matter out of the void of meandering sludge. The insatiable desire for feeling right drives creatures to rise up from the primordial waters and stand firmly on all six legs searching for a likeness of themselves, only to be confronted with differing opinions that drive them to impending wars that result in their eventual extermination. Every soldier in the United Planets is trained for years to understand the delicate balance of this principle when communicating with leaders of foreign nations. Individuals are selected based not only on their physical superiority, but also for their innate ability to sense a beings willingness to concede or begin war. All but the members of Peace Mission 84-48 of Nafos 6 in the war ridden sector of Ara's 7. Commander Hunt has been screaming on a radio he managed to pull off a dead local who apparently ate himself to death after finding Sanjit's compose pile just on the edge of camp. The Commander was notorious for losing his temper at explicitly the wrong times in his career, and this day was only a line item in an otherwise serious of near court-martials. "Now listen here you war mongering tongue flapper! When I get back to a fully functional ship, I will call you back and threaten you with something more threatening than what I'm saying now! I am a U.P. field commander!" Sanjit was in awe at how lost the Commander had become in his early morning attempt to correct their stranded situation in the middle of Nafos deep jungle. They had only ventured away from the ship in short spurts, and never for a prolonged time. Up to this point no one was sure how long they were going to be stationed at this outpost, but they were all definitely hoping it was going to be a short one. For even though the days were warm, breezy, and out of the blackness of space, they were also littered with endless attacks from every ignorant local who hadn't yet discovered that pulse canons have a gifted sense of destruction about them. On one occasion Sanjy remembered a local Mullambimbi riding up to their ship and flicking an arrow at their 20-centimeter thick reinforced adamantium carbide hull. The arrow just brushed the side of the ship and floated to the ground. Before the decorative symbol of good faith between nations could be looked up, cross-referenced, and factored into the ship's defensive systems, the automated pulse canon array on the starboard side deployed and liquefied the poor bastard's entire genetic history. Needless to say, the UP ship and its occupants were not immediate favorites. It was only a matter of days before the surrounding factions would discover that their entire ship had been fried like beads of water down the crack of a Nafo's mountain walrus ass; who were recently cataloged as having the hottest ass cheeks in the universe. It is true that the overall record wasn't too terribly difficult to outperform, having been previously held by the female species of Defroatum B who had a confirmed buttock temperature of 57¼ Celsius when informed that their spousal partners had left a rather nasty mess in the agradome living units. The UP was drawn to Defroatum B due to the overwhelming death rate of male Defroatians during their semi-annual meat hurling competitions. The Nafo's mountain walrus are distinct for their long menacing teeth and moonlight howling which was accompanied by a farting chorus of flabby butt cheeks glowing red-hot at 117¼ Celsius. No one quite knows how or why they evolved to possess such boiling hot bums, but nonetheless mountain climbing is strictly prohibited on Nafoolina year round. Another thing that is strictly prohibited is traveling through the jungles of Gunhoff without the proper escort or bio-protection suits; nevertheless this is where we find our UP crew at this very moment. Hitchmouth has been studying the horrible skin grinding factory that soon swung into full production once his slightly oversized standard issue blue UP boots attempted to traverse the fierce fluctuations in jungle foliage. The Commander is soon discovering that spray on clothing, although sheik and trendy, and very form fitting, was a very bad choice for their multi-mile marathon to the mysterious mountain that materialized only moments ago. Insects continually remind the Commander that his genitals are free for not only his state of mind, but every pouncing stinger attached to off world venoms of which they have absolutely no anti-venom for. Dr. Smutts stomps half painted furious that her day has already surpassed every bad day she has ever had in her 28 years of life on various planets. Her hairstyle resembling a headdress from the native tribes of Toobell Mangia of planets Sipitus 1 through 5 where spray in starch and random rodent droppings were a year round fashion of fame and dignity. For the inhabitants of Sipitus 1 through 5 believed that to worry about ones hair only suggested an uptightness that was reserved for the insanely type A. Helen Smutts was not enjoying her assignment one bit. She wanted out, and she wanted out now. She just had to deliver her message, and then her real mission on this miserable little planet would be over. The fact was that the only thing she hated more than war itself was the very UP that everyone around her was a part of. The MSA or Medcin Sans Atmospher had uncovered a line of historical corruption that span more than 2,000 galactic standard years. The game of death and destruction was going to see its first cog in the wheel fracture and spin hopelessly out of control. Dr. Smutts only hoped that she could live long enough to deliver her message. Now she only needed to find out where the "hollow-being" was to deliver the message to. Sanjit meanwhile was in the thick of it. He no sooner left the fried piece of toast they use to fancy as a spaceship that he began feeling sick to his stomach. A man with a degree in negotiating had lost control of his ever-shrinking group of personnel to an equally lost commander who was only sent to their planet as a form of reprimand. Every step into the squashy jungle floor pushed more and more hatred for his situation. He knew he needed to do something about this total lack of participation in his life. His superior officers were going to ask him questions, and he wasn't going to have any good answers for them. The situation on Nafoolina was horrible from the get go, but he was to conceal any sign of weakness. He was to tell any interstellar press correspondents that everything was going to plan, and that Nafoolina would be a settled world, and out of the threat halo of galactic chaos within the year. Never mind the fact that Sanjy hadn't actually learned anything new about the culture of the local habitat. He had only managed to figure out how to insult the local factions on 8 separate occasions, 5 of which resulted in the instantly vaporization of said local resident. "I've already told you why! I am a Field Commander!" "Would you please just shut up!" Sanjit barked at the Commander who nearly dropped his hand radio from the wincing pain of Sanjit's blasting vocals. "Oh say dear boy, that was rather loud now wasn't it?" "Give me that!" Sanjit jetted his open palm with a blacken stare that would make any Field Commander coward down in sheer subservience. "Well okay, but they won't help you. I've tried." Sanjit whipped the radio from the Commander's hand, pulled it to his face, searched for the appropriate button before smashing the entire unit on the sharp edge of a protruding rock. "That is the end of your reign fat man!" "Whoa!?" The Commander puffed in recoil. "You heard me..." Sanjit was now slowly creeping closer to the Commander with devil eyes just waiting for a peep that would queue a quite feeble attempt to assault the nearly 8 foot tall bag of babbling bones. "...no more running the show tough guy, cause its my turn!" Sanjit began to turn to address the entire tiny crowd. "I run this command, and you don't have to like it! We will go where I say we go, when we say I we go it!" Hitchy was looking a little confused by that last sentence, but seeing that Sanjit was Hitchy's biggest fan, Hitchy was ready to go with the flow, and he didn't like the Commander one bit. "I beg your pardon young man, but I..." attempted the Commander. "Shut it! Shut it right now before Sergeant Hitchmouth here shuts it for you." Hitchmouth being elated with his battlefield promotion thrust his Pulldine 80-88 Matter Canon in the Commander's face and shouted, "Yeah old man, enough of the trap! Its quiet time for you!" Yes it was, and the jungle did go quiet. No one was moving, least of all the Commander who was now standing quite oddly looking very naked for the first time. With no authority the paint made him look, well, painted, not dressed. After a brief 10-pack of seconds went by a yellow stream of urine began to pass from the Commander onto the jungle floor. The rest of them took one step back in unison and just watched as the once mighty Commander now stood looking as if to cry while he publicly pissed himself.