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Hello, I'm Lobster-boy Chuckles, or simply, Lobster Chuckles. I decided to call this thing after myself because, let's face it, it's a damn cool name. I mean, why not? I wrote the thing. Why shouldn't
I name it after me? That being said, let's get down to business.

Lobster-Boy Chuckles, aka Lobster Chuckles laughs from his briny resting place-
"I'm not dead, I just changed my shell."
Snappy, the ridge-backed turtle, and adolescent blue-tailed skinks lurk nearby.
"There weren't any reptiles conspiring against me- that was one on the plus side. I had done a few jobs for the international seafood industry, was flush with fresh cash, and wanted to take some time off and allow my investments to grow- none of that, though- not when Bob White and the Quails flew into town."
Lobster Chuckles chuckles.
"At least, that's what they were calling themselves in those days. It used to be Packy Derm and the Brilloes, before that, Equestrian Jumpsuit. Every time they re-formed and started tuning up, they'd pick out some damned crazy name and start banging away."
Lobster-Boy pours some more lemonade and gazes distractedly off into the gathering night. The western sky is ablaze with oranges, awash in purples, backed by the deepening blue.
"Anyway, when Bob called and asked me to start booking gigs for them, I went back to work. First they'd play a few small clubs, then some larger halls around the area. Of course, what I didn't know was that this time, it was only a cover for their bigger project."
He take a swallow of his drink, and begins to unwind his tale as the whippoorwills call and bats take flight.

"Where is that old kitchen rat!?" Azzteroidz was feeling more than usually boisterous, since he knew that his headers would be on the next express freight flight out of San Pedro. That meant he would be back on the road, driving his own car, fresh with high-performance modifications, within two days. He was ecstatic.
"Where is he? Tell him he can't hide back there with the pots and pans forever!" he was loitering by the cash register, calling toward the kitchen door.
"Hey darling," Slim was already working on Karyn, not necessarily because he preferred her, but because Missy Lo was busy with the elderly couple, " why not come back to the studio with us and eat? Then we can take my car over to Biloxi and take in a show. I don't have to be back to practice till later tonight. Whaddya say?"
She smiled, half-heartedly pulling away from him, "You know my shift isn't over until 3- can you wait that long?"
"Honey- in 3 hours, I'll be ready to do anything you want," he grinned.
Phah had come out of the office slowly, since she was in the middle of counting out change for tonight's business from last night's proceeds, and didn't want to mess things up before dealing with Azzteroidz.
"You so loud. How can we get rid of you quicker?" she smiled at him.
"Hi, girl. Tell that worthless hunk of shark bait you call a Chef's mate to get me my food. And no cat this time!" he chortled.
"I no girl. I crabby old woman, and you just plain bad, Mr. Azzteroidz. We get you good food, get you out of here. You disturbing paying customers! 'No cat', indeed."
"Oh! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" he laughed harder now, pulling a wad of bills out of his coat pocket, "here's your money! How much do you need, baby? I got loads of it!"
She took out what he owed for the food, along with enough for a substantial tip and a round of drinks for the old couple who were now engaged in what appeared to be an urgent, hushed consultation with Karyn and Missy Lo.
Slim sat down next to Ms. Leland and her date, pointedly ignoring him.
"Howya doin'? Wanna go out after you finishing eating?"
"Well, I never-!?" she began to protest.
"See here, mister, I don't know who you are-" her date was slow, but beginning to flush angrily.
"Hang on a minute, baby," Slim urged, then turned on the hotly-glowing confused young man next to her.
"Listen buddy, my name ain't mister, and besides," he looks the fella up and down, scowling as he does so, "I wasn't talking to you."

Azzteroidz looked over, then turned, and said to Phah, "Uh oh. Situation here. Be right back."
He veritably leaps over to the table, grabbing Slim by the arm and pulling him toward the side of the restaurant where Karyn has just broken away from Missy Lo and her diners.
"They said they're never coming back, if we can't keep riff-raff like you two out of here," she muttered, "I'll bring your food out to the car."
"I hope you're coming with us, darlin', or I'm heading back over to that table and hit on Miss Goody Two Shoes again. Maybe hit on her boyfriend too, in a different way."
"No, you're not," Azz's voice is low, flat, emotionless.
Slim knows he is not bluffing when he uses that voice.
"Awww man, I was just foolin' around."
Azz fixes him with a steely glare, "I know. No more foolin', now."
Phah waves Karyn off, silently acknowledging that she is no longer on the clock, after handing her a large box filled with food.
"Hopefully never see you again, Mr. Azzteroidz!" Phah chirps cheerily as they head for the door. The elderly couple perk up visibly as Missy Lo drops off the drink order paid for by Azz. The old man manages a smile himself when she tells him who sent the drinks. They don't notice Old Cap coming out of the kitchen. He has a large, perfectly-balanced meat cutter's cleaver. His hand flicks out blindingly fast, sending it spinning through the air, to bury the tip of its blade in the doorjamb, inches from Azzteroidz's head. He turns and grins widely.
"I knew you still had it in you," he calls out to the old man.
Cap just smiles and waves.
The old man and his wife have turned their heads at the hearty thump from the impact of the cleaver, but, from their seats, cannot see the doorjamb, or the still-vibrating steel buried there. They think Azz and Old Cap are simply exchanging pleasantries. And in a way, they are correct.

Grit is whining to his real boss, a record industry pirate.
"But I engineered the accident, I'll be senior studio tech. I'm already on the inside! I should get more money! My girlfriend's car is wrecked," he added plaintively.
"You're an amateur that happens to be in the right place at the right time! Don't push your luck. I'm sending in a pro, and you'll continue to take orders. You're not the only one that's able to make accidents happen, you know. Besides, you'll be making more as senior studio tech, right?"
Grit isn't sure how to take this last remark. He caves in.
"Well, alright, but this new guy has to take orders from me when he's in the studio. And I get the finder's fee, on top of what you're paying me for access to the studio."
"Fine. Ten percent is fair, if they come up with anything worth stealing."
"Ten!? Finder's fee is like an agent, right? Fifteen!"
"Take the ten, and shut up, or else."
Grit caves in again, and says no more.
Spins grins malevolently and hits the intercom button.
[name comes from 'spin' he puts on pirated music in world marketing]
"Tiff! Send in Mr. Waschovitz."
"Okey- dokey," Tiffany can be heard to reply through the tiny speaker, before a loud popping sound, the sound of her Bazooka Joe bubblegum, then silence as Spins cuts her next remark short.

Old Cap was preparing prawns for a large platter, humming idly to himself, intent on the small knife blade's movement through the chill, firm flesh. Deveining was a time-consuming, meticulous operation, but one that was paramount to the success of butterflied tempura shrimp.
He was so deep in concentration that he nearly missed the hazy shimmer of a transporter beam in the darkness near the walk-in cooler behind him. However, he hadn't been on-world so long that he had lost all the alertness honed by scores of missions. By the time the being had fully materialized, Cap was standing next to him with a large butcher knife, and was already making a grab for the humanoid's wrist, before he could reach for the holstered stun-weapon at his belt.
"What brings you here, Commander? Surely this isn't going to be a take-out order?"
The grizzled veteran of so many campaigns didn't even twitch.
"No, Cap- I was just wondering why an old dog of war like yourself would be content to serve meals to humans on this backwater world. I thought I should check up on you, since nearly everyone at Galactic HQ thinks you're dead."
"You know damn well what I'm doing- we've had some errant assholes messing with the locals here for years, and it's messing up my retirement. You also know why Galactic HQ leaves them alone. Why you still work for that bunch, I don't know. I'm here to even the odds a little and send some of the the evil bastards back where they belong. Lord knows they've had it coming for some time."
"Yeah, but HQ seems to think that we should leave well enough alone, let the humans figure it out for themselves."
"Bullshit! Every time they get close, those shits pull one of their little stunts and set them back, and you know it."
"Maybe so, but it is up to HQ."
"Not anymore," Cap said, bringing the knife up in a blur to cut the head from the Commander's body.
"I'll get you a new body when I've got the time," he muttered, setting the self-destruct mechanism on the stunner for fifteen seconds.
"Hope you were here on your own recognizance," he said to the disembodied head as the body vanished along with the weapon. He then double-bagged his old friend's head and placed it alongside some cabbages in the cooler, mopped up the little bit of blood on the floor, then returned to his task.
Twenty minutes later, when he hadn't had a visit from any of the Commander's underlings, he finally breathed a little easier.