"Oh, hell," thought Fillibuster the Piñata the weasel, and pooped. It took so much concentration to do so while flying at lightspeed through space, that she stopped panicking just long enough to realize she had scuba diving gear in her hand. Which was very, er, convenient and handy considering that there is no oxygen in space and all. She had neither the time nor the multi-tasking skill to wonder why it was there. Instead, after putting on the gear, she did a spastic little move for no apparent reason. Her trajectory changed ever so slightly...
All of a sudden a giant Willie Nelson poster was right in front of her. She didn't know who Willie Nelson was and in any case the poster was so big that she had no idea it was a person. From where she was it looked like a big crazy galaxy. That is, until she slammed into it and lost consciousness.
When she woke up she was laying on a very, very, very, very soft and thick mattress. There was something that looked like a small part of a flying car next to her. She looked around her and saw a group of three baffled boys. One of them picked up the car part and stared at it. Another, slightly taller one, grabbed it out of his hand.
"Hey, give it back, Billy!" the first one squealed.
"Naw Jack we gotta get outta hur. I'm 'una show Pop."
Jack acquiesced, and went for Fillibuster. Billy smacked him on the hand and said, "Jack it could be dirty. Wait til we get Pop back here, then he'll say if it's okay."
The four boys turned and started running for home.
Fillibuster the Piñata looked around her. Everything around her looked so strange...
(Uhhh, hi! Is it my turn? :] Let's go again!)
Suddenly the weasel, whose name, by the way, was Fillibuster the Piñata (because her mentally lacking parents raised her on a cannabis farm in Holland) was stricken with a horrible realization. Though she'd quite expertly created these little shimmering friends for herself, there was one very particular difference between her and the makeshift stars. They didn't have to breathe.
She remembered not a moment too soon reading in some story a while ago about these people who tried to breathe in a vaccuum and had their lungs crushed, so she continued holding her breath, as she had been doing by quite a fortunate coincidence, because she had a habit of holding her breath when she cried, just in case she was crying because she was cutting onions, as she really didn't like the smell of them. She started to feel a little light-headed and knew it wouldn't be long before she had to take another breath.
Suddenly that voice she'd heard what seemed like such a long time ago, before her backpack turned into a total bastard, reappeared, which confused her a little as she thought the voice belonged to the backpack...
"DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?" it asked, booming and very italicized-sounding. Fillibuster the Piñata wondered only briefly about the logistics of being able to hear in a vaccuum, but was quickly forced out of her ponderment by vaccuum-like silence the voice had left, which was as close to foot-tapping as a disembodied voice could get.
"-" she said.
"DON'T TALK, YOU IDIOT, YOU'LL DIE."
The weasel thought for a minute, and then shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
"BY DISRUPTING MY CONCENTRATION YOU HAVE AIDED THE LEATHER ARMY IN THE DESTRUCTION OF MUCH STUFF."
"-" said the weasel.
The voice sounded like it raised a warning finger.
As she floated in the vaccum, the idea of being the only thing left in existance began to crowd in around her the way pieces of sand stick to a child's piece of candy as he walks along beach, regardless of how often it gets dunked it the ocean or wiped clean on the shirt of his mother. Finally, when she sank into a depression so deep she was now only aware of physical sensation, she dimly felt one tiny tear roll like a juggernaut down to the tip of her nose, where it leapt into the black void like a skier jumping for a gold medal.
This depression, which most certainly would have killed the weasel under normal circumstances (she having visited no less than 53 psychiatrists for various problems, including her dislike of body hair,) ended up being what saved her. For as both she and her mind drifted in a numb haze, a bright, sparkling light kept shining into her eyes. Sluggishly, she drug herself back into full conciousness, if only to find what the light was so she could destroy it and return to her mindless moping.
She found herself gazing upon her tear, which was gently pulsing with a bright light, a combination of purple and green. It dazzled and awed her with its beauty for quite some time, after which she realized that by filling the sky with these blinking lights, she would no longer be alone.
So, remembering the time that her brother broke her Etch-A-Sketch, she began crying and crying, striving to make the void around her as much like a Lite-Brite as possible.
Rising from the ground and shaking off the backpack's vomit, the weasel looked down at the body hair she had only recently begun to appreciate. Her head was spinning as more and more of her brain cells shuddered and fell off. She reflexively scratched her head, but retracted her hand immediately after realizing that epileptoid brain bits were falling, and that she didn't want the buggers on her hands. It's impossible to get the brain cells off your hands. They just cling there and make little babies and get married, and cheat on their wives with prettier dead brain cells and then before you know it, there are lawsuits and angry door-slamming and jilted spinsters in dusty houses. All on the palm of your hand.
"Hello? I'm fucking talking to you!"
She had almost forgotten about the talking backpack and the veritable smackdown going on before her, pondering the effectiveness of a legal system for dead brain cells. The backpack was getting irritated by the weasel's lack of cowering respect.
"I'm sorry!" the weasel answered, immediately amazed, because she didn't know weasels could speak. "What's up?"
The backpack rolled its snaps, knowing from experience that it's difficult to scare a complete moron.
Startled, the weasel spun around faster than a merry-go-round on crack. The last time she checked, people didn't continue speaking when they no longer had heads. Or bodies. Something had to be making the noise. But what?
As she searched around for the origin of the voice, she suddenly noticed that something about her backpack was different. Instead of having three little zipper pouches, it now was more like a knapsack. Two snaps held the top shut, and a line of stitching ran close to the bottom of the front side. From her angle, it looked kinda like a face.