Listen, you’re not getting off this ship without me, one way or the other. You signed up for this trip. You dotted and dangled I’s and such. And they didn’t tell you about the License to Breathe? Well, fuck you for not reading right. That’s the scam, baby. This trip might be free, but the air ain’t. At least not down on Earth. Sounded exotic, eh? All those fleshy bipeds, driving exoskeletons full of liquid fire around the crushed stone. Trees as tall as monoliths. Real nice.
Look, don’t give me this sob story shit. You aren’t welcome down there. The air don’t care who the fuck you are. Without your LB suctioned to your flap, your bug eyes’ll explode after a few minutes. But I got you. Don’t worry, my man. I can hook you up. I happen to be a Independent Licensing Agent. I know, I know, you’ve heard to never, ever get tangle up with us, but what choice do you have? I can get air into your lungs. That’s it, that’s what its all about.
See, payment comes later. You know that. Once you establish yourself and find a host womb and such, then you can start breeding your little baby brain slugs or whatever your case is and we’ll only take 15 of the first hundred, just like it outlines in Form 584 that you filled out for your License to Impregnate. Why you looking at me that way, partner? Don’t tell me you don’t have a LI either.
Shit, you’re lucky I’m here.