Captain Dirk Atomic sighed as he looked over the latest spacecoms from Central Command. The galactic senate was holding a referendum on interplanetary species control and needed some extra hands. Boring. Some rich-ass family wants extra security for their prissy sixteen year old's birthday. Sexy, but probably not worth the trouble, and the pay would be lousy to boot. The spacecops on Incarceron IV needed help catching some fugitves that had escaped from space prison. A little dangerous, but still boring
Dirk took a draw on his drink (space scotch on the rocks, and the rocks were made of more space scotch) and wondered how he'd gotten into this racket in the first place. He was the best captain this side of the Spiral, dammit. A goddamn war hero, even. But the galaxy had been at peace for a year and nobody needed Dirk's special brand of justice. He'd taken everything he could get his hands on after the war; escort missions, search and rescue. Hell, even a bit of smuggling here and there. But nothing quite had the gut-wrenching excitement that screaming through the galaxy at a billion clicks a second chasing after aliens hell-bent on destroying all life as we know it. Nothing quite satisfied his primal, manly, needs.
Space scotch helped fill the void, to a certain extent. And this was some damn fine space scotch.
He kept flicking idly through the spacecoms in the off chance that something would catch his eye. "Hello, what's this?" He said to himself (he had drank the last of his space scotch, so it was unable to respond). "The Slutites on Sexulon VII have a shortage of bikinis? And they need a daring space captain to fly through the dangerous Stripperoid Belt that surrounds their planet to deliver a new shipment? Dirk, you sly bastard, you've just found yourself your next job.