"Cosmic Cosmo's Cuisine. What can we get you for launch today?"
Spike looked at the ancient astronaut statue with the rusted speakers. "More like Cosmo's Intergalactic Indigestion," he muttered under his breath. Jet fired him a warning look before turning back to the takeout mic. "Can I get two Celestial Subs, one with no mayo and the other with extra pickles, and a couple of Blast From the Past Colas?"
The voice on the other end paused, as though processing his words. "Yessir," it finally declared. "Two Celestial Subs with no pickles and extra mayo. Will that be all?" Jet blinked at the microphone, dumbfounded. "No," he clarified. "I said I want two subs, one with no mayo and the other with extra pickles. And two colas."
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't sell donuts. Can I interest you in one of our Deep Space Smoothies for dessert?"
"No, I didn't say 'donuts,'" Jet yelled into the speaker. "I said colas. Cola, cola, cola-" He was interrupted by a sudden loud bang and an explosion as bits of the microphone went everywhere. Jumping back, startled, he turned to see Spike blowing smoke from the barrel of his gun.
"Face it, Jet," he told his frustrated friend. "Machines should never be involved when it comes to food. So how about parting with some woolongs and actually going to a decent restaurant for once?" Jet said nothing for a moment, then took off, grumbling.
