A/N: I don't own "The Ice Pirates."

The hallway is as bad as the bridge. Pirates battling Templars, robots fighting robots, swords clashing like nails on a chalkboard. One robot is sent slamming into the wall, causing the entire corridor to shake, and the Space Herpe falls off the ceiling, landing on the back of a bulky black robot.

Correction, she thinks, sniffing this new entity; it's not a robot. Actually, from the neck down it is. But perched on its shoulders it a very organic human head, with dark curly hair, a matching beard, and thick dorky glasses.

This is Lord Wendon, ruler of the Tri System. Once again the Space Herpe is basking in a human's memories and thoughts.

Wendon is a great-great-(insert a few lightyears worth of "greats")-nephew of the Supreme Commander of the Templars. Wendon has led a life of privilege, and one free of responsibility; the eighth child if fourteen, Wendon never had to worry about inheriting his father's throne on the moon of Dionysus. Wendon had a body back then, though he didn't take the best care of it. The spoiled prince spent his days eating, collecting exotic animals, and finding jobs to hire scantily clad women for. When he ran out of positions for maids, serving girls and dancers, he began putting out ads for any odd job he could come up with; food taster, massage artist, ocelot tamer, chip-dipper, channel flipper. The final straw for Wendon's father was when his son hired a tribe of half-naked warrior women from the ill-fated planet of Boudicca to guard his quarters.

"But Dad," Wendon whined, "you were just telling me the other day that I had to watch my neck for assassins! These are my body guards." He gestured to the muscular, freshly-oiled Amazons.

His father sputtered, face beet red with rage. "Wendon," battling to stay calm, his father managed to lower his screams to a strangled indoor voice. "You are politically neutral. You'll never be a serious consideration for the throne. You're probably not going to be anyone's romantic rival. The only reason, and a very probable reason, why someone might want to assassinate you, is to prevent you from inflicting further embarrassment on this family!"

Wendon blinked stupidly behind his thick glasses.

"Let me demonstrate," the white-haired aristocrat reached for the elegant sword on his belt.

"Donald," Wendon's mother begged tearfully. "Husband, please!"

Reluctantly, the duke sheathed his blade. Turning on his heel, the old aristocrat stormed down the palace hall, grumbling threateningly, "Some time!"

The Duchess of Dionysus feared for her son. Wendon was childish, selfish, fat, lazy, horny, greedy, and sometimes sadistic, but he was her son. He was in his mid forties and still lived with his parents, but he was still her son. No matter how insufferable a son became, a mother's love was infallible. But the same, it seemed, was not true for a father's love. Or at least a father's patience. Lady Lilith believed her husband still loved his son...very deep down... but even her beloved husband had his limits, and there was no denying that if anything would drive him to murder a family member, it was the man-child before her.

The duchess blinked sadly at her son, as he playfully flung up the skirt of a passing maid. If Wendon's father didn't kill him, it would only be because someone else killed him first. Someone was going to try to do Wendon in, it was inevitable. The best she could do as his mother would be to plan ahead.

Or...

Plan... a head!

Wendon rolled over in bed, between a maid and a glitter-covered dancing girl. A shadow was falling over him. Half-asleep, still partway in an erotic dream, the prince fancied it was another curvaceous female coming to join the threesome.

Wendon cooed lustfully, "Do I hear chain-mail? You know, just because you were hired as a guard, doesn't mean you can't help out with other chores." The dark figure raised a sword. "Ooo, kinky!"

Those two words were Wendon's last, before the blade came down onto his neck. The prince's eyes bulged, as he came completely awake. His two mistresses were screaming, and backing away. The maid lifted her apron to see the blood sprayed on it, then began pouting in French about how careful she'd always been to keep that thing perfectly white. The dancer meanwhile just stared at the carnage on the bed with a wrinkled nose.

Wendon's father heaved over his son's decapitated body, his rage slowly dwindling.

"Wendon?" the duchess's voice echoed from the hall.

"Mother!" Wendon croaked. "I'm still alive. Wait a minute... I'm...I'm alive!"

"What?" the Duke raised his blade again but his wife quickly stopped his arm.

Turning to her son's living head, the duchess explained, "I spoke to a Denebean scientist. The crab people have a highly advanced technology. That operation of yours last week was to wire your cranium for postmortem regeneration."

"You mean I wasn't really getting my wisdom teeth removed?" Weondon slurred with fatigue.

"You had your wisdom teeth removed when you were twenty-one Wendon," his mother sighed at her son's stupidity. "Now your father has satisfied his rage, and you're still alive. Get back to sleep. In the morning I'll take you shopping for a robotic body."

Wendon blinked slowly behind the glasses he'd worn to bed. "Just make sure it's a body that can digest sour cream chips and wine coolers."

It was soon arranged for Wendon to rule his own planet: a foggy wasteland in the Tri system, where the decapitated dunce would never annoy anyone again. The only other humans to join him were his Boudiccan body guards, who had no where else to go, their home planet destroyed by the Templars. All of the rest of his female servants found new jobs and remained a part of civilization. But Wendon made the most of his new life. He had a magnificent palace all to himself (albeit, one that looked suspiciously like an out-of-use opera house that had been lifted from its original foundation and transported to the barren planet). He had his choice of robotic bodies. He had exotic pets, exotic women, and most importantly, he had water.

And he lost it all, just earlier today, when those pesky pirates barged in looking for the princess's father. Wendon was seconds away from disposing of them, when the one pirate his Amazons had forgotten to capture swung down from a thick stage rope and kicked Wendon off his robotic body. Tp their credit, the pirates have held up their end of the bargain to take Wendon to the Seventh World with them. But despite Captain Jason's promise that there'd be "room for everyone," all of Wendon's pets and sexy guards have chosen to remain on the planet. It seems the Boudiccans are more drawn to the idea of having the palace and planet to themselves than joining the pirates on a possible suicide mission to find a planet no one's certain exists. Incidentally, there is a Boudiccan in Jason's crew-his pilot Beta, or Data or whatever her name is-but she isn't from the same clan as Wendon's guards (her tribe wears more clothes) and she didn't respond well to Wendon's sexual advances, so he has backed off the helmswoman.

But Wendon, being Wendon, is determined to enjoy himself, no matter how dismal his situation becomes. He has been proudly showing off his bulky robotic body, provided by the very pirate who'd separated him from his old one. It isn't regal or elegant, but it definitely has a sense of power. Black, Wendon just decided, is definitely his color.

The Space Herpe has grown bored of Wendon's literal life story, having lost interest some paragraphs ago, and, snoring loudly, tumbles off his robotic back with a soft squelch. Wendon doesn't notice. All of the battling pirates, knights and robots continue fighting obliviously as the Herpe slithers around their feet, and through a partially-opened door...