Well, life was getting back to normal on the Red Dwarf.
If you could ever call it that.
Rimmer, Lister, Kochanski, the Cat and Kryten had finished their two years on Floor 13. Away from the inmates, the guards, and the food (blech!), the boys (and Kochanski) were finally free. The Posse had been free for nearly a week. Free to eat what they liked, dress as they pleased (The Cat had wept with joy upon being reunited with his wardrobe.), wake up when they pleased. In fact, just two days ago, Lister had sat bolt upright from a dead sleep, sweating and shaking, wondering what that noise had been. It had been the lack of a blaring alarm call that woke him up. But they were free.
Aboard a starship stuck three million years from the Earth.
Gads, irony is a bitch. . . .
All in all, however, the Red Dwarf posse were happy to be free. Free to live normal lives. They were able, for the first time in two years, to really live life, to revel in their hopes and dreams, to meditate quietly on the meaning of freedom and life.
Rimmer was pissed, and not in the American sense, either...
He was sitting in his dark quarters, his head down on his table, with five cans of "Wicked Strength Lager," empty before him, listlessly crushed. He had almost finished the sixth. It sat half forgotton in his hand. He didn't care that all the carbonation had long since burbled it's way into the atmosphere. He drank it anyway.
He was also smoking a cigarette.
He had only smoked once before. It was back in his salad days at the Spacers Acadamy, and had been on a dare. His stomach had turned, his face went a peculiar color of green and he had had a headache for days afterwords. Worst of all, the taste. . . and he had resolved never to do it again.
Yet there he was, smoking like a chiminey, and it was all Lister's fault.
"Oh, yeah, that's the stuff, Ace. Blame it on someone else, for a change of pace," he said aloud to his dim, empty room, unaware of the poem he'd just drunkenly composed.
He felt a spasm in his back, and stood up, trying to work out the kinks. He wobbled for a moment before regaining his equilibrium. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror above his sink. Gazing at his reflection, he was momentarily shocked at what exactly stared back at him. He looked awful! He was drunk! And smoking! A cigarette! Of all the things to smoke! Realizing the futility of this line of thought, he dropped the offending material into his can of lager, only to find himself reaching for the near empty cigarette pack over on his table moments later.
"Aaargh," he screamed quietly. He picked up his beer and took a deep swig, forgetting that there was a butt in there. Choking, he rushed to the sink and spat out, watching a stream of lager and the end of his rolly come out of his mouth. That was all he could take. Crossing the room, he flopped down on his bunk, intent on sleep and hopefully oblivion, and closed his eyes.
He wondered when the room would stop spinning, because he'd very much like to get off now, please.
He opened his eyes, hoping that this would allow the room to cease it's gyrations. It only stopped for a moment, then began again with a vengence. He realized suddenly that he was going to throw up.
He jumped up, rushed back to the sink, and only just made it as the contents of his stomach pushed up and out of his mouth.
He gagged for a hellacious minute longer, then slumped to the deck. He reached for a towel on the nearby rack, wiped his face off, and then sprawled across the hard, cold metal floor. At least I know where my towel is... He closed his eyes again. The room wasn't spinning anymore. A decided impovement.
He lay there for a moment, wishing that the world would stop treating him like it's personal toilet paper. "Look at me!" he said aloud again. "I'm a total and complete waste of oxygen. I'm drunk, I'm worthless..."
"Not to mention ugly, stupid, cowardly, and not someone I'd take home to meet me mum."
He was so wrapped up in his drunken stupor that he hadn't even heard the door open. Rimmer raised his bleary eyes, only to be confronted with the sight of Dave Lister, looking down at him with something akin to sympathy in his eyes. Rimmer groaned and tried to turn his face away.
"What the smegging hell are you doing here, Lister? Come to kick the poor bastard when he's down?"
This came out in a barely audible slurred mumble. Lister at least had the good grace to look embarrased.
"Look, man, I was coming to give you your assignment papers, but now..." He trailed off, then continued, "But now I've come here to help you up and get you into bed." With that, Lister wrapped his arms around Rimmer's waist and hauled him bodily up. Rimmer tried to push him away, but was too drunk to make it effective.
"Go away, Lister. I donnwanna see you right now." And, because there are certain conventions that must be followed, he belched right in Lister's face.
Lister waved a hand in front of his nose, pulling a sour face. "Who d'yer think you are, ME?" Lister guided the taller man into the bunk, and layed him down. Then, grabbing a chair, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his chin on top of it. After a moment of quiet observation, Lister said, "You look like hell, Rimmer."
"Yes, well, you don't know what it's like. You don't care what happens to your career." Rimmer turned his face to the wall, so as not to see Lister's concern. That baffled him. For the past three years, Lister had made his life hell on earth. Why the sudden concern? Rimmer knew that any attempt to become an officer at this point would be an exercize in futility. Lister twitted him about it. Constantly. So again, why the concern?
"That's true," Lister admitted. "I could care less. But I know you care, so I came up to give you some good news and some bad news."
Rimmer turned and faced Lister, all embarrassment forgotten. "Well, give me the bad news first."
"You sure?"
"Yes I'm sure."
"Positive?"
"Yes, dammit, give me the bad news!"
"Are you 100 percent, absolutely dead set on the bad news first?"
"LISTER!!"
"All right, all right!" Lister pulled a piece of rumpled paper out of his trousers. "You and I are back on chicken soup dispensor maintainence, zed shift. And they've made me the shift leader. They said something about, 'good behavior and a higher leadership ability' and all that smeg."
Rimmer groaned again. This was the worst possible outcome. Not only to be denied the chance at officerhood, but to be back cleaning chicken soup nozzles for the next 3 million years... With Lister as his superior. "What's the good news?"
Lister grinned. "Kochanski gave me a kiss tonight."
Rimmer propped himself up on one elbow, not believing what he had heard. "That's my good news? That Kochanski kissed you? Why the smeg would that possibly be good news for me?"
Lister pouted mockingly. "I never said it was good news for YOU, man!"
That was all Rimmer could take. "You, Lister, are without a doubt, the nastiest, meanest, slimiest son of a bitch I've ever had the misfortune to meet! Get out of my room, you misbegotten pile of rat turd! OUT!!!" He lurched from off his bunk, and Lister jumped up, knocking the chair over, and ran from the room, giggling.
Rimmer lay back down, and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, Lister makes me sooo MAD, he thought. He heard his door open again. Without even looking, he yelled, "I told you to leave, you overgrown, fungus-y toenail clipping!"
"Fine," came a feminine voice. "Miss your parole appointment, see if I care." Rimmer's eyes flew open. Kochanski stood in the doorway, looking shocked and slightly angry. She was as polished as usual, wearing her trademark red PVC outfit.
Rimmer leaped to his feet, and threw a slightly shakey Rimmer 3/4 twist with the flourish at the end salute. "Sorry, Miss Kochanski, Ma'am, I thought you were..."
"Lister?" the woman asked gently.
"Lister," agreed Rimmer.
Kochanski came into his room. "I know. He passed me in the hall. Please, Rimmer, sit down. And don't salute me. I'm not an officer anymore." She uprighted the chair that Lister had knocked over and sat down in it, properly, with her ankles demurely crossed. Rimmer nodded gratefully and slumped into his bunk. Then, something that had been nagging at his liquor soaked brain sunk in.
"Parole appointment?"
"Yes, Rimmer, your parole appointment. We're all to have parole officers. I've already met mine, as have the Cat and Kryten. You and Dave are to meet yours tomorrow morning at 0900 sharp." She handed him a sheaf of papers. "This is an unofficial heads up, as it were. You'll receive your official notice tonight before lights out." She glanced at him with a slight look of curiosity. "I suggest that you try to get some good sleep. And for gods sake, Rimmer..."
"Yes?"
"Try to clean yourself up. You look a mess."
She stood and made as if to leave. Rimmer stopped her. "Kochanski?"
"Yes?" She stood at the door, poised to leave.
"Why on earth did you want to kiss Lister?"
Her eyes widened for a brief moment, then said, "I didn't kiss Lister."
"Oh," said Rimmer. He paused for a moment. Then, a large, slightly mad grin spread across his face. "Good."
Kochanski stalked out of Rimmer's quarters, with homicide on her mind. How DARE he? she thought. When I get my hands on him...
As if on cue, she felt a pair of hands wrap around her waist from behind. A low voice said in her ear, "Where're you goin', georgous? You ain't calling it a night so soon, eh?" His breath tickled her earlobe. She resisted the desire to shiver. It was rather nice... She pulled herelf up short and spun around in the embrace, remembering her murderous mental meanderings.
"Dave, I swear I'm going to kill you."
He let go of her red swathed form and stuck out his lower lip. "What'd I do now?"
"You promised that you wouldn't mention us to anybody! And Rimmer just pops right out and asked me point blank why I'd kiss you! Really, Dave, show some discretion for once in your life." Her hands were placed on her hips, and her head was cocked at him, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in annoyance.
He smirked at her. "Sorry, luv. I just had to yank Rimmer's chain is all. You know how it is."
If at all possible, her eyebrow went up a few more degrees. "I hate to think that our newly blooming relationship is something you'd use to twit Rimmer." Lister looked embarrassed. She glowered at him. "Besides, Dave, you know our parole officers would frown on us being together. They might suspect us of plotting an escape or something."
"Get outta town!"
"I'm quite serious, Dave. Now please, in the future, try to be a little more discrete."
"No problem." And saying this, he grabbed her in a hard embrace and stuck his tongue down her throat.
She tried to push him away, afraid of being caught. He noticed this, and, pulling away, said, "What, you mean the future NOW? Or, like, really the future, like 10 years from now?" And with a cheeky grin, he began to kiss her again.
Kochanski was too shocked to respond for a moment, then gave in to the inevitable. This is what I knew would happen. He's like a child with a sparkly new toy. She returned as good as she got. Then, she felt Dave stop, and pull his face away. She opened her eyes, still punch-drunk from the kiss and eyed him questioningly.
"Parole officer?" he asked.
"Yep." She handed him a sheet of paper and added, "Don't be late." Then, she turned and sauntered away, jiggling her hips, leaving behind a very perplexed and turned on Lister.
Rimmer jiggled his right leg, beating an arhymical tattoo on the deck, stopped, fidgeted with his sleeve cuff, stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, stopped, stood up abruptly and paced, exactly three steps forward and three back, sat down again, exhaled sharply through his nose, then began the process all over.
Needless to say, he was more than a little nervous.
It was 8:59 AM. He and Lister were seated in a small cubicle, awaiting their parole appointments. The cubicle had a door at one side and a sliding, frosted glass partition at the other. Along with the two military grey-green orthopedic (translation; bloody uncomfortable) chairs, these were the only outstanding features to the room. It had been designed to wear down the resistance of any people who had the severe misfortune to be called up for parole.
It worked. Lister, upon entering the room, had seen a piece of penciled graffitti below the window. It had read, "Abandon all hop, you who enter here."
Lister didn't particularly feel like hopping around, so whoever had written that had the right idea.
Finally, after the sixth repetion of Rimmer's anxiety dance, Lister said mildly, "Would ya please sit the smeg down and stay still for thirty seconds. They're prob'ly monitoring us, and you look like a total goit."
Rimmer, who was just in the middle of the "Running fingers through hair" section, stopped and lowered his hand. He eyed Lister with an incredulous look.
"How can you act so calm, Lister? In approximately one minute, that window is going to open and a chipper, polished woman, probably named Candy, will call out your name. You'll then proceed to a small smokey room and be questioned, interrogated under hot lights. By somone who's nickname is, in all likelyhood, "Bonecrusher." He'll torture you, pound you, strip your soul bare. He'll leave you an empty husk of humanity, a worthless, sobbing, gelatinous blob, fit only to clean chicken soup out of gukky dispensors."
"Not too much change then, eh?" came a voice from Lister's wrist.
"Thanks bunches, Hol," sighed Lister.
Holly bald visage gazed out of Lister's wristwatch, which had been modified to act as a remote sensor for the senile computer. Due to the present cicumstances, however, it was now his new home. His run-time was dramatically shortened because of this, as he didn't have access at all times to the mainframe. So the posse had worked out a stopgap solution. The only time Holly would attempt to hack back into the mainframe and contact them would be in the direst of dire emergencies.
Or whenever he really, really felt like it.
"Oi, dudes, what's happ'nin' then?"
"Not much, Hol. Rimmer's just being his usual self. You know, a jammy bastard."
"Ha ha," sneered Rimmer. "You'll sing a different tune when I'm proved right, me'laddo."
"Rimmer, you've seen far too many gangster movies. I'm sure that our parole officers will be boring, beaurocratic paper pushers, who won't give us the time of day. They just wanna make sure we ain't gonna go bonkers and fill the cargo decks with Lime Jello. Right Hol?"
"Actually, that's what I wanted to tell you, Dave. I've gotten your parole officer assignments. This is yours, Dave."
On the tiny window of Lister's watch, a new face appeared. It was a large, black face, with tiny, close-set eyes, and a fierce mustache. A frightening scar ran down the face from the left temple all the way to the tip of the chin. Queeg, the "Backup Computer" of Red Dwarf, one of Holly's practical jokes, sprang intantly to Lister's mind. Under the face was a name and a few statistics.
"Luther 'Dogmeat' Marone. Age: 35. Position: Security Officer 2nd class. Hobbies: Ju Jitsu (Black Belt); Armed Combat; Antique Weaponry; Crochet."
Lister groaned. "You're joking, right? Please, Holly, tell me you're joking."
Holly said, "Sorry, Dave. But look on the bright side. You can open your interview asking him how a bruiser like him managed to pick up such a granny hobby like crochet."
Lister groaned again. "You're a great help, Hol. You should get a job writing for greeting card company." Lister put on a fake, syrupy accent and said, "To my dearest Aunt, Sorry about Uncle Robert and his secretary. I'm sure the insurance money will cover your trip to Antigua."
Rimmer walked over to Lister, layed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Send my regards to that smokey room, Listy-poo." Rimmer was smirking, his eyes squinched shut, his nostrils flared.
"Don't look so damn smug, Rimmer," said Lister. "You were wrong, after all."
"How was I wrong?"
"His nickname wasn't Bonecrusher."
Rimmer ignored this last remark. "What about me, Holly? Who's my parole officer going to be?"
Holly looked him in the eyes. "Well, I've got good news and bad news."
Rimmer rolled his eyes. "Well, give me the bad news first."
"You sure?"
"Holly, I'm warning you. . ."
"All right. You have the bad luck to draw Hollister."
"Captain Hollister? Why's he my parole officer?"
"Well, that's the rub..."
Before Holly could tell Rimmer what exactly the rub was, the frosted window opened with a snap. Holly's face vanished from the watch, which annoyed Rimmer to no end.
Behind the now open window, a lip-glossed face, which bore the nametag "Tiffany" underneath it, said impersonally, "Nine O' Clock. Lister, David, proceed to Interrogation Room B. Rimmer, Arnold Judas, proceed to Interrogation Room C." And with that, the window shut with a snap, just as the door opened with a whoosh.
Rimmer and Lister stood up slowly, not making eye contact. They exited the cubicle and began a slow shuffle down the corridor toward their dooms.
About halfway down the hall, Lister broke the silence at last and said, "Hey, at least you know Hollister isn't going to Judo chop you into submission."
Rimmer nodded. "True. The only chop that fat bastard's familiar with is made of pork."
Finally, regardless of the slow pace, they reached their destinations. "Interrogation Room B" was emblazoned on the door immediately to the right. Room C was just across the corridor. Lister paused outside, took a deep breath, glanced at Rimmer with a look that said, "Here goes nothing," and palmed the door open. Rimmer angled his neck so he could see inside the small, dimly lit room.
Lister stepped inside, and the last thing Rimmer saw before the door closed was "Dogmeat" Marone, sitting at a desk, holding an open file in front of his eyes. Glancing up, the burly officer said in a growl, "Sit down, Lister. It's time for our little 'chat'." Rimmer could hear the italics in the sentence. They spoke of hideous pain and a love of dealing it out. For a moment, Rimmer felt almost sorry for poor Lister.
Almost.
And the door swooshed shut.
Steeling his resolve, Rimmer turned an abrupt about face and stared at the door marked "Interrogation Room C." Taking a deep breath, he remembered the time that he had poured a can of flouresent green paint all over Hollister's chicken suit. The captain had been wearing it for a costume party, but Rimmer had thought he had been hallucinating the whole thing.
He hoped that the captain wouldn't hold it against him. Then he realized who exactly he was referring to.
He was a dead man. He'd be back on Floor 13 in less time than it takes to say it.
Rimmer placed his hand on the doorplate, closing his eyes, getting ready his favorite excuses to lay on the captain. "It wasn't my fault," topped the list, with "I didn't know what I was getting into," and, "I had a twinkie for breakfast that day," rounding out second and third places.
He heard the door swoosh open, and opened his eyes.
Captain Hollister was not in there.
Instead, Rimmer was confronted with the sight of a woman, rather than the unattractive bulk of the captain. She wasn't in regulation uniform, but was dressed in an outfit that would cause a streetwalker to blush in shame and indignity. It wasn't lewd, rather it was just... ugly. Bright lavender everywhere, messy boots, a tee-shirt three sizes too small. Even her make up was sloppy, not having been blended properly near her ears. She had Rimmer's personal file open in her lap, and she was thumbing through it with a look of great amusement on her face. A half smoked cigarette dangled from her lips. Rimmer jumped to the obvious conclusion.
"What the smegging hell are you doing here?" he asked as the door slid shut behind him.
The girl glanced up at him, a question in her eyes. She exhaled a cloud of foul smoke and answered, "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard! You obviously have the wrong parole room. I'm sure that if you go back over to the front office, they'll straighten you out in a jif. Although from the looks of that outfit, I doubt that anyone would be able to help you in your obviously deranged mental state."
The girl's right eyebrow shot up, her eyes opening a little more. She took another drag on her cigarette. "Really?" she asked. "How do you know I'm not a violent sociopath who killed the last guy who poked fun at my clothes?"
"Oh please," scoffed Rimmer. "I'm sure that whatever your crime was it was horrid and facinating and I'm sure that you're tough as all get out, but I for one really don't care. You don't want to mess with A.J. Rimmer, kiddo, believe you me! Besides, what the hell are you doing with my personal file?" He snatched it away from her lap before she could make a grab for it. "Having personal information of the crew is an offence, dearie. I should know."
"You should, huh?" she asked, tapping her fingernails against the desk.
"Yes, as I just spent two years on Floor 13 for it. And you shouldn't be smoking in here! It's against Space Core Directive number 31744." He grabbed the cigarette out of her mouth and ground it out under his boot before she could stop him. She stared at him, open mouthed. "Now, you be a good little girl and toodle on back to whatever hole you crawled out of. I've an important meeting with Captain Hollister right now."
The girl recovered from her shock and started laughing hysterically. Rimmer felt slightly uncomfortable. This girl was obviously quite insane, and he regretted his braggarly stance of a moment ago. She finally recovered enough to gasp out, "Captain Hollister? You think you're parole appointment is with the captain?"
"Yes, are you deaf as well as badly dressed?" The girl started laughing again. Having had enough of this, Rimmer continued. "So read my lips, BUG-GER OFF. And tell that lip-glossed woman up front to send in the captain already. Ta-ta." Then, her phrasing hit him. "What do you mean, 'I think' my appointment's with the captain? He's the only Hollister on the ship!"
"No. Not exactly." She then leaned forward across the table, snatched the file out of Rimmer's hands and said, "Are you quite finished acting like a total fucking moron, Mr. Rimmer? Good. My name is Hippolyta Hollister. I'm your parole officer."