My mother sent me more socks. Purple, with yellow spots.
I don't understand.
Does she think I am some sort of wizard; or some sort of sly, core fashion-victim with a funny accent? Knowing my mother, either option is a possibility. I'm not entirely sure what she actually thinks I am doing out here, paying attention to things was never a strong point with my mother. Mind you, with eight kids, it was enough that she could remember our names; even then she was a bit distracted, how do you think I ended up with Jayne?
Actually, when you think about it, Jayne was a close call; she wanted to call me Sue. Fortunately, my father talked her out of it.
Can you imagine, a boy named Sue?
I don't hear from my father so much, usually he adds a note at the bottom of my mother's letters; probably after she thinks she's posted it. My father's notes consist of an advisory to not worry, that mother is fine and I can disregard her latest bizarre request: – sending money isn't too difficult, asking me to pick up couple of gallons of milk on my way home not so much.
The creature continues to roam the ship, despite the best efforts of everyone to catch it; even River. Apparently, she can't even find it with her mind, let alone kill it; and she has tried. Last time she, when her efforts met with failure, wandered off muttering about 'purple and disappearing smiles' – I knew those mushrooms that had been included with our latest load of supplies were off; maybe it was somebody's idea of a joke.
But no, don't listen to mercenary. Those mushrooms look funny, I said. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. I grew up on an agricultural world on the rim. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. I used to collect mushrooms with my younger sister. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. We learnt to AVOID THE MUSHROOMS THAT MADE THE GOATS THINK THEY COULD FLY. But no, don't listen to the mercenary.
I have to admit, however, that watching Zoë trying to catch butterflies in the hold was pretty funny.
Simon was still a twat.
We just got a wave from cow-guy; wants us to do another job for him. Better still, this time, the job won't crap all over the hold.
You have no idea how glad I was for the existence of high-pressure hoses after we dropped the cattle off. Truth be told, after the first few days I was all in favour of dropping them off from a height of several kilometres or, at the least, converting them into a gourmet selection of steak and roasts.
Apparently that would be bad for business.
Frankly, I'll put the retention of my sense of smell over business any day of the week but, as Wash noted – the little man has his uses and when he's right, he's right – can't rightly use your sense of smell when you're dead from not paying off the fuel bill and you're drifting in space.
Used my cut of that job to by me a steak you had to get a ladder to see over.
Revenge is a dish best served medium rare with a nice red wine sauce.