The Fump-Fester lump-being, Pys Phecees, stared out of the huge domed window of his personal chambers. His stubby fat arms flapped slowly, and he was breaking wind with thunderous ferocity – a sure sign that he was angry and stressed.

Down below the cloud of dust and snow had cleared, and the true magnitude of what had happened was now apparent. Pys Phecees’s large baseball-sized black eyes blinked furiously as he scanned the devastation. A vast pile of rock and snow filled his precious, once beautiful, once gleaming white, emitter dish. More rocks littered the marble floor of the great chamber. It was now cracked and scratched like a dried up lakebed.

With a grunt and a tuba-like fart, the lump-being turned and butt-walked over to his control console, leaving a wide wet smear of defecation in his wake. On reaching the console, he activated the communicator. “Supervisor Tyrsum!”

An image, unsteady and contaminated with static, faded into view on the console’s display. Supervisor Tyrsum appeared, his face, as usual, hidden behind his featureless spherical helmet. Behind him, fire and commotion filled the scene.

“Yes, master?” the supervisor said.

“What is happening over there?”

“The control room is devastated, master. The explosion and cave-in ripped away most of the window area, taking key monitoring equipment and operators with it. Other equipment overloaded. There are fires and blown circuits everywhere. Smeared body parts are blocking the…”

Pys Phecees yelled, scattering phlegm across his console. “The emitter must fire in twenty-eight hours!”

“I know, master. We are trying to…”

“The emitter will fire!” the lump-being gurgled. His whole body shuddered with rage, letting loose one of the loudest farts in history. “There can be no failure!”

“Of course, master. The surviving operators are repairing and re-patching the firing control mechanism as we speak. It should be possible to…”

Pys Phecees shrieked. “It will fire!” He launched a stream of saliva across his personal chamber. A huge soft turd burst out of his backside, hitting the stone floor with such velocity that it spread into a metre-wide star-like shape. It was followed by a much more liquid surge that simply oozed around his buttocks.

Supervisor Tyrsum knew better than to argue. “I assure you it will fire, master.”

The lump-being spoke more calmly, but with unfathomable menace. “It will indeed, supervisor. Otherwise your head will find itself viewing the inside of my duodenum, while your life is squeezed away by the ever-tightening ring of my anus. Is that understood?”

There was an ever-so-slight pause in the conversation. “Yes, master.”

“Good.” The lump-being looked around his chamber. Deep brown smears covered the room, and his pool of syrup was littered with floaters. He turned back to the console. “And send up a new shit-shoveller! Immediately!”

“Yes, master.”

The image of the lump-being faded. Supervisor Tyrsum took a few seconds to contemplate the horrendous fate he would suffer if he failed to get the control room up and running. He shuddered, unseen within his cloak and helmet.

Turning, the supervisor stepped over a sparking piece of wrecked equipment and walked passed two operators, who were busy extinguishing the last of the fierce fires that had blackened and blistered many of the other workers here. He clambered across three contorted corpses, and walked over to the jagged gaping hole at the front of the control room. A strong wind was blowing in from the where the roof of the chamber used to be, forcing clouds of powdered snow down to the emitter five hundred metres below. There was a chill in the air.

At the edge of the gaping hole sat Senior Operator Ramalama Dingdong. He was staring aimlessly up at the bright morning sky. He should have been leading the repair efforts.

Supervisor Tyrsum yelled. “Get to work!”

The senior operator turned and looked up at the supervisor. Tears filled his eyes. “She’s dead.” He said in a most melancholy way. “I should not have sent her.”

The supervisor was confused. “Who is?”

“Operator Oulala.” Ramalama said. “I sent her up to the surface to investigate the seismic anomaly I discovered. She was right above the chamber when the roof caved in.” He lowered and shook his head. “Why did I send her? Now I’ll never see her sweet smile or her frizzy hairstyle again, and I’ll never get the chance to touch her soft…”

A fist, gloved in toughened black leather, smacked into the side of the senior operator’s face. He fell sideways, whacking his shoulder onto a jagged piece of rock. He yelped, and then pushed himself back up. Blood soaked into his overalls.

Supervisor Tyrsum grabbed Ramalama by the neck, and lifted the sobbing operator off the ground. He held him at arms length out over windswept chamber. The senior operator’s eyes widened as he realised the dire situation he was in.

“I could end it for you now.” Supervisor Tyrsum said evenly. “If I drop you, in a few seconds you’ll be nothing more than a mound of splattered flesh. No more pain or regret. Is that what you want?”

Ramalama Dingdong gasped, and then shook his head frantically.

“Really? Because I am more than willing to end the suffering for you.” The supervisor leaned forwards, and held Ramalama even further out across the chamber floor.

The senior operator was gripped by terror. He shook his head, and shivered. A trickle of urine soaked into his pants.

With a powerful swing, Supervisor Tyrsum threw Ramalama back into the control room, sending him tumbling over a battered console and into a frayed collection of cabling. The supervisor bellowed. “Then get this control room up and running now!”

The senior operator scrambled to his feet. “Yes, supervisor!” he whimpered, a mouthful of blood muffling his feeble voice.

Supervisor Tyrsum addressed the entire control room. “And the rest of you work with him, and do as he commands, or you will all suffer a similar fate to his.”

Everyone nodded in unison.

“Right.” The supervisor said. “Who’s in charge of internal communications?”

A bony dark-skinned hand was raised. “Um… That would be me. Operator Bebop Aluba.”

The supervisor walked over to him. Bebop was sitting at one of only two undamaged consoles. “Our master requires a new shit shoveller. Contact a suitable recruit and get them up to our master’s personal chamber immediately.”

The operator leaned back in his chair and scratched his head – bald apart from a thick white ponytail at the back. “That’s going to be difficult, supervisor. All communications stations around the complex are off-line. There’s currently no way of contacting other departments.”

“Nonsense!”

“It’s true, supervisor. I’ve been trying without success ever since the cave-in. The whole place is in disarray. Order has been lost. Control has been compromised. Chaos has replaced…”

Bebop’s head smashed down onto his console, splitting his forehead like a peapod. Blood gushed over the controls. The operator groaned quietly. “That was unexpected.”

Supervisor Tyrsum grabbed Bebop’s ponytail and pulled, yanking the operator back upright. He let go, allowing Bebop to flop back into his chair.

“Our master still requires a shit shoveller.” The supervisor said with calculated coolness. “As you are unable to perform your communications tasks, our master’s new shit shoveller…” He paused for effect. “…Will be you.”

Bebop’s mouth hung open with unpleasant surprise. “Please no, supervisor!” he said, blood dribbling down his face and into his mouth. “I worked hard to reach this position! Don’t make me go back to doing such repulsive work!”

Supervisor Tyrsum grabbed the operator’s ponytail and gave it a sharp hard tug. The ponytail was ripped from Bebop’s head, along with a sizeable portion of his scalp.

The operator screamed. “My precious hair! All gone!”

The supervisor leaned down and whispered to the operator. “You will go to our master’s chamber and you will shovel his shit. And you will keep shovelling his shit until you are told to do otherwise. Understood?”

Bebop Aluba lowered his head, which was gushing blood front and back. “Yes, supervisor.”

Supervisor Tyrsum shouted with all the might of his voice. “Then go!”

Bebop got to his feet and scurried towards the control room’s rear exit.

An annoying bleeping sound distracted the supervisor. He turned. “What is that?”

Senior Operator Ramalama Dingdong was standing at the back of the control room next to the only other working console. He was pointing at the console’s variety of display screens. “There’s been a sudden power drop!”

Supervisor Tyrsum walked over to Ramalama, crushing two well-cooked skulls on the way. “What are you talking about?”

The senior operator pointed at one of the display screens. “Readings are down seventy-two percent!”

The supervisor was loosing his patience. “Explain!”

“The power level coming up to the emitter from the planet core! It suddenly dropped by seventy-two percent!”

Supervisor Tyrsum sighed. The rather unique execution he was threatened with by his master just seemed an awful lot closer.