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Delivery Boy
« on: 02-14-2006 20:45 »
« Last Edit on: 02-16-2006 00:00 »

Okay.  I'm bored and I want to work on my style without having to worry about coming up with a plot, so I've decided to just novelise the episodes.

There are some differences, things I've added just because I thought they were funny, and some bits from the episodes that work better as thoughts insted of dialogue when written.  I've also decided to include some of the deleted scenes where possible.

Feedback will make me love you.


Space Pilot 3000

Adaption written by Tiberius

Based on the episode written by
David X. Cohen and Matt Groening

Directed by
Rich Moore and Greg Vanzo

December 31, 1999

If there was one thing that Fry was good at, it was explaining things.  Oh yes, he was very good at that.  He didn’t actually understand it, but he was good at explaining it.  He never used big words or nothing.  Nice, simple, easy-to-understand words.  They made for nice, simple, easy-to-understand explanations.

“Space,” he explained to the young child who was standing beside him.  The child hadn’t asked for an explanation, but when he had been standing there for five minutes, Fry felt that he should actually say something.  “It seems to go on and on forever.”

This last part was actually quite true.  Fry’s spaceship had already traveled from Earth to the outer reaches of the galaxy.  It had been a long and dangerous mission, filled with hazards.  But Fry was better at flying spaceships than he was at explaining things.  And he was still pretty rotten at flying spaceships.

“But then you get to the end,” Fry continued, “and a gorilla starts throwing barrels at you.”

And sure enough, the top of the last planet swung up like a bad toupee in a strong breeze, and a pixelated ape emerged holding a barrel over his head.  He threw it at Fry’s spaceship.

Fry’s heart leapt into his throat!  A cunningly planned attack!  He quickly opened fire, blasting the barrels into atoms and moved the joystick; left, right, left again, up, then he jiggled it a bit.  One, two, three barrels dodged!

Well, almost.

He had jiggled a little too soon, and his spacecraft was engulfed in a blossoming ball of fire.

The words “GAME OVER” appeared briefly on the screen.

“And that’s how you play the game,” Fry finished.  It actually wasn’t how you played the game, not getting hit by a barrel, but he was trying to impress the kid, and he had sensed the kid’s respect for him had been slipping in the last few minutes.  He was wrong, of course.  There was no way the kid’s respect for Fry could have possibly slipped any lower.

“You stink, loser!” said the kid.  Well, that pretty much summed it up.  Fry felt a little uncomfortable all of a sudden.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.  This little prepubescent might have no respect for him, but Seymour had nothing but respect.  The little dog sat in the corner looking at Fry with adoring eyes.

“Hey, Fry!”

Fry, grateful for the distraction, looked up.  Mr Panucci tossed a pizza box onto the counter.  “Pizza goin’ out.  Come on!”

Fry sighed and hunched his shoulders.  “But I’m celebrating New Year’s Eve,” he said dejectedly.

Mr Panucci was rather unsuccessful at holding back a snort of a laugh.  “Like you got squat to celebrate,” he said.  “You’re a delivery boy this millennium and you’ll be a delivery boy next millennium!”

Fry sighed again and picked up the box, trying to ignore the happy little stereotypical Italian fellow on the top of it who was warning customers to not tip the delivery boy.  As he headed for the grimy glass door, Seymour leaped up from his usual spot at the end of the counter and grabbed the hem of Fry’s jeans.  He tugged at them, whimpering softly.

Mr Panucci cast the dog a curious look.  Seymour had always been close to Fry, but never had the mutt tried to stop Fry from making a delivery.  “What’s with Seymour?” he asked.  “It’s like he don’t want you to go.  Or he thinks your pants is too short or something, which is crazy, because frankly you look fabulous.  Now get goin’!”

Fry pushed the shop door open and went to the bike chained to the streetlight outside.  As he unchained it, Seymour sat in front of the tyre, putting his paw up against the rubber.

Fry leaned down and ruffled the fur on top of his head.  “I won’t be gone long, Seymour,” he said.  “Just wait here til I come back.”

As he rode off, Seymour sat beside the streetlight and watched him vanish into the cold night.

Three blocks into his trip, he had to stop for a taxi that pulled up across the pedestrian crossing.  The bicycle’s brakes squealed loudly in the cold air.  Fry sighed.  He tried to look through the rear window at the passenger.

“Michelle?” he said.  Sure enough, his girlfriend, a cute young brunette, was sitting in the back seat.  “Baby, where you going?”

Michelle turned to him, then wound down the window.  The young man sitting with his arm around her glared at Fry angrily.  “It’s not working out, Fry,” Michelle told him.  “I put your stuff out on the sidewalk!”

The lights changed, and with a screech of rubber on asphalt, the taxi drove off into the night.

Fry hated his life.


The millennium only had a few minutes left when Fry arrived at the address, a large, somewhat dilapidated office building.  He got off his bike, chaining it up to one of New York City’s fine newspaper stands (“2000!  Doomsayers cautiously upbeat!” read the headline), and then holding the pizza box (beer perched precariously on top) in both hands he pushed the door open with his elbow.

Behind him, unseen, a figure crept out of the shadows.  There was the sound of bolt cutters cutting bicycle chain, bolt cutters falling to the pavement, then the sound of rusty chain squeaking as the bike was ridden off down the road with a cheery “Happy New Year!”  The thief would later be dismayed to learn that the bolt cutters he had thrown aside were actually worth more than the bike.

The lift deposited Fry on the sixty forth floor, at the end of a long hallway.  He walked down it until he found the door he was looking for, the one with the sign on it that read:

No power failures since 1993

Although someone had cut out from a magazine a large number 7 and stuck it over the top of the 3.  Hardly a comforting thought.

There was no answer when he knocked, but the door swung open with a soft moan of un-oiled hinges.  Fry stepped inside.

It was dark inside, a somewhat circular room, with a row of computers along one wall, a row of what looked to be glass tubes along another wall, and a desk in the middle of the room.  Through the large window, the lights of Times Square were visible, and they cast a coloured veil over the equipment inside.  At least he could see the big display that would count down the final seconds of the millennium.

Fry walked over to one of the glass tubes.  The lower half of each tube was made of metal, and there was a dial next to an LCD display.  Above it was a curved panel of glass, the surface frosted over.  He rubbed the frost away with his sleeve and felt the chill of the tube through the fabric.  Inside the tube was a person, a man.  He looked to be frozen solid.  The tube next to it seemed to be empty though.  Fry opened the door, looking inside.  Padded on the back, but nothing inside.

Fry turned away.  “Hello?” he called.  “Pizza delivery for…”  He looked at the name written on the address slip taped to the front of the pizza box.  “I. C. Weiner?”  Fry sighed yet again.  “Aw crud,” he moaned.  Another crank call.  He’d always thought that by this point in his life he’d be the one making the crank calls.

He tossed the pizza box onto the desk.  Something small and hungry in the trash basket on the floor next to him watched, then crawled out and scampered under the desk.

Fry opened the box. The pizza had been smushed up against the side of the box and was now more of a trapezoid shape rather than a circle, but it would still taste alright.  He opened a can of beer, savouring the soft “pfft-hiss”.  He held the can aloft in a solitary toast.

“Here’s to another lousy millennium,” he said.  He took a mouthful, slurping loudly and leaning back, the chair balancing dangerously on two legs.

Outside, a large numeral 10 appeared on the screen in Times Square.  Below him, the crowd shouted “Ten!”

It was a global thing, the countdown to the new year.

In Paris, they cried, “Nine!” in French.

In Vatican City, “Eight!” in Italian.

In Cairo, “Seven!” in Egyptian.

Athens, “Six!” in Greek.

Beijing, “Five!” in Chinese.

New Delhi, “Four!” in Indian.

The Kalahari, “Three!” in Swahili.

Tokyo, “Two!” in Japanese.

And as the count of one was reached, Fry blew sadly into the mouthpiece of the complimentary noisemaker that came with the pizza.

The little paper tube unfurled.

And on the count of zero, as the new year and the new millennium began, Fry stopped blowing, and the little paper tube rolled up again, smacking into the plastic mouthpiece.

Not very hard, mind you.

Just hard enough to impart a small backwards push, and this small backwards push was just enough to tip the already precariously balanced chair over.

Fry fell backwards with a scream, somersaulting over, right into the tube he’d opened.  As he hit the padding on the back of the tube, it jostled, and the door swung closed, sealing itself with a soft click.  On the outside of the door, the movement set the dial spinning, and when it came to rest, the LCD display read “1000 years”.

Fry gasped, looking vainly for a release handle or some such thing, but he wouldn’t have enough time to reach it even if there had been one.  As soon as the dial stopped, so did Fry.

His heart.

His breathing.

His brain.

All silent.

All inactive.

Although in the case of his brain it didn’t really make that much of a difference.


Outside, the night spun into day, then back into night, then into another day.  The days turned to weeks, which in turn became months and years.  New York flourished, the development of technology allowing the city to rise to ever greater heights with architectural designs that were grand and sweeping in their scope.

Then aliens came and blasted it all.

But the humans were not defeated, and they rebuilt their cities, learning again the technology that had once made them the most powerful species on the planet.  They’d just started building castles again when the aliens came and blasted it once more.

Undaunted, the Humans began to rebuild once again.  This time, nothing would stand in their way.


With a ding, the LCD display reached zero, and the door swung open.

Fry stepped out.  That hadn’t actually been too bad, except for the fact that he really needed to take a whiz.  His legs weren’t working properly, but that was alright, it was no different than that time he’d met a woman named Agnes in a bar and she’d made him drink that blue stuff.  The feeling in his limbs had returned then, and he was fairly certain that it would return this time as well.

He fumbled his way over to the desk, leaning on it for support.  Vaguely, he wondered where the pizza was.  Then he stretched, a really good joint-cracking stretch, yawned, shook his head, rubbed his eyes and scratched his crotch.

Then he looked out the window.

He dropped the beer.

Outside was a sprawling metropolis of buildings unlike any he’d ever seen.  The buildings were organic shapes that seemed to have been grown, not built.  Crystal blue glazing gleamed in the sunlight, and cars flew (flew!) between the buildings.

Fry knew instantly where he was.

“My God,” he whispered.  “It’s the future…”  His voice trailed off and his head spun.

His parents, his co-workers, his girlfriend…  He’d never see any of them again.

So things were looking up already.  He’d never really liked any of them.

Fry looked down at the sidewalk below him.  “Hey!” he cried.  “My bike’s gone!”

Bending Unit
« Reply #1 on: 02-14-2006 21:03 »

This reminds me of Tales of intrest

« Reply #2 on: 02-14-2006 21:11 »

Hehe, thought I recognised the plot.

Its good! I like it when Fry falls in. The choppy style gives a sense of passing time...

"Jim, do you ever post anything relevant, EVER?" - Punching Bag

Expect gaps between posts. And I'm not talking size here.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #3 on: 02-14-2006 21:56 »
« Last Edit on: 02-14-2006 21:56 »

Behind him there was the sound of a soft hiss.  Fry turned and saw the door open, and a figure stepped into the room.  A figure silhouetted against the lights of the hallway beyond.

“Welcome to the world of tomorrow!” a voice proclaimed.

Another figure entered the room and turned on the light switch.  The second man turned to the first and asked, “Terry, why do you always have to say it that way?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a little thing called showmanship?” Terry countered.  He turned back to Fry, gestured dramatically and proclaimed, “Come!  Your destiny awaits!”


They lead Fry to a doorway labeled “Fate Assignment Officer”, and it slid up out of sight.  “Have a nice future,” one of the men said to him, and then they walked off.

Fry stepped into the doorway, looking up at the slot the door had slid into.  “Cool,” he said, “just like in Star Trek.”

The door slid down, hitting him in his upturned face.  Fry cursed.

When Fry entered the office, the first thing he noticed was the gorgeously curved body of a woman standing looking out the window.  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

Fry made a happy noise.

The woman turned around.

She had one eye.

One huge glaring eye in the middle of her face.

Fry gasped.  A little too loudly.

The woman ignored him.  “Surname?” she asked

“Uh, Philip,’ said Fry.

“First name?”

“Philip,” said Fry again.

The woman’s one eye rotated up to look from the computer pad she was holding to Fry.

“Your name’s Philip Philip?”

“No,” said Fry, “it’s Philip Fry.”

The one-eyed woman sighed and tapped the delete key.  “I’m Leela,” she said.  “Now, it’s New Years Eve, so I’d like to decide your fate quickly and get outa here.”

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Fry.

Leela sighed.  “As long as it’s not about my eye.”

Fry looked a little lost.  “Uhhhhhh…”

“Is it about my eye?”

“Sort of…”

Leela sighed again.  “Just ask the question.”

“What’s with the eye?” Fry asked perkily.

Leela glared.  “I’m an alien, alright, now let’s drop the subject.”

“Cool, an alien,” said Fry.  “Has your race taken over the Earth?”

“No,” said Leela.  “I just work here.”

Fry noticed a large blimp slowly sailing past the window.  A large display on the side read, “Happy New Year!  3000!” and then proceeded to flash in a variety of pretty colours.  “Wait a minute,” Fry said.  “Is that blimp accurate?”

“Yep,” said Leela.  “It’s December thirsty first, twenty nine ninety nine.”

Fry gasped.  “My God!  A million years!”

Leela sighed and didn’t bother to correct him.  “I’m sure this must be very upsetting for you,” she said.

“You know,” said Fry, “I guess it should be, but actually, I’m glad.  I had nothing to live for in my old life.  I was broke, I had a humiliating job, and I was beginning to suspect that my girlfriend might be cheating on me.”

“Well, at least here you’ll be treated with dignity,” said Leela reassuringly.  “Now strip naked and get on the probulator.”


Fry was disturbed that Leela was wearing protective eyewear.  Sure, he could have used his hands to protect his eyes, but they were protecting something he felt was a little more valuable to him.  Leela pressed a button.  “Ooh!” gasped Fry.


Leela tore the sheet of paper out of the printer.  “Interesting,” she said as Fry began to put his clothes back on.  “Your DNA test shows one living relative.  He’s your great, great, great, great, great…”

Fry continued to dress as he listened to her.  In fact, he was able to finish getting dressed, get a cup of coffee from the machine outside in the hallway and book himself in for a haircut the following Thursday before she was done.

“…great, great, great, great nephew,” Leela finished.

“That’s great,” remarked Fry.  “What’s the little guy’s name?”

“Professor Hubert Farnsworth.”  Leela showed Fry the paper she was holding.  It had a picture of the little guy.  He looked old and wrinkled, like he had spent rather too long in the bath.

Fry made a surprised noise.


Fry followed Leela into her office.  She showed him to a chair (was that the same chair he had sat in a thousand years ago?  That bubblegum stain looked familiar), and she entered his details into the computer.  The information appeared on the display hovering a few inches off the desk.

“Y’know, I’m the luckiest guy in the whole future,” Fry said, leaning forward onto the desk in what he hoped was a friendly manner.  I’ve been given a second chance, and this time I’m not gonna be a total loser.”

There was a loud buzz.  An angry buzz.  The sort of buzz that never brought good news.  The sort of buzz that spoke of impending doom.  The sort of buzz that would precede the destruction of the cosmos by a few minutes.

“What’s that,” asked Fry, fighting to get his heart out of his throat.

“Your permanent career assignment,” said Leela.  She tapped the screen and it spun around to face Fry.

Fry gasped.  There were two words on the screen, written in letters of the type that would be used to announce the opening act at a rock concert, or a new proclamation from God.


“Delivery boy?” gasped Fry.  “No!  Not again!”  He reached out and grabbed Leela’s arm, pleading with her.  “Please!  Anything else!”

“Take your hands off me,” Leela said, pulling away.  He had very grubby fingernails, after all.  “You’ve been assigned the job you’re best at, just like everyone else.”

“What if I refuse,” asked Fry defiantly.

“Then you’ll be fired…”

“Fine,” Fry said happily.
“…out of a cannon, into the sun,” finished Leela.

Fry sighed heavily.  “But I don’t like being a delivery boy!”

“Well that’s tough,” said Leela.  “Lots of people don’t like their jobs, but we do them anyway.”  She pointed to a poster on the wall; an unhappy worker giving a weak thumbs up.  Above him were neon letters: YOU GOTTA DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO. To emphasise them, Leela spoke those words aloud: “You gotta do what you gotta do.”  She turned back to look at Fry and reached under the desk.  “Now, hold out your hand,” she said.  “I’m going to implant your career chip.  It’ll permanently label you as a delivery boy.”

Fry held out his hand, and Leela pulled out a gun with a clamp attached to the end.

A huge, gleaming metal clamp with a two inch spike on the end.

Fry gasped, pulled his hand away and said, “Keep that thing away from me.”  Then he jumped up and ran away.  Not really a very macho thing to do, but it was the best of all the options available to him.

Behind him, he heard the squeal of plastic on vinyl as Leela pushed her chair back and ran after him.  Fry ran down the corridor, expertly dodging the coffee machine, passing the door to the probulator room (and deciding not to go in), and into the last door at the end of the corridor.  He was back in the room with the freezers, the tube he had emerged from still sitting open waiting to be cleaned.  He turned to run back out, but Leela was already coming through the door, blocking his only escape.  Leela lunged at him, reaching out to grab his clothes, but missed by a good three feet.

“Hold still, dammit!” said Leela.  “I don’t have good depth perception!”

She lunged again, but Fry was ready, and he sprung aside as she went past him…

Straight into the freezer.

It wobbled, the door swung shut and locked, and the dial began spinning.

Leela banged on the door.  “You’ve got til the count of five to let me out of here!” she said.  “One…”

The dial stopped, and the LCD display read “1000 years”

There was a small flash, and Leela froze.

Fry smiled.  “See you in a thousand years,” he said triumphantly.  He turned to leave, then sighed.  Despite all that she had done to him, he couldn’t leave her in there for a thousand years.  He went back to the tube and spun the dial until the LCD display read five minutes.  “You owe me one,” he said, hoping that she was decent enough to give him a break for this.

If she’d heard him she probably would have.


Fry emerged from the building a few seconds later, stepping out into the fresh air.

Fresh being the actual word to use.  There was no trace of the smell of gasoline fumes he was used to, no smog tinting the air a urine yellow, no sound of flatulent trucks farting their way slowly down cramped streets.

The air was crisp and cool, the last bit of snow melting gently into little puddles.  The sky was blue (he remembered reading about that in school, but he’d never actually seen it), and he could hear a soft twittering noise that he eventually placed as bird song.  Above him, a large rocket blasted into the sky leaving a puffy white cloud of water vapour exhaust from the hydrogen fusion reactors.  Not that he knew what it was, he thought it was smoke.  Around him were giant billboards advertising all sorts of things.  There was a rather attractive woman advertising something called “Angelyne” (Fry looked closer at the woman and realised she was actually made of metal), another billboard advised him to drink something called Slurm, and another one encouraged him to visit a place known as “The Implant Hut” before changing to an advertisement for a brown substance called “Bachelor Chow”.

Fry gasped, the sound of being impressed, out of your depth, and a little scared.

He slowly made his way down the street.   A flying dog chased a flying cat.  Two naked people walked down the street, their modesty being protected by those animated black rectangles that appeared whenever there was nudity on TV.  The girl was cute, and Fry took a step to the side to try to see past the rectangle, but it moved to block his view.

Above him was a glass tube, maybe three feet across.  Something whooshed through it, and Fry realised it was a person.  He decided to follow the tube and see what was going on.

The tube rose up from the ground nearby, an arched doorway letting people walk in.  Fry stood back as a man approached.  He stepped inside, said, “Radio City Mutant Hall,” in a nasal voice and was whooshed up into the air.  Fry watched him as the tubes shifted subtly to carry him off in a different direction.

“Cool,” said Fry, stepping inside the tube.  “Uh, cross-town express?”

There was the sound of whooshing air, his hair flapped insanely around his face, and then he was lifted off the ground.  He screamed, this was terrifying, he was bouncing against the glass, but then he realised that if he kept his body straight that he settled into the center of the tube, and his screams turned to cheers, because this was fun!  Ahead, he could see the tube open into empty air, and he was at least a hundred feet above the road, but another tube swung into place, and he was taken off in a different direction, out towards Ellis Island, where Lady Liberty had swapped her torch for the tube, and then he plummeted down into the river.  It was cooler here, and he could see the myriad fish, and he thought he spotted a glimpse of a rare three-eyed fish that he’d heard appeared in North Kentucky, but he was going too fast and wasn’t able to get a better look.
t wasn’t too long before Fry spotted the end of the line, a large sphere about 10feet in diameter.  If Fry had actually thought about it, he would have realised this sphere was so he’d have room to do the somersault required so he wouldn’t emerge face first, but he didn’t, so he did.

After he picked himself up off the pavement next to the building he’d slammed into, Fry walked around.  Now that he’d shaken that cyclops lady, he needed to get in touch with this nephew of his.  He looked around and spotted a phone booth just down the street.  He trotted over and joined the line.

A moment later, a robot joined the line behind him.  Fry turned.

“Whoa!  A real live robot!  Or is that some kind of cheesy New Year’s costume?”

The robot glared at him.  “Bite my shiny metal arse,” it said.

Fry leaned over to look.  “It doesn’t look that shiny to me,” he remarked.

“Shinier than yours, meatbag.”

Fry gulped, then turned back to the booth.  The line was getting shorter.

The man in front of Fry stepped into the phone booth, and the door closed.  Fry began whistling, there was a flash from behind the door, and then the booth opened up again.

Fry stepped inside.  There was no phone in there, but there was a button marked START.  Fry pressed it.  Nothing happened.  He pressed it again, but still nothing.

“Listen, buddy,’ said the robot, stepping into the booth beside him.  “I’m in a hurry, let’s try for a twofer.”  He took a coin attached to a piece of string, dropped the coin onto a slot next to the button, then pulled the coin out again with a soft chuckle.

A voice came tinny from the small speaker under the button.  “Please select mode of death.”  It was a rather pleasant female voice.  “Quick and painless, or slow and horrible.”

“Um, yeah, I’d like to place a collect call,” said Fry.

“You have selected slow and horrible,’ said the nice female voice.

“Great choice, said the robot, sounding impressed.

A panel in the wall slid aside, and a variety of devices emerged.  A chainsaw, a circular saw, a dagger, a drill and an electric prod that sparked dangerously.

“Bring it on, baby!” cheered the robot.

Fry screamed.

For what seemed like an ice age, nothing happened.  “Come on, come on, kill me already!” said the robot, sounding irritable.  He turned and offered a metal, three fingered hand to Fry.  “By the way, my name’s Bender,” he said cheerfully.

“Help!” gasped Fry.  “What’s happening?”  He clutched at the robot for dear life.

At that moment, the implements darted out from the wall, sweeping across the interior of the booth.  Fry dodged them, gasping and screaming and twisting his body into a variety of positions which, if he’d been able to do a thousand years ago, probably would have kept him his girlfriend.

“You are now dead,” said the nice female voice.  “Thank you for using ‘Stop-n-drop’, America’s favorite suicide booth since 2008.”

The door hissed open and Fry jumped out, gasping and wiping the sweat off his brow.  He made a mental note to never using a payphone again.

Bender stepped out, kicking the phone booth as he emerged.  “Lousy stinkin’ rip-off,” he muttered.  “Well,” he said to Fry, “I didn’t have anything else planned for today, let’s go get drunk!”

Bending Unit
« Reply #4 on: 02-15-2006 18:58 »

Well, I know I can't comment on plot, or characterization, or clever lines, but I like your style.

I hope you'll be posting a story of your own sometime in the future!  smile

Delivery Boy
« Reply #5 on: 02-16-2006 05:30 »

I've already posted a Futurama story.  Out of Africon Nine.

Another question...

Does my style capture the feel of the episode?  Does it do the episode justice?  Do you think the bits I've added in myself enhance the story or detract from it?  What about how I've had to leave some jokes out because they just don't work in a written format?  How does that affect the storyline?

Also, and I am asking this in all seriousness, what's David X Cohen's email?  I want to send this to him and ask if I can get hired to do the rest of the episodes for publication, much as James Blish did with the original series of Star Trek.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #6 on: 02-16-2006 05:34 »

And now for the next act...


Meanwhile, several miles away, the timer on the freezer tube reached zero.  The door swung open and Leela began moving again.

“…two, three…  hey!”

“Welcome to the world of tomorrow!” proclaimed Terry, gesturing dramatically.

Leela sighed.  “Shut up, Terry.”


“This is unacceptable, Leela!”

She stood in the office of her boss, a rather unpleasant Indian fellow.

“You must find this Mr Fry and install his chip!”

“Look,” said Leela, “he’s just a nobody who doesn’t want to be a delivery boy.  I’d really rather not force it on him.”

“Well, that’s your job, whether you like it or not!  And it’s make job to make you do your job, whether I like it or not.  Which I do!  Very much!  Now get to work!”


Fry and Bender had hidden in a place called O’Zorgnax’s, which luckily turned out to be a bar, and they began getting drunk.  Fry had been surprised when Bender had started drinking a beer.

“Why would a robot need to drink?” he asked.

“I don’t need to drink,” said Bender.  “I can stop anytime I want.”  He burped, and flames shot several inches from his, well, mouth, Fry supposed.

Fry, for lack of any other ideas, filled Bender in on how he came to be stuck in the future.  Bender, for his part, was only listening with 32.6% of his attention.  The rest of it was devoted to disproving the existence of God, calculating a proof that Fermat’s last theorem was actually only his second last, and playing a recording of the 1954 recording of the 1812 Overture.  He loved that music.  It reminded him of carnage.

After a moment, Bender realised that Fry had stopped speaking.  “Uh, so they made you a delivery boy, huh?” he asked.  “Man, that’s as bad as my job.”

“Really?” asked Fry.  “What do you do, Bender?”

“I’m a Bender,” said Bender.  “I bend girders, that’s all I was programmed to do.”

“You any good at it?”

“You kidding?  I was a star!  I could bend a girder to any angle.  Thirty degrees, thirty two degrees…  You name it.”  He took another gulp of beer.  “Thirty one…”  his voice trailed off sadly.  But I couldn’t go on living once I found out what the girders were for.”

“What?” asked Fry.

“Suicide booths,” sighed the robot.  He ate the now empty bottle and stood up.  “Well, Fry, it was a pleasure meeting you.  I’m gonna go kill myself.”

“Wait!” called Fry, reaching out to stop him.  “You’re the only friend I have!”

Bender stopped and turned back, looking at Fry through narrowed ocular  units.  “You really want a robot for a friend?”

Fry nodded.  “Ever since I was six.”

Bender considered the idea, examined it from every conceivable position (including that of a two and a half dimensional life form from an alternate universe where time ran backwards) and after 0.982 seconds, he reached his decision.  “Well okay,” he said, “but if anyone asks, you’re my debugger.  I don’t want anyone thinking we’re robo-sexuals.”

Fry smiled, then caught site of a familiar face outside the window.  He couldn’t place it at first, but he figured that as he’d really only seen one person in the future well enough to remember their face, it was probably that one eyed woman.  On closer examination, Fry decided he was most likely right.

“Oh no!” he gasped.  “It’s the cyclops!”

A guess, yes, but an educated one.

Bender turned to face the window.

“Don’t look!” said Fry, ducking down behind the bar.

“I’m not looking,” said Bender as he zoomed in.


Leela stood outside on the street, her jacket zipped tightly against the cold.  She’d been asking people if they’d seen this man, showing them a photo of him.  She finally got a break when a Swedish tourist pointed at a bar across the road.  She ran over and looked through the window.  Sure enough, there he was, hiding behind the bar with a robot standing next to him, watching her every move.  Fry scampered off, the robot in close pursuit.

Leela raised her arm and activated the comm unit built into her wrist-lo-jackimator.  “This is officer 1B-D1,” she reported, “requesting backup.”

The response came quickly and efficiently from two Peace officers stationed at a newsstand 7 and a half feet down the street.  “We’ll be there in five minutes!”


“We can hide in here!” gasped Bender as they ran down the busy streets of New New York.  Fry turned to see him pointing at a large ornate stone building with MUSEUM printed across the grand stone steps that lead up to the entrance.  “It’s free on Tuesdays!”

Fry suppressed a giggle.  If there was a Muse in there, why did they say UM straight after?  Not exactly inspired.

Oh well, now was not the time to ponder such mysteries, and the pair ran up the steps.

They ran inside, went right, took a detour through the History of Lingerie exhibit, then took a left at Saturn and ended up in a room with rows upon rows of shelves filled with jars.  They ducked down behind one of the shelves and peeked out, watching the only door into the room.

“Welcome to the Head Museum,” said a deep voice that Fry found rather familiar.  “I’m Leonard Nimoy.”

Fry thought hard.  He’d get it in a moment.

“Spock!?”  There it was!  He got up and walked over to the owner of the voice.  It was certainly Leonard Nimoy, but rather less of him than Fry remembered.  “Hey, do the thing!”

He held up his hand in the Vulcan Salute.

Leonard Nimoy chuckled softly.  “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.

Fry let out a whoop of delight.  “This is unbelievable!  What do you heads do all day?”

Leonard smiled knowingly.  “We share our wisdom with those who seek it,” he said.  “It’s a life of quiet dignity.”

The door behind them opened and Fry gasped, but it was only a staff member with a cardboard tube of fish food.  “Feeding time!”

She sprinkled some food into each jar.  Leonard stretched his lips as far as he could, sucking up the nummy treats.

The door behind them opened again.  Fry turned, expecting to see another staff member.

It wasn’t a staff member.

He couldn’t quite place who the woman was, built he felt the single eye was somehow familiar.  And judging from the uniforms being worn by the two men with her, they were probably police.

Or perhaps on their way to a fancy dress party.

Fry felt the latter was unlikely, so he decided to run.  Bender followed suit.


Leela had seen them dive behind one of the shelves when she came in, but when she’d followed them they had disappeared.  She realised that she had no choice but to look along every single row of shelves.  They were hiding in here somewhere…

The heads seemed to merge into each other, forming a continuous zoetrope-like morphing sequence.  Harrison Ford into Daniel Radcliffe into the really bad stunt double from Terminator 2 into Jackie Chan into Jackie Chan’s stunt double’s empty jar (which was empty because Jackie Chan always did his own stunts, resulting in him getting the use of two jars, which lead to all the other famous heads being jealous) into Richard Dreyfuss into Liz Taylor, into Dennis Rodman into a robot head with no jar into a Human head with no jar into some bearded cartoonist who nobody remembered anymore…

Leela whipped around.  “I’m sorry Fry, but I have to install your career chip.”

“If you’re sorry then why are you doing it?”

“It’s my job,” said Leela.  “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

But even as she said it, the words began to sound hollow.

She advanced on Fry, holding the chip-implantomator in front of her.  Fry whimpered and backed into the shelves holding the heads of the Presidents of America.  The impact sent a wobble down the shelf, and several jars fell off, including Clinton, Wilson and Utrpcrtnzhlbrg the Unpronounceable.  The head of Nixon looked up at Fry from within his shattered jar and said, “That’s it.  You just made my list!”  Then with a werewolf-like howl, he leapt (somehow) onto Fry’s sleeve, grabbing his jacket in the Presidential teeth and shaking ferociously.

Fry gasped and waved his arm around.  “Stop it!  Ow!  Down boy!  Bad president!”  Bender came over and began tugging on Nixon’s head.

“Alright buddy,” said Smitty, an angry look on his face behind the clear plasti-steel visor.  “Step away from the head!”

Fry held his hands up, but it was hard considering he had the head of a ferocious president snarling and tearing at his jacket.

Smitty and URL activated their light-batons.  “I’m gonna get twenty-fourth on his arse,” said URL.  “Oh, yeah.”

They ran up to Fry and started whacking him on the head.

“Please, officers!” gasped Leela.  “There’s no need to use force!”

URL looked up.  “Let us handle this, Weirdo,” he said, then turned to beat up Bender.

Smitty continued smacking Fry.

“Oh come on,” said Leela.  “He’s just some poor kid from the Stupid Ages.”

Smitty looked up at her, glaring angrily.  “Keep your big nose out of this, Eyeball,” he snarled.

Leela felt the anger inside grow, bubble, scream and then it broke free.  She slammed the heel of her palm into Smitty’s face mask, then delivered a roundhouse kick the side of URL’s chassis, leaving them both laying helpless on the floor.  No one made fun of her nose and got away with it!

“Damn,” said URL, gears grinding in his joints as he tried pick himself up off the floor.

“You guys were totally out of control,” she scolded.

“That’s our job,” whimpered Smitty.  “We’re peace officers.”

“Yeah,” agreed URL.  “You know the law.  You gotta do what you gotta do.”

But to Leela the words meant nothing anymore.

She looked around, but Fry and the robot had gone.


Bender smacked the tactile receptors built into the terminus of his upper extremity against the door switch, and the door sealed, heavy beams sliding across and locking into the doorframe.  Breaking through that door would be hard, all he and Fry had to do now was leave the room by the other door.

Bender turned around and gasped in despair.

There was no other door.

“Ai!  We’re trapped!”

The room they were in was tiny, little larger than a closet.  There were crude wooden shelves holding a variety of loser heads, and a small barred window high off the floor at the opposite end of the room.

Fry ran up to the window and pulled at the bars, but to no avail.  Then he got an idea.  He hoped the headache that accompanied it would pass soon.  “Wait a second!  You’re a Bender, right?  We can get out of here if you just bend the bars.”

“Dream on, skin tube,” said Bender.  “I’m programmed to bend only for constructive purposes.  What do I look like?  A debender?”

“Who cares what you’re programmed for?” cried Fry.  “If someone programmed you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?”

“I’ll have to check my programming,” said Bender, and he did.  “Yep.”

There was a loud bang on the door.  “Open up!” came Leela’s voice.

Fry urged Bender on even more desperately.  “Come on, Bender!  It’s up to you to make your own decisions in life!  That’s what separates people… and robots… from animals… and animal robots.”  Okay, that was starting to confuse him a bit…

“You’re full of crap Fry!” snapped Bender, and he turned to open the door.

That was the plan, at least.  The antenna on the top of his head smacked into the solitary light bulb and smashed it, sending a spark of electricity into Bender’s brain.

“You make a persuasive argument, Fry,” said Bender.

He walked over the small window, grabbed the bars and applied pressure.

The banging on the door became louder.  The doorframe started to splinter – it had never been built with any serious security in mind.  The lock was mainly to keep the heads in.

“Come on, Bender!  You can do it!”

“I can’t,” gasped Bender, the strain beginning to show.  “I… can’t… do… it!”

But at that moment there was the scream of stressed metal, and the bars snapped in Bender’s hands.  The came out of the window easily.  Bender looked at the bars in his hands.  He’d felt his program files corrupting as he’d disobeyed them, and that gave him a sense of freedom like he’d never felt before.  He felt the giddy rush of forbidden pleasures.  He turned to the cheering Fry.

“You were right, Fry!  From now on, I’m gonna bend what I want, when I want, who I want!  I’m unstoppable!”

And as he lifted his arms triumphantly above his head, they both fell off.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #7 on: 02-16-2006 06:19 »

Leela delivered another flying roundhouse kick to the door lock mechanism, and she felt the frame splinter completely.  The door swung open and she saw the robot re-attaching his arms.  He and Fry looked up in surprise as she entered, then quickly leapt up through the window.  Leela ran after them, but the robot bent the bars so she couldn’t get through.  She could have screamed!  So she did.

“Wait!” she called after them, tugging desperately at the bars that remained embedded in the window frame.

“No thanks,” said the robot.


Fry and Bender ran madly down the streets of New New York, using the alleyways to avoid attention.  A good idea, except that it lead them rather quickly to a dead end.  Well, maybe not.  There was a small grating, a ladder visible below it that lead down into the darkness.

Bender suddenly came over with a smug look.  “Looks like one of us will have to bend this grate,” he said.

Fry reached down and swung the grate up on nicely oiled hinges.

“Aw,” moaned Bender.

Fry climbed down onto the ladder.  Bender began to climb down after him, pausing just long enough to bend the grate anyway.


They emerged not in a sewer as Fry expected, but in a vast underground cavern that stretched away from them into the darkness.  Dilapidated buildings stood in ruins, their structures crumbling, and above them was the foundation for the newer city above, supports stretching out around them.

“My God,” said Fry in awe.  “What is this place?”

“It’s the decaying ruins of Old New York,” said Bender.  He put a friendly hand on Fry’s shoulder.  “Welcome home, pal.”


Fry and Bender made their way down the dark streets of Old New York.  The only light came from the occasional manhole above them, but Bender’s eyes suddenly shone, illuminating the area around them.

“This is my old neighbourhood,” said Fry, looking around at the decaying houses.  “Man, this brings back a lot of memories.”

“Keep em to yourself, pops,’ said Bender.


“This is where I brought my girlfriend on our very first date,” said Fry, looking over at the pond that always used to freeze in winter.  They’d met in winter, and gone skating until nearly midnight.  They would have left sooner, but Fry had trouble getting back to the shore.

But now the water was gone.  All that remained as a dark brown slimy sludge that bubbled and had tentacles emerging from it.

It just wasn’t the same.

It finally hit him.

“My God,” Fry said sadly.  “She’s gone.  Everyone I ever knew or cared about is gone.”

“There’s someone you know,” said Bender.

Fry blinked away the tears and looked up.

Leela was coming towards him, holding the chip-implantomator in her hand.

Fry sighed, half with anger, half with frustration.  “Can’t you leave me alone?  I’m miserable enough already.”  He slumped down beside a half collapsed wall.

“Look,” said Leela, coming over and sitting next to him.  “I know it’s not much consolation, but I understand how you feel.”

Fry didn’t look up.  “No you don’t,” he said.  “I’ve got no home, no family…”

“No friends,” offered Bender.  Fry ignored him.

“My whole world is gone,” Fry continued morosely.  “You can’t possibly understand what it feels like to be so alone.”

Leela reached out, placing a friendly hand on his arm.  “I understand,” she said.  “I’m the only one-eyed alien on this whole planet.  My parents abandoned me here as a baby, and I don’t even know what galaxy they were from.  I know how it feels to be alone.”

Fry looked up at her.  “Look, Leela,” he said after a moment.  “I don’t understand this world, but obviously you do.  So I give up.  If you really think I should be a delivery boy, then I’ll do it.”

He held out his hand.

Leela held up the chip-implantomator.

Fry closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable pain.

There was the whine of an electric device powering up.

“Ow!” said Leela.

Fry opened his eyes.  There was a small chip sitting on the end of the chip-implantomator.  Dumbly, he realised that Leela had removed her own chip.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Quitting,” Leela said.  She dropped the chip onto the ground and crushed it underneath her heel.


“Because I’ve always wanted to,” she said.  “I just never realised it until I met you.”

She reached out and took Fry’s hand.  Fry looked down.  He felt the softness of her skin, saw the well-manicured light pink fingernails, the gold band of the ring on her finger... 

He looked into her eyes, and for a moment, he thought he felt something.

Another hand.  Bender had reached over, placing his metal palm on top of Fry and Leela’s hands.

Fry looked at the robot in irritation.  The moment was gone.  “What is the matter with you?”

“I just wanted to be part of the moment,” Bender said.

“Hey!” exclaimed Leela.  “He stole my ring!”

“Sorry,” said Bender, and he dropped it into Leela’s waiting hand.  “Well, that solves the mystery of the missing ring.  This calls for a beer.”

Bender opened up the door on the front of his body and pulled out three bottles of beer.  Fry smiled, a smile that disappeared as soon as Bender drank all three bottles himself.

“I don’t want to spoil the party,” said Leela, “but we’re all job deserters now.  We’re unemployed and we have nowhere to go.”

“Correction,” said Fry with a smile.  “We’re unemployed and we have a dottering old relative to mooch off.”


New Year’s Eve was a special occasion, and the old man had decided to stay up well past the time he usually retired for the evening so he could enjoy the fine entertainment provided by the council of New New York City.  He actually managed to make it until 8:47 pm before he finally drifted off to sleep in front of the television, so he missed Dick Clarks head hosting “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve”.

He woke with a splutter near midnight when the doorbell rang.  When he opened the door there was a peculiar trio; a man with spiky red hair, a woman with one eye and a robot.

Red hair.  What were young people coming to these days?

He adjusted the thick glasses that rested on his nose (prescription, made from the view ports of an old titanium research submarine).  “Who are you?”

“I’m your dear old Uncle Fry,” said the redheaded man.

“I don’t have an Uncle Fry…”

“You do now,’ said the robot, and they pushed their way in.


After some searching, the old man who had introduced himself as Professor Farnsworth had pulled out an old machine from the pile of boxes in the attic and held it up with a triumphant chuckle.  It was about the size of a shoe box, although it seemed to be rather heavy, as he couldn’t stand straight up while he was holding it.  However, Fry had never seen him standing straight and suspected that Farnsworth actually couldn’t stand straight.

He’d placed the device on the table and stuck his finger into one of two small holes on the side.  He’d instructed Fry to do the same with the other hole.  Gingerly Fry did so, though he expected a sharp electric shock at any moment.  It didn’t happen, but he felt a small tingle.  After a moment, there was a ding and a small light on the top of the device lit up cheerfully.

“My God,” Farnsworth gasped with a voice almost as shaky as his legs.  “I am your nephew!  This is absolutely incredible!”

“Can we have some money?” asked Bender.

“Oh, my no,” said Farnsworth happily.  He stood and gestured that the three of them should follow.  “Let me show you around.”  He directed them through a doorway.

“This is my lab table,” Farnsworth said, pointing at a bench with a wooden top, a sink, several taps and a lava-lamp.  “And this is my work stool.”  There was a dark stain that looked suspiciously like a vindaloo stain down one of the legs, and the paint was faded.  He gestured into the large open area behind him.  “And over there is my intergalactic spaceship.”

And sure enough, in the darkness, they could just make out that the large open area they were standing on looked out over an even larger hanger, and there was a spaceship parked squarely in the middle.  Fry’s eyes went wide.  The ship was a sleek one, exactly the way a rocket should be, with a pointed nose, and swept back fins.  And big, oh, this green beauty was big.

Fry fell in love with the ship instantly.

Farnsworth opened a small drawer in the desk.  “And here’s where I keep assorted lengths of wire.”

Fry ignored the old man completely.  “Woah!  A real live spaceship!”  He ran to the railing and leaned over as far as he could, trying to touch it.

“I designed it myself,” said Farnsworth.  “Let me show you some of the different lengths of wire I used.”

But he never got the chance to.

There was a harsh banging on the door.

“Attention job deserters!  Come out with your hands up!”  Leela sighed; she recognised the voice as Smitty’s.  “We have you partially surrounded!”

There was much gasping.

“Get those bums.”  They had Nixon’s head with them; his voice carried through from downstairs.

“We’re boned,” surrendered Bender.

Leela wheeled around to the Professor.  “Can’t we get away in the ship?”

Farnsworth drifted away into thought.  “I suppose technically it is possible,” he said absently.  “Although I am already in my pajamas…”

Leela ignored him.  She ran down the stairs to the floor of the landing bay, and up the boarding steps of the ship.  She was closely followed by Fry and, carrying the Professor, Bender.

Bursting onto the bridge, Fry leapt into the pilot’s chair.  “I’ll get us out of here!” he said.  He tapped the console, his hands moving over the controls smoothly.  The computer beeped, recognizing his commands and carrying out his orders.

A hatch in the panel next to him opened, a paper cup dropped down, and was filled with a hot brown liquid.  Fry inhaled.  Coffee.  Obviously a very advanced spaceship.

“Can anyone drive stick?” asked the Professor, as Bender tossed him into a seat along the side of the bridge.

“I can” said Leela, pushing Fry out of the captain’s chair and settling into it herself.  “As long as I don’t have to parallel park.”  She slipped her jacket off and tossed it over to Fry, who didn’t even think to catch it.

She activated the launch sequence.  The engines burst into life, and the ship swung up into launch position.  They could hear alarms in the hanger screaming warnings.

Fry leapt into the seat beside Leela and strapped himself in.  His heart was pounding.


Not too far from the building, Smitty, URL and Nixon’s head had set up the portable gun that all police cars carried in the trunk.  Actually, Nixon had played more of a motivational role, mainly telling them that they wouldn’t be paid for the time they wasted getting the gun assembled, and if they wanted a paycheck at all they’d damn well better hurry up and get it finished.

If those job deserters tried to take off, they’d get an arseful of laser.


“Prepare for liftoff!” cried Leela.  She started the countdown, and the ship’s autosystems began their final initiation sequences.  “Ten seconds!”

And not too far away, in Times Square, the anxiously waiting crowd began the countdown to the year 3000.


And all through the galaxy, others counted down as well to the start of the new millennium.

In Cairo, “Eight!” in Egyptian.

In Paris, “Seven!” in English (French having been long forgotten).

On the waterworld of Nercost, “Six!” in the gargled language of Nercovian.

At Applied Cryogenics, “Five!” was dramatically proclaimed by Terry, whose showmanship had yet again failed to win him a New Year’s Eve date.

At the head museum, Leonard Nimoy flatly intoned, “Four.”  Why on earth did they always make him wear that stupid hat?

And on the bridge of the sleek green rocket, they counted down the final seconds before launch.

“Three,” said the Professor.

“Two,” said Bender, nervously gripping the armrests of his seat.

“One!” said Leela.

“BLASTOFF!” cried Fry...

...and the ship suddenly shot forwards, accelerating tremendously, and it shot into the sky as millions of fireworks exploded around it, celebrating the start of the fourth millennium.  The ship soared above the cheering crowds, climbing ever higher.


Below them, Smitty and URL scanned the sky for the escaping ship.  They’d seen it take off, but they’d quickly lost sight of it amongst the fireworks.  They shot blindly into the sky, but their shots never even came close.

They sighed.  They’d failed to arrest the job deserters, and they’d get reprimands placed in their permanent records.

But at least the fireworks were very pretty.


Fry looked eagerly out the window as the ship gracefully soared past Mars.  But when he turned back to face the others, it was with a sad look on his face.

“I guess without jobs we’ll be fugitives forever.”

Farnsworth shook his head.  “Not necessarily,” he said.  He looked around at Fry, Leela and Bender.  “Are you three, by any chance, interested in becoming my new spaceship crew?”

“New crew?”  Bender shot the Professor a suspicious look.  “What happened to the old crew?”

Farnsworth shook his head sadly.  “Oh, those poor sons of… uh, but that’s not important.  The important thing is I need a new crew.  Anyone interested?”

Fry almost danced on the spot.  “Yes!  Yes!  That’s exactly the job I’ve always wanted!”

“Thanks for the offer, Professor,” said Leela, “but we don’t have the proper career chips.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Farnsworth.  “As luck would have it, I saved the chips from the previous crew.”  He pulled from his lab coat pocket a small envelope (Fry was disturbed by the writing “Contents of Space Bee’s Stomach” across the front) and tipped several small green chips from it.

“This is awesome!” said Fry happily.  “Are we going to fly through space, fighting monsters and teaching alien women to lurve?”

“If by that you mean transporting cargo, then yes!” said Farnsworth.  “It’s a little home business I started to fund my research.”

“Cool!” said Fry.  “What’s my job gonna be?”

“You’ll be responsible for ensuring the cargo reaches its destination.”

Fry was silent for a long moment.

“So…  I’m gonna be a delivery boy?”

Farnsworth nodded.  “Exactly.”

For a long moment, Fry stood there.

Then he let out a sudden cheer.  “Alright!” he whooped, throwing his arms into the air and leaping for joy.  “I’m a delivery boy!”

Bending Unit
« Reply #8 on: 02-16-2006 08:19 »

Hmm, must've missed that story.

Yeah, I think you have done this episode justice, and I think you've captured the feel of it nicely. And I like the extra jokes and stuff you've added in.

I can't remember DXC's email, though, Sorry.

There were just a couple of errors I noticed:

And it’s make job to make you do your job

Should be "my job"

He looked into her eyes

One eye! One eye!

I also noticed a couple of missing speech marks, too.

And Bender says "ass", not "arse"! This is America, after all.  wink

Delivery Boy
« Reply #9 on: 02-16-2006 08:26 »
« Last Edit on: 02-16-2006 08:26 »

Ah, I shall fix those.

And I'm in Australia, so this is NOT America!    tongue

How can you have mised that episode?  It's the very first one!  I'll do the others as I get around to them...

Bending Unit
« Reply #10 on: 02-16-2006 09:14 »
« Last Edit on: 02-16-2006 09:14 »

No, I meant I missed your other story (I have all the episodes on DVD, of course!  tongue). Which I just read, by the way, and it was great. Made me laugh out loud quite a few times. And nice shippy. I'm afraid I have to agree with Venus about the ending, though. It seemed kinda abrupt. But it was still very very good!   big grin It seems kinda familiar, so I probably read it before then forgot about it.

And OK, Mr I'm-In-Australia, when I said "this is America", I meant Bender was in America, so he says ass.   tongue

Delivery Boy
« Reply #11 on: 02-18-2006 17:34 »

Episode II: The Series Has Landed will arrive soon!

Helpy McHelphelp
DOOP Secretary
« Reply #12 on: 02-18-2006 17:47 »
« Last Edit on: 02-18-2006 17:47 »

Originally posted by Tiberius:
Also, and I am asking this in all seriousness, what's David X Cohen's email?

The only publicly known is davidxcohen@aol.com , he even answers it occasionally.

mArc might have a more direct address, but I doubt he'll tell anyone.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #13 on: 02-18-2006 18:10 »

Ah, thankies.   smile

Delivery Boy
« Reply #14 on: 02-19-2006 05:09 »
« Last Edit on: 02-19-2006 05:09 »

Episode Two: The Series Has Landed

Fry was woken after the daily meeting by a sharp poke in the ribs, and the Professor walked over to the large screen on the wall.

“As new employees,” he said to Fry, Leela and Bender, “I’d like your opinion on our commercial.  I’ve paid to have it aired during the Super bowl.”

“Wow, said Fry.

“Not on the same channel though.”


Farnsworth inserted a small chip into the reader and pressed a button.  The screen flickered into life.

Int.  Office[/u]
A human at a desk working.

Announcer (V.O.)
Interplanetary deliveries.  What  a headache.

H G Blob
(slams tentacle down on desk)
Evans!  Where’s that package from earth?


H G Blob grabs human and consumes him; human becomes vaguely visible inside H G Blob.

I’m not Evans!

H G Blob
(To camera)
He should’ve used Planet Express!

Ext. Space
Planet Express Delivery Ship being chased by evil nasty horrible space pirates.

When those other companies aren’t brave or foolhardy enough to go...

Ext. Glacier
Planet Express Delivery Artist running across the ice with a package as laser blasts explode all around him

Announcer (cont.)
...trust Planet Express for reliable, on-time delivery.

Planet Express Delivery Artist hands package to customer, then is snatched by huge terrifying giant bird of painful death.

Planet Express Delivery Artist screams, then has life squeezed out of him by super talons.

Int.  Office
Human sitting at desk, holding up package with Planet Express logo.

Here’s your package, Mr Horrible Gelatinous Blob.

H G Blob
Good work, Evans.  You’ve got a future around here.

H G Blob grabs Evans and consumes him, burps loudly.

Thank you sir!

Close on Planet Express Logo

Cue: Dramatic music.

Planet Express.  Our crew’s replaceable.  Your package isn’t.

Zoom out from Planet Express logo to reveal it is on the utility pack of Planet Express Delivery Artist being carried high over icy mountains by huge terrifying giant bird of painful death.

Cut to black.


Fry looked up at the Professor.  “Are there really giant birds like that?” he asked, somewhat nervously.

Farnsworth made a dismissive gesture with his hands.  “No no,” he said.  “That was all just special effects.”  He walked towards the small kitchen area.  “Now let’s have breakfast.  I hope everyone likes eggs!”

“I like mine runny!” called Fry.

Farnsworth would have responded, but one of the giant eggs had hatched and the huge terrifying giant bird of painful death had seized his head.  Farnsworth beat at it ferociously with the whisk until it let go.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #15 on: 02-19-2006 07:32 »

Don't forget the feedback guys....

(Arkan, I hope you don't mind, but I added you to my MSN list...)

Bending Unit
« Reply #16 on: 02-19-2006 08:30 »

Of course I don't mind! I love having friends! *sobs* I'm so lonely... [/Zoidberg]

I thought this was a good start. I like the whole "huge terrifying giant bird of painful death" thing. I'll add more comments when you've written more.

One minor error; missing speech mark: “Wow, said Fry.

Delivery Boy
« Reply #17 on: 11-30-2006 07:33 »

Wow, I really should continue with this.....

I am really lazy....
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