"Elon, you think space is hard? Try single motherhood." Timmeh muttered to Elan, his bastard child, unclaimed by the Martian Pope.
Elan had his father's brain but his mother's complexion. Here he was, fighting off an addition to Space Crank, raising his potatoe baby by himself, no welfare, no free Wifi. Just his top-heavy, accident prone, vegetable child.
He imagined the dangers Elan would surly face growing up, but luckily, his Earth friend Hoosier had sent by way of space-bourne Tesla Roadster, a helmet for the little one to grow into.
Timmeh's body contorted from withdrawls. Space crank causes quivering, bleeding pores, and temprorary blindness. The withdrawls are even worse. Which is why Timmeh picked up the hand cranked shortwave radio and announced his order to anyone within range.
"I'll have a potatoes worth of space crank. Come to tent 33, with the Red Light on..." went his missive. Would anyone on Mars hear this?
KNOCK KNOCK..
Moments later, the drugs arrive. The dealer, a kilted Scottish slope-headed neck-beard took one sniff of the baby Elan and instead opted for a piece of Timmeh in exchange for space crank.
TO BE CONTINUED