|You can, however, stack wood.|
Image via Wikimedia Commons
That was a lie. Our necks were unbroken. I considered breaking Max's and blaming it on speed, but it seemed like a lot of work.
Things had been going well on the Spaceship - we'd bought some branded clothing and souvenirs from the gift shop and began training to fight Martians (Just in case) when Max... Well, it was Max... he killed about 14 people. Well, they were robots. It was an accident. On purpose. They touched his comb. Their own faults. He said.
Anyhow, that explains our exile in the escape pod, in which we were currently breaking our necks. A while ago, Earth had reared her ugly head afore us, scraping the dark sky with her continental hair and surfacewaters. We entered the atmosphere at speeds that could... well, break one's neck...
And now we were crashing. Earth piling up on both sides of us, a chasm of soil spreading out across the countryside. A few cows meandered across our path, flying onto the screen of our extraterrestrial vehicle and blocking the view until we put on the windscreen wipers. Slowly, we slowed down over a long period of time, slowing to a halt in a field full of Hippies and cows, both of whom were meandering around slowly.
We emerged, yawning and stretching into the sun. I wondered where we were, and approached the lead hippie. Well, the tallest:
"Is this Woodstock? Did we travel through time again?"
"No man." The Hippie replied. "You can't, like, stock wood."
"Are you going to be a cliche?" I asked.