A story released in short parts influenced by several writers including Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Tom Holt and Robert Rankin.

The story centres around The Hero, a tall green fellow who makes a living out of fighting other people's fights for them.

But now someone is bent on toasting The Hero's buns.
Who wants him dead (besides the entire population of WanWan 3)?
Why are they trying to kill him?
And who is the mysterious Mr Calabash O'Toole?

Part One unfolds now....

Plip….
Plip plip….
Plip..
Plip..
Plip plip plip
Plip…

His left eye creaked open a tad. That sound was getting on his nerves. The constant but unevenly timed plip plip plip of the still-molten metal of the door as it sploshed onto the ceramic tiles of what used to be the entrance. He’d have to do something about it. Just as soon as he stopped bleeding to death, it would be his first priority.

Plip…

When he next opened his left eye, the sound had stopped. In fact, there was no sound at all. It was silent as the grave. He found that funny, since it may very well end up as a grave – his. He let out a hoarse, guttural sound that was the closest thing to a laugh he could manage and instantly regretted it. He passed out again.

Slowly his vision swam into focus. At least in his left eye. His right eye was still pressed painfully against the floor. Or something on the floor, he wasn’t entirely sure. He prodded what he hoped was the floor experimentally with a finger on his right hand which was lying next to his head. Yes. Solid. Itchy. Felt like bad quality carpet. Floor. And a few inches away, the cold ceramic tiles of the entrance. What used to be the entrance, he mentally corrected himself.

He decided it was time to get up.

Easier thought than done.

He located his left arm, flexed his fingers a little to make sure he had all 6 of them and did the same with his right hand. Now…bring the arms in close to the side of the body, that’s it. And press down..heeeave up a little. Heave a little more. There we go. Now bring the legs in like this and bring the head up like that and…perfect.

He was on all fours, breathing like he’d just run a maxi-marathon.

Let’s take a moment to examine him:

Tall and willowy. Green tinted skin with pale freckles dusted over it. High forehead. Deep inky black eyes spaced wide-apart on a narrow face. Seeing him, you’d never think that you were looking at UltraGalaxon’s Greatest Hero. He deserved the capital H. After all, hadn’t he fought off several Ulahags and quafhurdles in order to rescue the Gongdon of Calaxia? Yes. He had. It was all terribly impressive. Which is why it was excruciatingly embarrassing for him to be here, on all fours, bleeding quietly into the rather horrible carpet. Thank Tarkle none of the usual flock of journalists who accompanied him everywhere were around. He could be embarrassing in private.

So where precisely was here? Here was a floating Lux-O-Pleaso-Rama called the PlangDan Pleasure-Nest and it was a den of depravity – skimply clad hooligags, gambling, alcohol, murder…. He loved it.

When the pressure of The Job became too much, he came here to escape, bringing nothing with him save the bare necessities of life - his adoring fans, a small flock of journalists, his army of Serv-O-Bots. It was idyllic.

And now someone, something, had dared to try to kill him on vacation. Couldn’t they have waited until he got home? Honestly, some people are just so selfish… It was enough to make him peevish.

Ultra Galaxon's Greatest Hero