Evening, my SPRAT-loving babies! It's "oh"-200 Piraeus local, and you know what that means... Live from the
Liu, it's
Renegade Radio!
Introductory song plays, complete with samples of several prior broadcasts and interviews. Crescendo includes a string of seemingly nonsensical and woefully out-of-context slurs, the speaker's voice matching that of the host, Vicen Asvadi. After approximately twenty seconds, the introductory sequence fades into the host's muted laughter and opening monologue.We've got one hell of a show for you folks this evening. Legally-dubious salvors and tin-tinkerers of the Galaxy, unite, you have nothing to lose, but— Well, you have all that you fuckin' own to lose, but that's no different than any other day. The notably depression-inducing state of affairs aside, we
do actually have a bit of news to announce before your good ol' boy really starts whippin' at the knickers. First, let's get the big-bad-boy addressed straight-away: we've got a new, wider, far more ethically-tarnish— I mean, "independent" and "upright" audience, my tweezing little space sponges! That's right! Apparently, several rag-tag liquid-router services have decided to start picking up our broadcast from this
thick, rusty'n'trusty bitch and have started relaying my sultry baritone beyond the Gemini Belt.
You heard your man, Vicen Asvadi, correctly, ladies, gentlemen, and potentially-sapient-hull corrosion; the fat-cats all the way down in Alpha Centauri can tune-in and hear the single-most awe-erasing, award-un-nominated, bottom-shelf, mind-numbingly-gravy-filled four hour block of absolute hyperwave hell every-single-day. ...Oh please, someone airlock me... If the Valinor can hear me, I'm absolutely positive I'll be having an OVA-ry knocking on my door any day now. "No, Your Most Majestic Imperial Whatever-You-Call-Yourself, we haven't removed the graffiti yet." At this point, if we did, no one would recognize us; that's a sad sack, isn't it? It's like good branding, only made of lead - possibly. Maybe. Probably.
Questionably legal syndication aside, we do have more news to get to this evening. For one, I'm broke. ...Oh wait, that's not news, that's just my bank statement. My apologies. I always get those two confused; I'm not sure if it's the huge line of zeroes queuing-up or the fact it's all in gaudy red print, but it always happens. Let's fix that... Ah, yes, there we are. This one comes to you wild out of the... Well, frankly, it's the ass-end of the Gamma Quadrant, but apparently SecDiv ain't got shit else to do. Oh, nope, there I go again, my mistake. No, this is the
Imperial Star Republic herself, moving naval forces out of the Eurydice Spur regions in order to help assist the quelling of tensions between the IStaR and— ...Does that say "fuckin' space shrimp"?
I can't read my own hand-writing. Why that's sad is because I didn't hand-write this; it's typed. On a screen.
Apparently everyone's favorite interstellar crustacean mafia, the
Vahkiran, are trying to stir up a bit of trouble for themselves. You know, I can't say I blame them. We here in the Liu do get our fair share of the imply-traders - what with this being their system and all. I mean, it's only natural. Unfortunately. Fortunately? I mean, things have been booming as of late; that's good for most of us, 'cause it lets us boom things in response— Er... No. What I
meant to say was "It lets us use our completely legal salvage licenses to assist in the removal of all the heinous debris and detritus that nefarious criminals cause in the Belt." Yes, of course that's what I meant.
Y'know, I once tried to hook-up with one of the prawns. Have I ever told this story? I don't think I have. Regardless, it's a short one; it ended with SecDiv breaking-up a bar brawl and about 60,000 Galactic Standard Credits-worth of court-mandated therapy. ...Something about "chitinous clicking" just triggers me. I don't know what it is. Let's just say, however, that we came to a mutually-beneficial agreement that I'm not to come within three hundred meters of a Vahkiran female, less I'm liable to find my remarkably well-defined jaw removed from my precociously handsome face. This has nothing to do with the fact she threw me through a table, pulled out one of those wishy-wibbly-shiny-whiney sword-things and nearly ended me then and there. Has nothing to do with that at all. Nothing-what-so-ever.
When we come back, SPRAT-kin, we'll address the news in our neighborhood, and possibly start taking callers. I'm not sure. Depends on how much of this Moxxie I can smoke-up in the next six minutes. We'll see, back here on
Renegade Radio...
A brief outro tune plays before the broadcast harshly terminates, immediately playing an advertisement for NAVOS Freight & Cargo, specifying their Liu Xiu office. Based upon the quality, it is likely the advertisement was ripped from a legitimate broadcaster and is being replayed from the Renegade Radio studio ad hoc. Following the advertisement, three songs are played, each of similarly poor quality; the genres of the three vary, but most fall under the broad "rock" or "industrial" umbrella, with hints of electronica. These are broken by a second advertisement, for SPRAT - the Official Space Ration of Choice™ - before three more songs play, each apparently from a dated billboard chart from approximately eighteen standard weeks previous.
The final song terminates during the final refrain, immediately returning to the host's voice.So I've just been looking over
my ¥abber, and, apparently someone from the Solarian Reaches - one "@MoneyBagsMcGee" - thinks I am, quote, "The worst disc jockey in the Galaxy," and that "I am likely missing more genes than the average Freesian." I'll have you know, Money Bags McGee, that I am not a disc jockey at all; we don't have discs, fuckface. It's all digital. Get with the times. Secondly, Freesians don't wear jeans. Thirdly, fuck you, fuckface, and the bigass locust you carried your ass in on. Also, your name sucks.
Given most of our listeners are this side of the Sol Meridian, let's focus on some local topics, shall we?
Security Division raids on drug production centers have increased "ten fold," according to the official release from, well, the Security Division. Apparently, what with the "Phanite Problem" largely "resolved," they're looking for new targets out there in Greywinter. The representative from the Security Division cites an "increase in foreign traffic and tourism" as a need to "quash the narcotics problem" in order to maintain "safety and security [...] for traders [
in Liu Xiu] that arrive daily from across the Galaxy." I wonder if they realize it's those tourists and traders that are the primary buyers of such "narcotics"? I doubt it. I mean, let's be honest here: where there is a demand, somebody is goin' to supply it. I didn't have to follow @AdrianRhett or @GalacticQuarterly to learn that one, folks; just common-fuckin'-sense.
I mean, don't get your ol' boy Asvadi wrong: I
love SecDiv. Those constant drones flying around the Haven? They help me find the hulk. It's positively
wholesome that they think so highly of us out here, barely-hangin'-on over Kythira. Between them, the Valinor constantly givin' us mean glares from the Windrose, and the prawns tryin' to skitter into orbit, it's a proverbial hug-party over here. We've never felt so loved as that one time when everybody's favorite creeper bartender got his shit kick'd in and spaced. ...Not that that happened. That's just a metaphor. Simile? Metaphor. Yeah, that's just a metaphor for the rough'n'tumble business of completely-legitimate salvage operations and the free settler lifestyle that we here at
Renegade Radio embrace whole-heartedly.
And by "we" I mean "me." 'Cause it's just me. Me and a soundboard from 20.0016 GSY.
Speaking of space and prawns and floating bad checks, the station manager wishes for me to relay a message to the
adorable shrimpies: please, for all that is holy, stop trying to free-float EVA over to the Haven. Seriously. You miscalculate and "Boom!" suddenly you're lobster-paste on the hull; then she's gotta force someone to go out there and scrub you off. Then we get comments from the traders out of Freeport about how we're not a "legitimate free port" and are just a "smugglers' den" and that our "menu is exceptionally limited" because it just has bathtub gin and shoe polish as the daily specials every day. Seriously, though, stop. She told me to say we don't serve your kind here. I had nothing to do with saying that, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the aforementioned story about one of your kind clicking her plates at me menacingly. Just
stop.
Onto our first caller! Hey, Sloar-lover, you're live on
Renegade Radio!
A "beep" - apparently intended to indicate the joining of a caller to the station - plays, followed immediately by ear-shatteringly loud, incessant clicking. The noise is quite evidently pre-recorded, and not actually a live caller. A second "beep" shortly following the first seems to indicate the host has terminated the "call."I said "Stop!" Fuckin'
seriously, you prawns are so damn sensitive. I swear. Next caller! You're on
Renegade Radio!
Caller: Hi— Uhm, hello, yes. Why are you so terrible? You're not even playing good music - like, at all. That shit you just played was from, like, six months ago, man.
Well, for one, because we're a news station. It's suppose to be terrible, forced, and mind-numbingly boring. What do you think we do here: play number-one, hit singles from the "flyest" charts of the 19.9000's?
Caller: But you're
not a news station! You've—
Now hold your shit-kickers there, boy. We are, most certainly, a news station. We report on the happenings of Liu Xiu, with particular emphasis upon Harriers' Haven, thank you very much. It's not
our fault that SecDiv are party-poopers and won't let us start, I dunno... Making salvage more readily accessible and in far greater quantities. We're a hard-scramble people, my listeners. We're salvagers, free settlers, brigands, pirates, criminals— Sorry, no, no criminals listen to us. At all. Nor do any smugglers. We're all salvors and free settlers, trying to make a dent on Kythira here.
Caller: ...Kythira is a gas giant.
That's why it's so hard to make a dent in 'er. Where are you calling from, caller?
Caller: Hira, on Pinnacle.
Doesn't it, like, always rain there?
Caller: No... In fact, it's pretty much always sun —
A distinctive "clack" plays, clearly indicating the call has been terminated.See? We're a news station. Breaking news, Sloar-babies: it did not rain in Hira today. See, caller? We're a legitimate, wholly above-board, one hundred-percent authorized news source... you fuckstick.
Regardless, we're at the part of the mornin' I like to call the "Last Last Call." That part of the evening where those of you who actually
do require my services get your intel for the coming week. First and foremost, there are a couple of announcements the Big Mama just wants me to get out. For one, the Faint of Heart will no longer be accepting non-human clientele, as previously stated; you heard that right, you chitterin' freaks. Not that I'm sure many of you felt exactly
welcome to begin with, but the jig is up; don't bother dockin'. ...Just gettin' that out there, so y'all don't erroneously go thinkin' that was ol' Asvadi kiddin' around. Secondly, the standard fare is expected to make port sometime in the next forty-eight hours, Jiwao standard. All you li'l' kiddies know what that means; expect a good drop this time, or so I'm told. "
Par excellance," as it were. All those Cirrus boys are gonna be runnin' hot, so I'd give them a wide berth.
Next, the miners are mining heavily, but don't expect to pull-up and offload. It's not that sorta mining operation, and I wouldn't go about tryin' to convince 'em otherwise. Free settlers are
not welcome. I repeat: free settlers are
not welcome. Free settlers, however, are still welcome at the Haven, as always. Speaking of: good prices are being offered for select wares - all above board, of course. Remember to have your SecDiv green slips on hand for inspection; wouldn't want the tin-heads gettin' all uppity about things, now would we? We here at Haven are always willing to pay the price for somethin' special.
This has been
Renegade Radio with Vicen Asvadi, folks. Dial-in tomorrow, my fellow Sloar-kin, for out-of-date, woefully under-reported, needlessly verbose news. But for now? For now, fuck off, big boys!
A brief outro begins to play, similar to the initial introductory tune, before it is quickly silenced by a roar of indecipherable static. What appears to be a voice - very faint and off key - echoes behind the white noise, seemingly repeating an alphanumeric string before it, too, abruptly ends.