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He got goosebumps, in that magical way he always got goosebumps when something tremendously cool happened. He shivered, glad for his thick lab coat despite the warm basement. "Who are you?" he asked, surprised anything was even able to make contact at this frequency. He waited for a couple of minutes. When it became apparent that communication was going to be incredibly slow, he amped up the volume on his transponder. "Who are you?" he asked again, a little more impatient than before. Rick Sanchez was not known for his patience. .hey there Whoa. The words blipped softly across his screen, flashing insistently. "Uh, hey," he responded into the microphone. "What's your name?" .im juice Followed by: .juice you dingbat Rick realized that he had inadvertently asked the same question twice. The first answer must have been delayed. "I'm Rick," he said, the insult glancing off. "Hey, Juice." .hey rick "Uh... w-where are you?" .good question
.where are you
Rick frowned, taking a moment before responding. The signal couldn't be coming from Earth - could it? It had been centuries since the last fossil fuels had been used up, and humanity had given up on space travel. Of course, there were ways to get around without using traditional rocket fuel, but why would you? Dimension C-137 was barren. "Chicago," he responded, playing it safe by staying vague. .good old bears
Rick huffed a laugh. Good old Bears indeed. "W-what makes you think the Bears are even my team?" Rick asked, settling a little more comfortably into his workshop chair. "I could be, like, visiting Chicago." .rick sanchez, dimension c-137
. alias "terror-rick"
.cute
Rick sat bolt upright. No way this outer space loser was getting the jump on him. This channel was encrypted, for god's sake! Heavily encrypted, at that. There was no possible way for a person to know anything about Rick Sanchez, other than maybe - maybe! - that he stuttered. And even that was questionable. "H-how do you know-" .your from chicago "Yo, okay, ha-ha, very funny. W-where did you get this information, you son of a-" .dont worry i cant hurt you
"Oh yeah?" Rick challenged through gritted teeth. He sat bolt upright on the edge of his chair, his back no longer even touching the worn leather. .JUICE. "Uh..." .what do u think it stands for dweeb "Jack off, You Icy Cunt Egg," Rick replied without hesitation. .ha
.that ones pretty good, ill have to remember it
"What does it stand for?" Rick sighed, resigning himself to playing straight man. With the intel this person (people?) had on him, it was wise to assume he was about to be killed. Mercilessly. Might as well die with knowledge. .jupiter icy moons explorer. "W-what, like the satellite?" .like the satellite. "Fucken terrible acronym," Rick remarked. He pulled his flask from his lab coat pocket, playing it cool. If they were gonna kill him, they were gonna kill him. He drank, long and deep.
.JUpiter ICy moons Explorer
"Ha, yeah, it's a fucking shit acronym," Rick laughed. "You, you can't just use the same word for two letters, moron. Even first graders kn-kn-kno, understand that." .hey now "Jupiter Ugly Icy Cunt Explorer." .thats not nice "Join Us In Cunt Exploration." Rick was grinning now, warming to his subject. It occurred to him suddenly the likelihood that whoever was broadcasting this signal wasn't doing it from outer space. It was probably some pimply college dropout, either far too skinny or morbidly obese, tacking away at the computer keyboard he had commandeered in his mother's basement. Or she. It was the seventeen-thousand-and-eighth century, after all. .betcha cant do it without saying the word cunt "Juicy Unshaven Itchy Clitoris Eater," he retorted, in the spirit of inclusivity. If it was in fact a woman at the helm of this - admittedly unnerving - broadcast, it wouldn't do to make her feel left out. Rick smirked.
.clitoris and cunt are synonymous
"Jizz Under It, Coochie Expander!" .still a word for vagina "Cooter!" .cameltoe "Cockhole!"
.cumdumpster
Unexpectedly, Rick found himself laughing. "You've got a sense of humor, kid. I, I respect that." There was a long pause. Rick suddenly worried that he had lost the connection. He fiddled with the antenna on the transponder for a couple of seconds. "Juice?" .rot in cunthell, k?
Rick clapped his hands. He literally clapped. "Kid, I don't know who you are, and I don't know where you are, but I hope that when you decide to join the rest of us in the real world, you'll know b-better than to fuck with Rick fucking Sanchez." .wait rick "So long, m-mother, motherfucker." Rick pulled the plug. The screen went blank. He stared at it. It took a long time for his breathing to slow down. Nobody sniped him. Centuries later, he still wondered if he should have left the com-link open.