The Pikers of Egg Beta III

The Pikers of Egg Beta III in the constellation of Felix Hash Minor faced spatial constraints, but time never bound them. These neo-plastic, frisbee-shaped creatures had entirely renounced heaven. They did not do this over some deep theological dispute; they simply enjoyed whizzing about in what foresight-lacking humans call outer space.

They also harbored a deep addiction to the smell of ozone. To be precise, ozone has no inherent odor unless you mix in some herbs. The Pikers merely failed to realize that the ozone made them smell. No harm done, though. They certainly were not the first species to find solace in their own underarms on a hot day.

The Geometry of Heaven

Following their encounter with heaven, the ratio of their circumference to their radius became perfectly rational. Each Piker measured exactly a meter and a bit in diameter, with both numerator and denominator on speaking terms. A curling antenna at top center offered the only evidence of this corrected mathematical anomaly. None objected, as it made communication much easier.

This heavenly endorsement yielded a strange cosmic rule. When rotated clockwise, the sum of their parts equaled more or less the number they first thought of. However, when rotated anti-clockwise, they just threw up a lot. This is the steep price you pay for having space but no time.

Disco Beats and Rocket Propulsion

In the past, they communicated by rhythmically bumping into each other—think Morse code with a disco beat. The authorities frowned upon this practice and eventually deprecated it. Philosophers went out of their way to erase this behavior from the history books, but the geeks kept it alive in the absence of a decent social life.

Due to a shortage of ambulances, they ambulated by more intuitive means. They gained lift by recycling warm bodily fluids to their pale underbellies, and gathered momentum by slipstreaming the occasional comet. The curly tail handled the rest. This included directional coordination, calculating the proper time for mutual flatulence to dodge hyperspace toll booths, and signaling dinner time.

The Skin Crisp Rebellion

The Pikers survived solely on a diet of Crisps. To put it less delicately, they ate their own shed skin—though it never truly died, as it continued to grow after shedding. Crisps, in turn, fed off the vomit of Pikers, which they found scrummy and quite unlike tapioca pudding. This symbiotic relationship explains why the discomfort of anti-clockwise navigation still persisted. It was a classic case of “you scratch my back and I’ll have yours for dinner.” This self-sustaining recursive cannibalism kept the Pikers out of hot water and the Crisps out of the frying pan.

History speaks of a time when all Crispdom attempted a coup. They aimed to better their position in the taxonomy of light snack life forms. However, they gave up in disgust upon realizing their essential weapon—the tooth—would take at least another two million nano-pedicures to evolve.