Space Princess

I’ve decided to take a stab at sci-fi. I’ve long had a wish to write a Hitchhiker’s Guide-type satire. I liked the Hitchhiker’s Guide series, but I thought I could do better. It may be a delusion of grandeur, but I think that’s usually what it takes to make great art. So, here goes:

The spires of Havamegnish City spiraled up to the sky. It was a gleaming pin cushion of silver from horizon to horizon, and somewhere amidst all the grandeur was a beautiful princess named Ambrosia Gentilicus. (Don’t ask me why they still have royalty in this galaxy. It’s a pretty backward galaxy. The whole idea of basing your government on heredity is ludicrous. But, hey, not every space-faring civilization follows the same path of political development. So deal. Besides, we all know who to blame for the persistence of this trope.)

So, anyway, this Princess Ambrosia- (Seriously, though, what is it with Star Wars having a princess and a queen in the movies? Why no princes or kings? I mean, maybe there are some in the books and video games and shit, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t any in the movies. What are you tryin’ to say, George? That women can only attain positions of authority through heredity? Do better, man. Do better. But I digress.) As I was saying, Princess Ambrosia was meandering through the back alleys of the galactic capital planet of Encendior. Seriously, that’s how big this Galactic Empire is. It takes a whole planet to run the darn thing.

But Princess Ambrosia was roaming around the ghetto, because that’s just the kinda girl she was. She liked slumming with the common folk, the Salt of the Earth. Not that she was a Woman of the People. No, far from it. But she liked getting her hands dirty sometimes just to remind herself she was alive.

She walked up to a door in the deepest, dankest, darkest back alley she could find. A video screen over the door flickered to life. A menacing, male face appeared with a crazy makeup job and no hair. Think Kratos from God of War. In the gruffest, scariest, deepest voice you’ve ever heard, he asked, “What’s the password?”

“The password is open the fucking door before I shove this phaser so far up your ass you’ll be sneezing rainbows.” Her voice had the cool calm and steely nerves of a street-smart hustler. She didn’t take shit offa nobody. She was super-sexy, but still tough enough to appeal to women.

The door slid open and the princess entered, just before the door slid shut again. She walked down the hallway. The walls were dirty, formerly white and bathed in fluorescent green.

That's all I've got so far. The problem is I don’t really care about the plot. I just wanna make jokes and write dialogue. That seems like it could be an impediment to writing fiction.