“Tonight we gather to honor one of our members who is retiring today. Harold has been with the ship for 50 years. Come up here, Harold,” said Captain Bog.
Harold, a small hunched man in overalls, shuffled forward.
“The cannon Harold’s munition bay feeds has-” Captain Bog stopped as he was interrupted by a small cough from Harold.
“What’s a cannon?” Harold asked.
“...A warship’s gun, Harold.” Bog replied, confused.
Harolds face twisted in horror.
“They told me I worked at an off planet assembly line for spaceships,” Harold said and then clutched his chest in pain and died, mortified.
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