EAGLE 5 LOG #0002: Operation: Save the Hair — I Mean, Heir

To my faithful audience, the watchdogs, whistleblowers, and washed-up wanderers — you’re in good company now,

They say war never changes. Neither does showbiz. And today, I find myself somewhere between both, reporting from the back of a Winnebago rocketing through space like a flying RV-shaped middle finger to subtlety.

Originally, I’d hitched a ride with the infamous rogue duo Lone Starr and Barf to get the inside scoop on galactic corruption—namely, the sauce-stained trail left by crime boss Pizza the Hutt. It was going to be a hard-hitting exposé: crust, grease, and payoffs. But then, mid-approach, our mission got hijacked by a desperate call from King Roland. His daughter, Princess Vespa, had been abducted. Suddenly, my investigation into criminal cheddar laundering was shelved, and I was embedded with two space cowboys gearing up for a royal rescue. I assume she’s in distress, although no one has let me see the actual transmission. Standard embedded journalist protocol? Unlikely. More likely: galactic chivalric tradition wherein outsiders must prove their worth through silence and awkward hovering.

Eagle 5 is on the move. I’m wedged in a fold-out jump seat between what I hope is a life-support panel and something labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.” Lone Starr and his canine co-pilot have retreated to the front cabin, where plans are being hatched. Or scrambled. Possibly poached. The rugged hero pilots like he was born with a joystick in one hand and debt collectors on his tail…or friend’s tail. His co-pilot, a half-man, half-dog named Barf, navigates like he’s got a sixth sense for snacks and sarcasm.

I overheard them talking tactics—phrases like “scan avoidance,” “visual approach,” and “if we clip a moon again, I’m not fixing the fender.” From the intensity in their tone, I assumed they were preparing for some kind of stealth-based infiltration. Turns out, they were just arguing over whether to approach Vespa’s last coordinates from the left or the “cooler-looking” angle. I hear someone say, “We’re gonna need fuel, fast.” And in that moment, I know—they don’t know, they don’t have the slightest idea how to pull this off.

Still, I took notes. That’s what professionals do.

Then came the moment that got my reporter’s glands tingling. One of them muttered something about “boosting the power just enough to jam their signals.” I began crafting a feature on radio warfare and interstellar espionage—until Barf pulled a jar of raspberry jam from the glovebox and slapped it onto a sandwich. That’s when I realized: I’ve got no idea what’s going on.

But that’s not going to stop me.

So here I am: still alive, slightly sticky, and absolutely committed to covering every twist in this intergalactic soap opera. Whatever happens next, you’ll hear it from me first (unless it’s dangerous—then I’ll hear it after, from a safe distance). One final note before I recharge my datapad with a suspiciously humming wall socket: I have begun sketching cover art for my memoir. Working title update—“Press Pass to Plasma Blasts: Dispatches from the Distant.”

Stay tuned. This space saga’s just warming up.