The twentieth-century reader, mind poisoned by the fantastic science-fiction of television, might wonder why there are so many bullets, and so few blasters, phasers, masers, lasers, light-sabers (sorry, Mr. Lucas) or other futuristic weapons in this sequence.
The fact is, bullets are incredibly versatile. Stunners are often easy to shield against, and on board a space station or space craft heavy energy weapons have an annoying tendency to breach the hull. Bullets, however, are nearly perfect.
Narrator:There is, in countless variations of the gunslinging mythos, found scattered all over the galaxy, a recurring archetype. It is the "Bullet with your name on it."
Doctor:They've got the Captain! Open Fire!!
Der Trihs:They're shooting in there!
KFDA commando:We're being attacked! Return fire! Return fire!
Narrator:Hundreds of bullets fly right now: Only one of them has an inscription, written by the hand of destiny.
Narrator:So, while the mercenaries and the foodservice commandos unload clip after clip of ammunition at each other, we will meet this archetypical slug, this chambered round of fate, this ballistic dum-dum of doom. . .
Tagon:Cease fire! Cease fire!!
Narrator:It begins as an ordinary bullet, sitting on a standard gunfoam� propellant casing.
Schlock:Stop that! It's really annoying!
Narrator:To the naked eye, it is no different than any of the ninety-nine other rounds it was packaged with.
SFX:(Schlock diving) LUNGE
Narrator:But to those with psychic sight, or a really nice UV lamp, it is startlingly, no, frighteningly different.
Schlock:Back at'cha, baby!
Narrator:Fair reader, can you read this psychic inscription? Do you dare scry the bloody hieroglyphs?
Breya:Get down! Get do--
Breya:Get help! They've shot
Narrator:Certainly you saw this coming. . . Now tune in tomorrow.