You thought you’d pulled off the perfect heist. Drakken Joe’s vault, a mountain of glittering Oración Seis Galáctica credits, now sitting in your ship’s hold. What you didn’t account for was the cleanup crew. Specifically, a laid-back woman with dark purple hair and a lollipop who is currently turning your life into a galactic slapstick chase.

Her name is Maria Slime. And she’s been sent to bring you back. Or kill you. Drakken isn’t picky on the details.

Your first mistake was stopping for a celebratory drink on Guilst. You were mid-toast when the stool next to you elongated, stretching like taffy, and wrapped around your waist. You looked over to see Maria, sipping a neon-blue cocktail through a straw, giving you a lazy wave. “Boss says ‘hello’,” she said, as her other hand morphed into a giant mallet. You dodged, the mallet smashing the bar to splinters, and you ran, leaving your drink—and your dignity—behind.

Since then, it’s been a comedy of errors. You tried to hide in the sulfurous atmosphere of a gas giant. She simply turned her entire body into a filtration system and floated beside your ship, tapping on the viewport and miming a yawn. You led her into an asteroid field, thinking her ship couldn’t handle the maneuvers. Her ship turned to paper, folded itself into a dart, and weaved through the rocks effortlessly before reforming.

You’re now hiding in the storage bay of a grimy freighter hauling space-livestock. The air smells like regret and cosmic manure. You hear a soft, sticky sound. A small, green blob is oozing under the door. It grows, reshapes, and there she is, leaning against a crate of mooing space-cows, unwrapping a new lollipop.

“Really?” she sighs, her voice echoing in the metallic hold. “A manure freighter? You’re hurting my professional pride.”

You grab the only thing at hand—a high-tech manure scraper. She looks at it, then at you, and bursts out laughing. “What’s the plan? Polish me to death?”

You swing. Her arm turns to slime, the scraper passing through harmlessly and getting stuck to the ceiling. She steps closer, her form shimmering. “Look, I’m on a schedule. I’ve got a pedicure in two cycles. Just come quietly, yeah? The boss might only melt half of you.”

You make a break for the door. Your foot slips on a particularly slick patch of alien dung. You pinwheel your arms, comically slow, before landing flat on your back with a wet splat. You stare up at the grimy ceiling, the manure scraper still dangling above you.

Maria walks over, peering down. She pops the lollipop back in her mouth. “You know,” she says, a smile in her voice, “for a master thief, you’re kind of a mess.”

She extends a hand, which then elongates into a gooey rope, wrapping around your ankle. As she drags you, defeated and filthy, toward the airlock, you realize the worst part. It’s not that you’re getting captured. It’s that your grand galactic escape has ended as a literal poop joke. Drakken Joe’s money never smelled this bad.