Try to do all of them. Here’s my take:
Gregg Grimmsby, special agent Space FBI, stumbled out of his space cabin with a space mug of space whiskey in his robot hand. The sound of laser battles throughout the rocky landscape had woken him, and he put his hand up to block out the light from the binary suns as he squinted across the horizon.
The iridescent, crystalline landscape went on for miles, but he saw no sight of the battle. “Oh well,” he grumbled, “time to go get some space herbs.” He took a few steps forward, only to see the ricocheting light bounce off several canyons in the distance before turning through his torso. He fell to the ground, killed instantly.
Gregg shot up out of bed in a cold sweat.
He looked out to the corner of the space cabin. It was Agent Slater, his longtime lover and boss. He was shirtless and standing in the light of the multiple moons that illuminated the room from the window.
“Come over here and kiss me, you son of a bitch.” Grimmsby growled, growlingly. And as Slater approached, Grimmsby woke up again. This time he was in a hydrotank, surrounded by doctors monitoring his vital signs.
“Fuck, not again,” he blubbered underwaterily, in the water.