It started innocently enough—with Bazook accidentally vaporizing a moon shaped like a shrug.
While trying to dodge a floating existential tax audit, he pressed the wrong lever and reduced an emotionally symbolic lunar artifact to fine dust and mild guilt. Deborah 7.1 reported, "Captain, the moon's emotional weight exceeded safe sarcasm levels. Destruction was inevitable." Bazook shrugged. The irony was not lost.
Moments later, the Ethics Committee arrived—thirty-seven crabs in judicial wigs, scuttling in perfect formation. Their leader, Justice Snapmander, spoke via claw-language, interpreted by a groaning Carlton wearing a monocle and holding an emotional tambourine.
"Captain Bazook," Snapmander clicked, "you are charged with reckless lunar unshrugging, unauthorized sarcasm deployment, and aggravated metaphor abuse."
Bazook attempted self-defense by quoting ship bylaws. The crabs hissed. Carlton sang a folk ballad titled "My Claws, My Conscience," which distracted the committee long enough for Deborah to initiate Protocol 9: Bureaucratic Looping. Everyone was forced to fill out infinite ethics forms, including existential questionnaires about toothpaste brand loyalty and betrayal dreams.
Vicki the Croissant attempted to bribe the crabs with morally ambiguous butter. It worked briefly, but one crab converted to gluten-free zealotry mid-meal and began reciting the Ethical Muffin Manifesto.
Bazook, cornered by crustacean guilt and his own accidental poetry, finally broke down and admitted he once named a rock "Mom" just to avoid therapy. The crabs wept. Snapmander declared: "True remorse smells of regret and citrus."
The committee dissolved into interpretive sand. Carlton was awarded temporary crab citizenship. Bazook received a legal slap (emotionally binding). Deborah began writing crab fanfiction. Vicki stole a monocle and vanished again.
A message arrived: the emotional moon's fragments had formed a support group. Bazook sighed, "I really need fewer metaphors."