“Baby, you and I don’t have enough time to see all the sights of the universe”, dismissed Delores Moon as I fumbled under the drive control panel of the Viceroy’s Elongi Special. Of course, she was right, but probably not for the romantic reasons I imagined she imagined. Our chances of getting away unvaporised were practically zero unless I learned to hot-wire this spaceship fast.

However, practically zero was considerably better odds than we had less than half an hour ago, chained together in the aptly named ‘death row’. (I appreciate that sentence requires some additional explanation).

Death Row is a grand name for the four shabby but overly secure cells hidden beneath the Viceroy’s palace in the sprawling market city of Beb Al’Shroud. A tiny rancid jewel of a planet in the local Muntap’s crumbling empire. (I say empire; it’s three planets and a moon, but who’s counting?). The cells are “secure processing” for anyone unlucky enough to get caught. From here, they will transfer us to something (perhaps ironically) called The Grand Court of the Free, where a Justice Guard will prosecute us for our crimes (even if nobody attending knows what they might be). Anyhow, anyone who has had a run-in with the paranoid Viceroy’s Royal Guard will tell you (if they can still talk) that the Guard prefers accidental death by beating over a traditional court system any day. Hence, the nickname for our current residence.

In fairness to the three enthusiastic guards who had recently processed me to the point of unconsciousness, I doubt legal proceedings could ever be their modus operandi. On reflection, it was probably the use of the phrase “Modus Operandi” that got me so righteously beaten in the first place.

I digress - let’s start with me coming around on the floor of my little corner of death row chained to a seethingly hot (in both senses of the word), Delores Moon.

“About time, sweat stain, I need to piss, and I can’t get to the can without you coming along”. She yanked up our hands joined in holy custody, to evidence her statement.

I shook my head to try to clear the stars from my eyes and the bells from my ears. That was a lot of information for a man lying on an unknown cold, slimy floor, nursing a mild concussion and a not-so-mild hangover.

“Won’t that ruin all the mystery between us?” I quipped, hoping to come off the rakish side of cocky. However, all I got for my efforts was a sharp tug, more rough stone floor and a forced landing at her feet whilst she perched upon our cell’s well-used throne. I attempted to sit up but found the boot she had planted on the side of my head, still attached to her foot, somewhat restricted my movements.

“Face down, eyes shut, no peaking b***h!”

It was at that moment, with my head squashed against the vintage piss-infused flagstone that I fell in love with Delores Moon.

I didn’t tell her; it wasn’t the right moment. Instead, I enquired about some basic where, what, whys to help me better understand our current conjoined predicament. Apparently, there had been a meeting of some minor activist group (there are several hundred in Beb Al’Shroud), which had been gate-crashed by some heavily armed opponents of this aforementioned unknown movement. Their bullet-focused arguments against this particular theological position aroused the interest of the punch-hungry local Guards, who welcomed the distraction from traffic duty with their usual enthusiasm. In the end, Delores and I were the only two people the honour guard had found still moving in the destroyed Ben Nova Souk.

“But that doesn’t explain why I’m in a cell rather than a hospital bed eating Grapes.”

“What the f**k are grapes.”

I knew it wasn’t necessary, but a part of me loves explaining obscure Earth cultural references to anyone who will listen. Delores didn’t love to listen, preferring instead to kick a compact collection of my soft parts while repositioning her undergarments. The sudden oxygen impasse this created gave me a galaxy of sensations, including stars and a brief but total blackout.

When I came too for the second time in ten minutes, Delores and I were in a more customary side-by-side configuration on the bench/bed. The handcuffs clanking romantically on the metal frame between us.

“Sorry,” we said together. This cracked the first non-violent smile I had seen on her face since we met. It was a beautiful, if somewhat metallic, grin, her full-set titanium grill glinting in the harsh blue cell light.

“I don’t much like cocky mansplainers, but… I didn’t mean to black you out again.”

“I get that a lot!”

Her brow furrowed.

“I come from a high Oxy planet, which means down here it doesn’t take a lot to send me to sleep.”

She seemed satisfied with the explanation. It wasn’t 100 per cent true, but I hoped it would do.

“I’m Delores, Delores Moon.”

“Hi…I’m Bernard St Clare.”

I wanted her to say “The Bernard St Clare!” but she didn’t, so we sat silently, contemplating our parents’ naming choices. Until our internal ruminations were suddenly shattered by the external screams of a nearby prisoner as he became intimately acquainted with the sharp end of a minor law or two.

“We need to get out of here”, I stated obviously.

“No s**t”, she agreed. We clearly had a lot in common, which was a real positive, considering how I felt about her.

Until now, I knew I hadn’t come across as the most capable short-to-medium-term prospective partner. However, I was sure my expertise in escaping near-death situations would impress me.

“Have you got a hairpin?” I asked in a wry yet knowing way, popular with criminal types the solar system over. She responded with a look so shaven and beautiful at the same time that I was forced to adjust my zero-G compression pants to make some room.

“Are you finished?” she rolled her eyes, with just a hint of intrigue… probably.

“Okay, no hairpin. Have you got anything sharp and metal?”

She spat her grill at me so fast it bounced off my jaunty moustache and landed moist in my hand.

“I assume you don’t want this back?”

“If it’s a choice between grill or life, I choose life”.

God, she is hot.

What I did next is not for the faint-hearted, so if you are squeamish, jump ahead a couple of paragraphs… look for the word lubricant…

Thankfully, Delores had invested well in her dental ornament, which was as sharp as it was strong. I like to think she was impressed more than grossed out when I used her incisors to sever my left thumb from my hand.

“What the actual…” she thanked me as my now defunct thumb slopped to the floor. Her mouth remained open as I slid my reduced fist through the cuffs, thanks to a good squirt of red sauce for lubricant.

It didn’t stop bleeding. I offered up the blood-covered mouth knife.

“Are you f****n’ ill or something?” she spat whilst pulling away from me so fast she nearly banged her head on the ceiling.

“Cloth?” I whimpered.

Thankfully, she was a doer rather than a thinker. She tore the lower half off her shrapnel blouse, revealing a custom Hericulian Anti-Stab bra underneath.

“Nice bra”, I quipped as I wrapped the fabric around my mutilated hand, making a bloody glove.

“Don’t get creepy…” she snapped.

“Or handzey?’ I joked, waving my remaining four fingers.

My brutal act of denturation finally broke the ice, and she cracked a metal-free smile that I will never forget. Now, finally connected we took a moment to check out the cell.

“No windows.”

“No air vents or grates.”

Delores stood up so fast that I’m not proud to say I flinched in fear, but her energies were focused on our front door, which took the brunt of an elegant rattle-and-kick manoeuvre. The door rang like a Beadles bell, warning mourners that a twin box of tortured space heroes was getting delivered very soon.

“Worth a try,” she shrugged.

“Worth a try,” I smiled, “No obvious route out, so what’s left that can be moved or used?’

If you are enjoying this story, please share it.

A second scan culminated with us both staring at the still-warm throne in the corner.

I clapped my hands in that overly optimistic, “Let’s get a chivvy on” way, much loved by harassed mothers of toddlers the universe over, followed by a jovial “One way in, one way out!” for good measure.

Delores, wiped some inadvertant blood splats from her face and scowled at the nominated obstacle to our freedom. Perhaps hoping her furrowed face would have the same effect it would in any bar in the universe and make the toilet f**k off and leave her alone.

“Seriously?”

“It’s the only way,” I said.

“You’ve done this before?”

Big question. It made several assumptions that would be critical to address if our escaped-based romantic partnership was going to work. Firstly, the truthful answer is no, and as far as I’m aware, nobody has done this before. However, as a lover of all things vintage Earth, I had seen an ancient movie or two, and right now, a scene from a comedy called Trainspotting was forming the foundation of my plan.

“I know a guy; he told me about a guy who was in a cell with a guy…”

(I know, I’m lying… it’s a habit when I’m with a beautiful woman).

“Cut the crap.”

Poor choice of words, considering how this plan begins and ends!

“It’s only held down with a couple of bolts at the back”.

“What the f**k are you? A space plumber?”

This hurt my feelings a little. Firstly, it sounded like being a space plumber would be bad; Secondly, being a “space plumber” made no sense. You can’t plumb space; it’s a vacuum; why would you put a vacuum in pipes? Where is it going? Who’s it for? I’m a plumber who “works in space”, a very different beast. Again, I chose to hold my inner monologue in situ and