On the intergalactic station Malmorius, Jaspar the Terrible
feverishly prepares for the decisive attack.
Who knows where in the Central Desert of Athyria, Commander Z.
checks the converters one by one, the battery of star-cannon,
reversing the thrusters, planning the defense of the Planet.

These are the moments of unbearable tension, an uncertain hour
when the Universe strains at its hinges:
first Nestor Pentacephalus is fatally shot
(only three microns to impact but, unperturbed,
he keeps on playing the harmonica!),
the Boy and the Cowboy get blown to smithereens at the exact instant
when they succeed in escaping an ambush,
Z. cauterizes the stump of his left hand with a special laser,
Tifon, the ship’s computer and the Commander’s most reliable adviser,
is programmed to autodestruct.

Meanwhile, Medusa, the blonde with a Mohawk crest and golden breasts,
does her thing and manages to bring on a platinum platter
the head of Admiral Jaspar, who stammers he intended to live forever.
The Commander is dumbfounded and bows low to the ground
before the youthful warrior with unnaturally large eyes, her naked body
tattooed all over with written signs.

“You Athyrians have the gift of being preux no matter what,”
Medusa tells him, her voice rising and falling like a wave,
“even though you’re so obstinate in hiding your face under a visor,
even though you don’t have a heart in your chest and you don’t know
what a kiss is!”