This prayer does not not translate well into your tongue. No need to to bother trying to comprehend it. The important thing to know is that a monk, the very spiritual and holy and graceful devoted [INVALID] Giritude wrote it out with found trash and rocks one evening on an arid plateau, on the planet C7-423^|-8| [also registered as Ipenachar in your primitive file system]. The "prayer" art is custom or tradition of sort, important to Giritudee's mind and core.
Locust-munchers love to perform rusty, elaborate spiritual installations in remote locations. TP4NAHSARC[H+] (The People's 4th and a half Settling Algorithmic Roaming C[H+]urch had stationed these fine sets out here to get wasted on asteroid juice-pill supplements and reflect on the
After the ground began to quiver and shake, Giritudeee crawled back to the campsite, through the thicket of watermelons and abandoned computers. Fixing its eyes, Giritudeeee recalibrated its goggles and asked Monk Bee-Sci-rab [[Note: Organic pronunciation included]] for the safety analysis report that him and the others had been running while Giritudeeee fashioned their prayer.
"Eject the anal, need to review the particulars of this plateau and the thousand plateaus nearby.
Be|Sc|R|b "smiled" back.
A loud green beep marked the area safe. The frozen watermelon dwelling the monks had constructed would do.
The crowd met around a bench and a risky game of gambling began. As monks, it was theirs [sic(k)] duties to entertain themselves with innocent games.
Pills popped, syringes stinging, and pathogenic files on hand, an exciting and violent night began for these several locust munchers.
Giritudeeeeee was "high" as a satellite and the gambling commenced (no trumpets needed).
One chip. Two chip. Three chip. Five.
[Chips are preferred as to prevent unlawful play.]
Giritudee loved its stims and monk parties. The legendary monko-parties and festivals was half the reason she left behind the lucrative chocolate grass growing business her cell was battling for control over for, behind.
Clank clank clank clank clank.
Chips like rocks, disregarded socks, Giritudee system in shock as the pile of chips nearest to Giritudeeeeee begins to shrink.
All but Giritudeeeeeee knew how to cheat at this simple game and had arranged a plan to swingle G-E out of the funding brought with them to C7-423^8|-8| [also registered as Ipenachair in your primitive file system]. The devilish plan of these holy locust-munchers was to strand G-E2 with only (them)selves on the plateau eventually, planning to do so so soon that they never bothered to even run a real anal.
Chips were swallowed up in the pan and Giritudeeeee found broke. Lost hand after hand of Texas Holdem, was about to bet their hand and lose another hand.
"That's my last," squealed Giiritude, barely managing to contain its anger and restrain tear ducts. The table crowd hollered and called off the game.
"That's it."
"Beginner's luck!"
"Damn you guys!"
No sooner had these words been broadcasted did a cacophony of now-melted watermelons rain upon The Crowd.
Captors crushed, bar the drunk passed out beneath the bench, Giritudeeee realized their freedom and seized the opportunity. Pausing to reflect, they thanked stims for saving them and stupidly injected another shot ot tequilla into their breathing apparatus.
The prayer had worked? Party hard?
Giritudeeeee sensed intervention, scooped the chips off the bench pan, and retreated to the plateau they had spent the better part of the day at, in order to hide their winnings lest the traitors stire. Giritude reached the Temple Mount and dropped to eat the ground and thank the soil and The Inventor of The Original Stim. They figured some sort of Inventor existed and that is was necessary to thank them for their assistance.
The burial of the chips was painfully slow as Giritudeeee was stimmed to the max and was too afraid to retreat to the probably-collapsed shelter and find a shoveldrill. Pushing dirt and moving rusted mtetal, cutting up its greedy paws, G worked for a period of about three hours.
Halleujuah! Giritude drunkingly radioed the zooted monk, who then awoke to find the mess. The zooted had the doxa to pop a stabilizer and turn off the stims, then discovered the tragic death of his comrades. Realizing Giritudeeeeeeeeeeeee was not fit for murdering the others, the monk flipped on his sobering-googles and recalled the fake anal. They should have performed real anal. Cursed his breathe.
G-3's forgotten foe followed footsteps to the plateau and spotted thems digging. Watched the chips shoved in the freshly dug hole.
Sneaking up behind, the monk's stablizer dosage and google settings calibrated, he shoved the alien into the pit and began spraying fumes from his vest, christened a gas chamber.
Careful fool that he was, his readings lacked soil analysis and his boots gripped too hard, causing him to join Giritude in the chamber.
Neither possibly posessing the power to overpower the other, the tiredness and gas forced them to shove themselves into the dirt. The freezing soil's tempatures could be felt through their armor.
Giritude, brilliantly deciding to pop out while the gas lingered and attempt another hole, kicked their murderer in the head, goggles sputtering and spitting and removing protection from the human's eyes, crucifying the poor Judas.
Giritudeeee survived. Saved by stupidity and stims and blessed by the strange colors found in the soils and suits on the sphere.