(message: Gee, all of a sudden the engines have grown quiet. Boy, you sure were zooming along for quite some time.) (message: Of course, the zooming part is over now since you've run out of fuel. You'll just float along on inertia with no control of your attitude or destination.) (message: Yep, you're still drifting hopelessly through space. Bummer, eh?) (message: Hunger grows to a level where your body decides to start feasting on itself. In your last conscious thought it dawns on you that navigation of some sort might have been a big helper here.) (still shot: The Grim Reaper holding Roger in his bony grasp. message: The pain fades away along with any sense of belonging to the community of the living. You powerless pod drifts through space for eons, eventually being plowed by some primitive deep space probe. Knowing that your insurance deductible was much too high anyway, you gain a new appreciation for death.)

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