Earth only ever had one thing to recommend it, and that was a century gone: the words and musics of W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, those fine ancient gentlemen, perhaps the only ones who really understood a sailor's lot. With masterpieces such as The Pirates of Penzance and HMS Pinafore, they inspired you and all of your comrades, who banded together to become The Space Pirates.
Misunderstood, that's what you are. It's not as if you ever set out to hurt anyone -- just rob them a little. Nor was even the money the real point of the task (it isn't as if it was ever that good). The adventure -- ahh, that's really what sets your heart afire. Chasing down a fat liner, or a slow frigate. Setting out the boarding tubes, and then jumping aboard, sabers in hand. And then -- then singing to the lucky crew and passengers with those sacred tunes of Gilbert and Sullivan. Not that any of them truly appreciated it as you can. And if a few of them came out a little less intact than they began, that's the price of keeping the universe an interesting and musical place. Not that you kill anyone in cold blood; the only deaths have been in honorable duels.
Life was fine and grand for years, until he came along. The slick bastard, out to destroy all that is good and right in the world. The anti-Sullivan. Elvis.
The Space Brigade wasn't really much of a problem for you until then. Oh, they'd chase you around, and try to capture you a little, but they understood the game. Sometimes you could even get them involved in a good rendition of Penzance, with a dramatic inter-ship chorus. But then they brought that terrible interloper in. You remember the terrible day clearly, when you opened hailing frequencies to taunt the Brigades as usual with a rousing chorus of "We Sail the Ocean Blue". But instead of the usual banter, that noise came out of the speakers! That was the day you were first All Shook Up, and it has just been downhill from there.
(The worst is the knowledge that it is partly your own fault. The last time you arrived on this world, to pick up fresh scores of Pinafore, you accidentally capsized a bunch of rafts, from some Indian tribe floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. You've gradually pieced the story together: the Space Brigade followed after you had left, to investigate the matter, and stumbled across this fat, drunken singer. He was recruited to the Brigades, and immediately began to make your lives hellish.)
The old game has been replaced by an endless chase. You still manage to find the odd ship to loot, and people to sing at. But they are all taken with that hideous Earthling, and those obscene gyrations of his, and the artificial tones of that thing he calls a guitar. And meanwhile, every time you so much as appear in the open spacelanes, he is there, attempting to shoot you down. Bloody snot-nosed kids, with no conception of what real music sounds like...
Finally, a few months ago, insult was added to injury. Your ship, the Pinafore, was flying nearby, being chased by Elvis' flagship, when it was suddenly buffeted by a bizarre turbulence filling hyperspace. By the time you had figured out what was going on, it was too late -- your ship had crashed, hard, on this world. The report came in then: there were not just one, but two Vortices of Chaos active on the silly planet! What would possess a race to play with forces so powerful and uncontrollable is beyond you, but the fact was there -- it was the simple force of syncronicity that forced your ship down. And synchronicity it was, for this was the world that had bred both the divine Gilbert and Sullivan, and the demonic Elvis.
Time hasn't improved the place. Not only have most of its inhabitants forgotten the true music (philistines!), but they have turned Elvis into some sort of religion. It seems like, no matter where you look, there is someone preaching about him at you. It's all you can do to keep from breaking down and sobbing out a ballad. To console yourselves, you have adopted the guise of a wandering Gilbert and Sullivan troupe, which is rather more socially acceptable here than out in the Galaxy at large. (Demonstrating that Earth has something to recommend it, at least.)
You haven't been idle while here, though. Before the crash, you were able to get a fix on the Vortices; you and your crewmates tracked them here, to this hotel, where both of them are present. It was clear that something would have to be done, before you can escape this mudball's gravity. Fortunately, it seems that fate has taken a hand in matters: one of the Vortices, surrounding a fellow by the name of Jeff Diewald, has just dropped dead. (Sometimes synchronicity can be a good thing.) That just leaves one, in the form of a lady named Gail Peck. It isn't clear what you can do about this -- it isn't as if you could simply go and kill a woman, after all. But you are all keeping an eye on her, and seeking to cool off the Vortex that has drawn so many threads of synchronicity to this place.
There are things worth doing here, though. You have been hearing remarkable rumors for several months now, about a mysterious "Wonder Spatula" called "Flippy". The Earthlings seem to mostly regard this as a matter of humor and silliness, but you are all very intrigued. Deep in the mists of time, the Galactic Republic was originally forged with the aid of a wondrous artifact known as Flippitatus, described as an object of awe and wonder. Flippitatus was lost thousands of years ago, in the destruction of the planet Lemuria. Is it possible that this "Flippy" is, in fact, Flippitatus, in the hands of people who have no idea about its power? Legend says that the return of Flippitatus would presage a new age for the Galaxy. If you could get your hands on it, it is hard to imagine what you'd be able to do, since it is perhaps the only universally-recognized symbol of authority. (Order the Galactic Broadcasting Service to begin regular G&S performances, to start with...)
Also, another possible treasure (at least to you) -- you've heard rumors about some sort of game called "Jolly Roger", which enhances the telling of tall pirate tales around the grog late at night. Sounds like something to track down...
Meanwhile, you need to keep yourselves from going mad, what with those preachers of the Church of Elvis on every corner, and all these other bizarre groups filling the place up. And some sinister-looking types have been stalking you, for reasons that are unclear. Sometimes it's hard work, trying to stay normal in a crazy world...