Monday, July 23, 2012

Chapters Eighteen and Nineteen

Chapter Eighteen
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“Who the hell,” said Pamela, staring at her device, “Is Post Dramatic Test Syrup?”

“A-ha!” said Bleeekxpritzle “Cheerio!”


“Leggo my Eggo!” A tentacle whipped out and snatched the device away from her again. The Admiral checked her latest facebook comments.

  Corey Bigjohnson Givner 
  u scaning barcodes?? hahahahahahaha! 

  Pamela Baker 
  i h8 u all. im going to die bcuz u all suck. :(

  Fanita Whelming 
  ha ha h ah a! wtf! lolz

  Post Dramatic Test Syrup:
  DcV  fR4% # )( 3d55g67nu7 tGbHnY6  &uJm  ;P0_[cvz“
Kgf ED# $5  6kj  ^b^&ToOoB7t 2wp[poh  fd3  2 ][o)  {[likjyg  t%6j  $E#7  ,ostyo  Pf
36t367 2490-98763691 8908652b3908091 635781670 97231e8963 891 69083 6871 643zz560913

“Well then.” said the Admiral. “Buck up, little beavers! The cavalry’s a-comin’.”

* * *

Chapter Nineteen
All Around The Kitchen, Cock-a-Doodle-Doodle-Doo

All around the lower part of the Detex Chamber; beyond the enmoated pedestal, the uni-horned Tweeporan personnel were growing louder; more animated, and they were drifting toward the only visible entrance to the place; a pair of massive double doors, fitted with portviewers, chittle bars, multi-locks, bio-coms and optical recesses [A full explanation of these features can be found in appendix II of this book which will be included only if you purchased the full-price version. You can also verify that this is the full-price version of the book by observing the title of chapter eighteen. It should read To The Rescue. If it reads something completely asinine such as Flying Tickle Dumplings or All Around The Kitchen, Cock-a-Doodle-Doodle-Doo, then you are one cheap bastard and it’s no wonder the author is poor].

Sir Admiral Premier Gleeg Bleeekxpritzle, Fifth Colony of the Twin Dwingeloo Galaxies Federation and his five fellow prisoners; Bill Blake Senior, Mickey Mouse, Bunny McRascalrabbit, Philbert Dickerson and Pamela Baker, now became interested in the brewing commotion and found themselves standing upright on the great pedestal on which they were stranded, watching the big doors to see what was happening or about to happen.

Several of the aliens were armed with staves and one of them approached the great doors and held forth his or her staff. A section of one of the doors then became blurry, swirling into a spiral pattern. That precise circle then faded away like kettle vapour, leaving an opening through to the next chamber.

A great jumble of voices emanated from the space beyond the opening. To the earthlings they sounded like English though they could not assemble enough clearly-heard words to devise any meaningful content. Suddenly a bare foot appeared in the portal followed by a leg in black trousers and then the full body of Bruce Willis, chauffeur (of no relation to Bruce Willis, the Hollywood actor) was stepping through the hole, a giant super soaker squirt gun carried in both hands. He waved it around wildly.

“Back off!” he yelled as the Tweeporans began to close around him. Some jumped back. Some laughed uproariously and some edged closer, as if to egg him on. Behind him the sudden portal began to fill with the horsey faces of other Tweeporans; those of earlier acquaintance with Willis; also known as Cake man. And some of those faces were smeared with soft serve ice cream. There was altogether a great clamour of voices which might have been amplified through terror or hilarity or the full gamut between for all the pedestalled humans could interpret.

Mr. Willis wore a grim tight-lipped expression as he pushed through the crowd, waving his gun. It seemed some kind of schoolyard game or a running of the bulls with Tweeporans dancing out of his way but some daringly returning to his path. Several of the more persistently daring personnel were shot in the head with some white stream from the gun and none of those seemed to mind too much.

Willis glanced twice at the pedestal prisoners before calling out to them. “Come on! We’re getting out of here! Follow me!”

Bleeekxpritzle and Philbert looked at each other, then down at the moat of no return and then back at Mr. Willis. The Admiral shrugged his shoulders.

“You know this guy?” said Philbert.

“My chauffeur.”

“This is the cavalry?” murmured old Mr. Blake.

“Hardly,” said Bleeekxpritzle.

Finally Willis charged through the crowd screaming, “Ten…! Forty-six…! Twenty two…! Hut hut hut!” A path opened for him but barely wide enough as he raced toward the pedestal and then spying the chasm for the first time, skidded to a barefoot halt at rather the last second. “Yippers!” he screeched; staring wide-eyed into his deep near-doom. He then spun around to face his adversaries who were now ecstatic with wild chattering. Only Bleeekxpritzle knew this for certain to be a bout of riotous Tweeporan laughter.

“Come and get me, y’all long-faced bitches!” Willis cried. “We’ll all go down together!”

An unusually straight-faced soldier then separated himself from the crowd, stepping forward with a staff in hand. “Copacapocabingo!” he hissed.

“What do you want!” cried Willis.

“Copacapocabingo!” cried the Tweeporan with additional urgency.

“Speak English, turd muffin! I know you can!”


“Bingo this: B-fourteen, fucker!”

The soldier responded with a great sweep of his staff which, though without making contact, seemed to be the cause of Mr. Willis, super soaker and all, being launched through the air and over the channel to come crashing down onto the pedestal. He landed on his side with a tremendous “Oooff!” as his great plastic gun flew from his hand and slid across the pedestal’s surface to its rimless lip. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaa

[Editor’s note: That last bit was written as the author dozed off to sleep in his chair. How he shifted case right before the end is a mystery we are still working on. The offending sleep-blurb, as well as this explanation, will be edited out of the full-price version only.]

While thirteen eyes watched the weapon sliding toward certain long-haul dropitude, it was only Bunny who sprung into action. With a giant hop she landed on one big rabbit foot, bringing the other big rabbit foot down on the gun, trapping it at the edge of the pedestal.

“Well done!” cried Philbert.

“That’s my lucky foot,” the rabbit offered, with a shrug.

Admiral Bleeekxpritzle loomed over his prone wincing chauffeur. “Oh Lucy,” said the Admiral grimly. “You got some splainin’ to do.”

“You look well and intact, Admiral. Thank goodness I arrived on time!”

“Don’t play the slippery eel with me, driver!” gurgled the admiral. Your absence at the very moment of the attack against me did not escape my notice. The implications are ever abundantly clear!”

“What!” said Willis; aghast.

“Book him, Danno!” said Bleeekxpritzle. Everyone looked about to see who he might be referring to, but nobody stepped forward to claim the title, Danno.

“I came to rescue you, you fat tub of green ungrateful goop.”

“Oh really? With this?” A hip tentacle fired out and returned with the super soaker wrapped tightly. “What is this; ice cream? Did you suppose you were rescuing me from a small child’s birthday party? Where were you when the shit hit the fan?”

“In the men’s room.”

“For so long? Did you have a digestion issue?”


“Plop plop fizz fizz?”

“Unbelievable. I risk my life for nothing. I even brought you strawberries.”

“You sold me out and then the Tweeps no doubt betrayed you. Now you run back to me for protection.”

“I’m going back to driving rich kids to school. If I get out of this mess of yours alive.”

“Wait! What did you say?”

“Lazy rich kids-”

“Did you say strawberries?”

Willis slowly climbed to his feet. “I figured you’d all be hungry. And I know how much you like strawberries.” He dug into his pockets and pulled out handfuls of them.

“Oh!” Bleeekxpritzle blurted. “Gads, but I’ve misjudged you!” He gently picked a strawberry from his open hand and ate the barest nibble of it. “Mmmmm,” he swooned. “But I do love these so. They’re just like chompberries back home but without the eyes and teeth. There’s no greater delicacy in the universe!”

“Did you say eyes and teeth?” said Pamela with a look of horror.

“Indeed,” said the admiral. “They’re very difficult to pick. You have to sneak up on them. Hence the prohibitive price tag.”

The others, all hungry, gathered around and ate strawberries. The admiral used the gun and squirted tiny ice cream toppings on each of them. At floor level the Tweeporans mostly went back to their nondescript and ambiguous work.

“Did you happen to bring any tea?” asked Bill Blake Senior.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“How did you lose your shoes?” asked Philbert.

“Oh, I always perform rescues barefoot given the opportunity,” said Bruce. “I need to feel the earth - or the floor; really feel it. You know? It’s a cosmic, Karmic, Zen kind of thing.”


“Will you ever forgive me, Mr. Willis?” said Bleeekxpritzle.

“Already done,” said Bruce. “But I have failed here. However will we escape now?”

“There is hope yet,” whispered the admiral. “Just hold tight.”

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen
Special Delivery

Two pink-haired Tweeporans stood at the inside of an exterior door, armed with staves.

“What is he doing?” asked Companion Frabbbles

“What is he doing?” said Companion Spish, but with his finger in his ear. His eyes shifted. “He’s just standing out there pushing a button over and over?” He started to remove the finger but then thrust it back in his ear.  “What does the button do…? Nothing?” He turned to Companion Frabbbles. “Nothing.”

“Perhaps it’s a doorbell for the grocery store,” said Frabbbles.

“Good thinking.”

Frabbbles opened the door. “Hello, who is it?”

The man was barefoot and clean shaven with black suit pants, white dress shirt and three-tone blue visor. He stood behind a two-level plastic cart loaded, apparently, with cakes. “Delivery,” said Mr. Willis.

Frabbbles and Spish exchanged glances.

“Delivery for the cold department - ah - fridge department - dairy. Dessert department that is. Dessert Manager. Cold room. Cake aisle” He nodded and smiled. “Cake counter.”

“Do you have the appropriate documentation?” said Spish. He glanced at Frabbbles and shrugged.

“Of course,” said Bruce. They all continued to stare at each other. “Oh - I mean - well, not on me. Not on
my person. It’s all in the truck.” Frabbbles and Spish looked expectantly out into the yard. “Oh, the truck broke down - a few blocks away. I didn’t want this stuff melting while I - while I waited for a replacement vehicle so I just - you know - humped it over.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Spish.

“Humped it over?” said Frabbbles.

“It’s electronic. They’ll fax it - the documents - email - from the bakery. Dairy, that is.”

“Okay,” said Frabbbles. “You may leave it with us.”

“Oh. No - ah. I have to - you know - stock the - I have to inventory… the merchandise. I have to merchandize. Plan-o-gram. Quality control.” He nodded toward the long dark hallway behind them.

Frabbbles and Pish - wait a minute. Who the hell is Pish…? Spish. Sorry. Frabbles and Spish gave each other a look. “Very well,” said Companion Spish. The two backed apart and away and Willis smiled and pushed the cart over the threshold.

He started down the hallway, taking a good look around; especially at the looming darkness above. “I see you’ve been up to some renovations. Nice. Real nice.” The two sentries followed Willis along the hallway; featureless but for the subtle tiny rainbow undulations in the rubbery surfaces of the floor and walls.

He came to a fork in the passageway. The right fork curved away to the right; the left curved away to the left. Bruce looked back at his escorts. They offered no suggestion. He took the right path; following it’s curve to the right until he came face to face with two sentries identical to the others in every way.

“All done?” said Spish. Mr. Willis frowned. He looked behind him and saw the original fork he’d been earlier confronted with.

“That’s impossible,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?” said Frabbbles.

“Nothing. Sorry. I - I forgot something. One moment.” He turned the cart around and took the left passage this time. It curved around seemingly ninety degrees to the left but yet he came face to face with the two sentries again.

“Okay?” said Frabbbles. “All done now?”

“Sorry. No. I got turned around by mistake. I stopped to tie my shoe.” He then remembered he was barefoot and rolled his eyes ever so slightly. He then backed away from them slowly, keeping the cart between his feet and their eyes. When the curve of the path took him out of their sight he reached down between the two shelves of the cart, brought out a magnificent yellow and blue super-soaker toy which he had so recently purchased for his son and which had miraculously survived the class nine Zan-wave laser attack, and he abandoned the cart, striding backwards down the curving passage. Then he turned and ran…

… Right into Spish and Frabbbles of course.

“Dammit!“ he cried. “Okay! No more funny business!” He raised the super soaker, levelling it at one sentry’s head and then at the other while serving them each a menacing look.

“Is something the matter, cake man?” said Frabbbles.

“No more fun and games, Horsey Boy!” said Willis. “Where are the prisoners!”


Bruce shook the giant gun furiously. “Don’t be cute with me, fucker! I will blow you to bits and pony pieces! Now where are they!”

“What’s that thing loaded with?” said Spish.



“Nite!” blurted Willis. “Kryptonite!” Frabbbles and Spish looked at one another. “Liquid Kryptonite that is!”

“Sorry, cake man. I have an itchy ear.” Spish pushed his finger into his ear. “Say again; what’s in the gun?”

“Liquid Kryptonite. Kryptonite plasma!” said Willis.

Cow’s milk and sugar for the most part, said the voice in Spish’s ear. Same thing’s in the cakes.

“What is it you wish us to do?” said Spish

“Take me to your prisoners!” said Willis

Put him in Detex One, said the voice.

“Right!” said Companion Spish. “This way, then!” He and Frabbbles set off down the right-hand fork and Willis followed.

“That’s right, my little unicorndogs,” Just cooperate and no one gets hurt.”

Somehow the passage did not pull its little roundabout trick this time and the trio emerged into a wider hallway with small workstations along one wall and several white-haired Tweeporans standing around in conversation. Wide metal grates lined one wall about nine feet high.

“Nobody move an inch!” Willis shouted, “Or these guys get vaporized! Not an inch!” The spectators all remained in place and silently watched the trio go by.

“Are we still on for lunch, Frabbbles?” said one of the standerby Tweeporans.

“You want lunch-frabbles!” Willis shouted, pointing the super soaker now at the speaker. “I’ll give you lunch-frabbles! I’ll give you lunch-frabbles right up the wazoo! With a side of Kryptonite plasma! Is that what you want, Mister Ed!”

The speaker frowned and gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

“Yeah sure, but I might be just a bit late,” said Frabbbles, coming to a stop.

“You shut UP!” screamed Mr. Willis, shoving the super soaker up against Frabbbles’ cheek. “Or so help me!” In his excitement, Bruce pulled the trigger just a tiny bit and a little squirt of Queen O’ The Dairy soft serve oozed out on to Companion Frabbbles’ face. It trickled down to the corner of his mouth. “Okay - that - that’s not the Kryptonite there! That’s the bit that comes out right before the Kryptonite! You got really lucky just there! That’s like - the seal. That’s what that is. It’s a new cartridge. You get it?”

“It’s tasty,” said Frabbles.

“Never mind! Just get moving. Get moving now! Take me - you know - where we’re going. Don’t say it out loud though.”

“Pluck a solar-pigeon. It really is tasty. Spish, you got to try it.” The three began moving again. A wide door awaited them at the end of this narrow room.

Spish suddenly halted. “I refuse to obey your commands, cake man!”

“Move it!”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Move it or die!”


“I swear to Jehosifats! I will kill you where you stand!”

Spish stuck out his tongue. “Your mother was an army boot!”

“Fucker!” Willis cried as he sprayed soft serve all over Spish’s head. The Companion dodged about trying to catch the stream in his mouth. Willis finally stopped and backed off a step. He was red-faced and seething with rage.

“Oh my sugar-blossoms!” cried the goopy-white-faced Spish. “It’s delicious! It’s fabulous! Oh yum!”

Willis looked about wildly, trying to think; trying not to panic.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Spish suddenly wailed. “It burns! It burns!” He dropped his staff to the floor and clutched his throat in both hands and made a serious of squorking and snorfelling noises as he slowly sunk to his knees. “I’m dying! Errrrrrrrrrg!”

“See!” cried Willis, pointing the giant squirt gun back at Frabbbles who stood frowning at his dying partner. “Now get moving or you’re next! MOVE IT!” Frabbbles backed away toward the door as Willis followed, his gun pointed at the sentry’s head. “Through the door. NOW!” Frabbbles touched his staff to the door and it dissolved away like a passing rainbow. The two exited into another featureless rubber hallway and the door rematerialized behind them.

Spish then burst into laughter and so did all his peers as he picked up his staff and regained his feet. “It really was delicious though!” he said.

“Did we get the recipe?” someone asked.

“Central Scanning will have it.”

“What was that thing?” said another.

“Earth monkey, I think. Or a human maybe.”

“Human,” said Spish.

“Wow. They’re weird!” said another. “Kind of creepy.”

“Well, they don’t get out much.”

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Hard to resist

I got sucked into a Sushi night with fellow gluttonnoshers Captain Vino, Empress of Catan, Ghost Whisperer and the Freckled Banker.

We ate scads and scads of sushi, faux sushi, miniature steak dishes and shrimps of every description.

We talked about the prices of things. We offered amusement over re-configured pop culture sound bites and cute giggly sex-puns and - that's really all. And then we paid the bill - or so we think.

I recalled the Steward of Gondor gobbling his feast while the sons of Gondor marched to their deaths.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Chapters fifteen, sixteen

Chapter Fifteen
Pest Control

“Captain, you’ve got Officer Fryppr on C-2,” said Fleaman Gaakk.

“Who? Fryppr?” said Vaugnobbler. The Ouija cube floated between them unobserved. The two each had their noses in separate Earth magazines.

“Maintenance,” said Gaakk.

“Seriously?” The captain fingered his ear. “Go for Vaugnobbler.”

Captain, this is Officer Fryppr; maintenance.


We’ve got a stray human on the Tesseract Deck.

Vaugnobbler slapped the magazine closed and rolled his eyes. “Go on.”

That’s all, Sir.

“That’s all?”

Yes Sir.

“Maintenance Officer Fryppr, are you aware that I am the captain of this ship?”

Yes Sir.

“Well, Obviously then, I’m not the snork-piffling extermination department, am I!”

No Sir.

“Then why are you calling me!” Vaugnobbler made exasperated eyes at Gaakk who shook his head in disgust.

Well, Sir, I’m sorry Sir. It’s just that - it’s in such close proximity to the Dwingeloopian prisoner. I thought it might be of critical - ah - sensitivity.

“Dwingeloopian? What are you talking about, officer!”

In the detex chamber?

“How would a maintenance officer possibly come to know anything about detexees? Such information would be privileged and confidential, would it not!”



I don’t know anything about - I mean… Um…

“Officer, is there an exhaust port nearby your location?”

Yes, Sir.

“Blow yourself out it.” Vaugnobbler rammed his finger into his ear and changed the channel.

Detex One. Go ahead.

“Captain here. Get me Officer Szhueeszscheezse.”

He’s in his quarters. Shall I-

“Get me the duty officer, then.”

One moment…

Go for Acting Officer Mythros.

“Vaugnobbler here. Are you aware of any stray human in the Tesseract?”

Yes Sir. We’re tracking it. We believe it was a third party incidental in the restaurant extraction. We don’t believe this guy knows where it is. It might even be a transient. It has no shoes. Shall we exhaust it?

“Where is it now?”

One moment... Ah - it’s at our back door, actually.

“No. Leave it be as much as possible. Just observe. Prepare a full report on its actions and have my secretary file it some place where I’ll never come across it unless I get really fucking keen. Is that clear?”

Of course sir.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen
Net Working

“Dammit!” said Pamela, staring at her personal device.

“Losing at Bubble Poker?” said Philbert.

“I’m not playing games, loser! I’m trying to get us rescued!”

“You’re not actually online, are you?”


“What!” said Bleeekxpritzle. “You’re on the interwebs?”

“I think so. But facebook is the only site that works.”

“Let me see,” said the Admiral. One of his tentacles swiped the device from her grasp in the blink of an eye. He looked at the web page.

Pamela Baker
help! call FBI & CIA. Im trapped in piggly wiggly at n. broadway & chester. aliens r goin to kill me. not jking. hurry!

  Felicia Cairns
  WTF?? LOL!!! to much tekila last nite @ jj!! lolz!!!

  Brittany Boucher
  lol!!! wtf?? jenfer rat u out agn???

  Corey Bigjohnson Givner
  hey pampam got ur nelk nbmic wtf??? lol!!!

  Pamela Baker

  Dawnella Jackson
  u 2? lol!!!!!! call me L8er

  Ken Fayer
  by me sum chetos thx

“What language is this?” said the Admiral.

“Duh! English!”

The Admiral looked again. “Curious dialect, this Duh-English. Still, there’s something rather dysfunctional with these people, isn‘t there?”

“Hey! Those are my friends, ass hole.”

The Admiral began adding a new comment to the page. “Don’t delete this, whatever you do.” When he handed the device back, Pamela looked and saw this:

Pamela Baker: 1QaZxSw@  3E  dCvFr$5TgBnHy  ^7 UjM,Ki*9Ol<.:p)-k{ITYD‘?\}  =3898hgU
B09 eDu5Glty7676   !qAzXs  W2#eDcV  fR4%tGbHnY6  &uJm  ;P0_[cvz“ Kgf
ED# $5  6kj  2wp[pohfd32DFjkPpk jDEDeY|  234\9 \7654|#rfHJ3  6  76 #k8^%o6o  yC34v5&

Pamela heaved a long sigh.

“Is something the matter?”

“My friends are going to think I’m a moron.”

“That’s nice. If you get any more comments, let me know immediately.”

Sunday, July 08, 2012

Chapter fourteen... the plot revealed...

Chapter Fourteen
A Sad State Of Earthly Affairs

“What’s going to happen to us?” said Pamela. Tear tracks lined her cheeks.

“Us meaning this group here or your human race?” said Admiral Bleeekxpritzle.

“The human race,” said old Bill Blake.

“I meant me,” said Pamela.

The Admiral looked at each of them in turn.

“Don’t you think you owe us an explanation,” said Philbert as he approached the group. Bunny and Mickey sat huddled together about fifteen feet away. The pedestal’s diameter would afford no greater separation.

The Admiral’s three eyes seemed to examine each of the three humans individually. He nodded. “I suppose I do. You deserve to know for what you are paying this price. Though I can not promise you’ll find any of it believable.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Philbert, looking around the strange cavernous room. “My horizons have been somewhat widened today.”

“Very well,” said the Admiral. “I’ll be blunt. Your race of humans is the most notorious in the universe. You are infamous. There are more than nine billion super-intelligent civilizations in the O.U.C.H. and all but one-”

“O.U.C.H.?” said Philbert.

“The Official Universal Community of Humanoids.”


“And all but one civilization is united in wanting humans exterminated.”

“Ouch!” said Pamela, frowning.

“Was it something we said?” asked Philbert.

“Basically your essential numbers are just way out of whack,” said the Admiral.

“Our essential numbers?”

The Admiral nodded. “Your procreation and territorial sprawl rates are out of control; right off the charts. It’s like all you humans want to do is screw and travel.”

Philbert shrugged. “Is that unusual?”

“More importantly your Blyxwhipple Ratio is two thousand and eighty nine to one favouring technological evolution to evolution of consciousness. Two thousand and eighty nine to one! It’s the worst ever recorded.”

Philbert frowned. “Exactly how bad is that?”

“Well, the second worst Blyxwhipple Ratio in the history of the universe was three to two. And every other intelligent species in the universe has evolved in favour of consciousness.”

“Pretty bad then.”

“Practically inconceivable. God knows how you’ve managed it.”

“How the hell do you measure something like that?” said Philbert.

“Easy. They just examine a package of standard possible evolutionary milestones. You’ve got nuclear bombs, automobiles, alarm clocks, the Nazi holocaust and two thousand and eighty five other atrocities versus… Woodstock.”

“What’s Woodstock?” said Pamela. The Admiral shook his head sadly.

“I’ll explain later,” said Philbert.

“Your Gazoo Equation is running an even fifty-fifty and the crux is drawing near.”

“What does that mean?” said Philbert.

“It means that your chances of self-destruction versus PTA is an even shot. And you’re not far off from doing one or the other.”

Philbert sighed. “PTA? Parent Teacher Association?”

“Post Terrestrial Ascension. What it all adds up to is this: By intergalactic standards you are at the eleventh hour. You’re either about to kill yourselves off through native resource depletion-slash-destruction or you’re about to make the interstellar leap, continue to furiously multiply and swiftly deplete the resources of the entire universe and kill us all. Understandably, seven hundred million trillion responsible universal citizens would prefer to limit your options.”

“By blowing up planet Earth?” said Pamela.

“Goodness child, of course not!”

“How then?” said Philbert.

“Oh, probably just a few covert interventions to ensure you stay on the wrong path. Divert your remaining major oil reserves to make them more accessible to you. Bankrupt the U.S.A. and, if necessary, any other nation that threatens to sufficiently back a useful space program and that would pretty much clinch it. You’ll have the biosphere destroyed in no time at all, with nowhere to go. You’ll be extinct and the universe will be safe from an incurable plague of zombies and psychopaths.”

“Oh please. You flatter.”

“Is anyone on our side?” said Pamela.

“There is a very slim majority, in just two galaxies in the entire universe, who would prefer another solution: To, in effect, make Earth into a stable but guarded asylum, so you could rot here indefinitely without threatening the rest of us; a position of extraordinary generosity if you could manage to see it from our perspective. They are the Twin Dwingeloo galaxies. That is who I represent.”

“Wait a minute,” said Philbert. “Why aren’t we part of the Official Universal Community of Humanoids?”

“It’s only for sufficiently intelligent humanoids. If it’s any consolation though, you’re current intelligence ratings place you high enough you’re on the official watch list for possible promotion.”

“Well this is all bloody insulting.”

“And so are your dolphins, actually.”

“Dolphins? They’re on the list too? Seriously?”

“Very much so.”

“How far behind us are the dolphins?”

Bleeekxpritzle winced. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re ahead!”

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“The dolphins are ahead of humans! They don’t even have feet! Okay, wait now! Wait. How can humans not be part of a group whose very title includes the word humanoid! It comes from the word human!”

“The actual word is not humanoid, Philbert. I’m translating all this into English in case you haven’t realized.”

“Oh,” said Philbert. “Damn. I guess I should have figured that out for myself.”

The Admiral shrugged.

“We really are stupid, aren’t we?”

“Hey now, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll always have Woodstock. Oh, and facebook.”

“Facebook?” said Philbert.

“The other reason humans are infamous. There are tens of trillions more users than Zuckerburg knows about. If he was getting the royalties he really deserves, he could buy half the Milky Way.”

“Mister Bleek - ah - I mean, Admiral?”

“Yes, Pamela?”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“Oh, you’ll just continue to graze and die as always. You’ll be completely unaware of the existence of extraterrestrial intelligences and their covert tinkering with various cause-and-effect mechanisms here on Earth or that your ultimate destiny is controlled by powers you have no means to relate to. And if by some miracle you start to evolve consciously and your Blyxwhipple Ratio reverses, well, you might one day be invited into the interstellar community and learn how to live meaningful lives. There’s always hope, I suppose, slim as it may be.”

“No, I mean… what’s going to happen to us - here on this pedestal?”

“Oh. Well, personally, I’m up the creek, frankly. They will certainly assassinate me. But there are others who will carry on with my work. The rest of you will probably be let go after your memories are erased; once they realize how dumb and inconsequential you all are.”

“Thank goodness,” said Pamela. “I feel so much better now… I think.”

“Actually it would be less trouble for them just to cut you all loose in a 4D exactor loop. It wouldn’t cost them a single Unero and you’d never get out. To a 3D creature it would just seem like an eternal empty labyrinth. You wouldn’t age but you’d eventually die from the consequences of extreme insanity.”

Pamela and Philbert looked at each other.

“Yeah. Now that I think about it,” said Bleeekxpritzle. “I’m sure that’s what they’ll do.”

“Couldn’t you - I don’t know - call someone? To come rescue us? Your green alien friends?”

“Got a telephone?”

“Yes!” Pamela pulled a device from her pocket.

“I’m kidding. It won’t work here.”

“It’s always worked in grocery stores before.”

“Darling, we’re on a spaceship; not in a grocery store.”

Pamela pushed a couple buttons and held it to her ear. She frowned, hit a couple more buttons and listened again. “You’re right. I cant get through to anyone.” She sat and fiddled some more.

Saturday, July 07, 2012

Chapters twelve and thirteen

Chapter Twelve
A Trip To The Grocery Store

“Well, that’s enough diplomacy,” said the Scorekeeper when finally he settled his laughter. He turned to his octet. “Bag them.”

His accompanying footmen then poured into the dining room with their staves held forth and with them shot streams of energy at the Earthlings and the Dwingeloopian. Each of the targets immediately then found themselves in very awkward positions; each cradled tightly into some kind of individual energy sack. They then found themselves floating through the air in this highly uncomfortable manner, seemingly directed by the staves of the Scorekeeper’s soldiers. In this manner they were delivered down the curiously quiet and empty street to a Piggly Wiggly grocery store which appeared to be most normal and open for business, though with no staff or customers present, according to the view through the great front windows.

But once inside they found the landscape not remotely in line. The environments within were dark with walls and floors all bearing a rubbery look and with colour patterns, if one examined closely enough, resembling the rainbow effects in the surface of an oil and water mix. No ceilings came into view, but only a yawning darkness above.

They saw dark rooms and dark halls; gates and grates and sturdy vault doors, and everywhere these unicorn people in military style uniforms.

Still they floated seemingly at the direction of the soldiers and now they entered an enormous chamber where they drifted toward a great pedestal surrounded by a circular channel offering no view of a bottom. The six captives passed over this pit with varying degrees of terror and alarm and once above the pedestal, were unceremoniously dumped onto its surface. Bill Blake Senior, by design or otherwise, landed squarely on the very pliant belly of Admiral Bleeekxpritzle and was thus spared any breakage of old bones.

The six found themselves sitting up and observing their surroundings. Beyond the moat-of-sorts several single-horned blue-haired Tweeporans sat at workstations or some things of that ilk, some singularly; some in pairs.

The teenager in Pamela name tag and golf shirt, now hatless, looked around, giggling in a soft way. She then lay down on her side, closed her eyes and went to sleep. Somehow her chewing gum had migrated to her shoulder.

“Is she okay?” said Bleeekxpritzle.

“I gave her Valium,” said Bunny.

“Is everyone else okay?”

The others looked wearily at the Admiral.

“Well I for one,” said Mickey, “Couldn’t be better. I am having the adventure of a lifetime. I am so delighted that Green Goblin here has dragged us into this monumental shit storm of fucked-uppedness, well, I could just shit golden butterflies! All of the thank-you cards in the world can not express how ecstatically grateful I am. Thanks Shrek. Thanks so much. And if there’s anything I can do for you in return - hey - don’t hesitate. You know what I mean, pal?” He glared at the Admiral, his ear-do so canted it looked like it was about to fall off his little mouse head.

The Admiral stared back at him calmly. “You seem so much more sincere on TV,” he said finally.

“Blow me,” said Mickey.

The Admiral pursed his great wide lips and blew.

“Whooah!” cried Mickey as the gust pushed him, flailing and hollering, almost to the edge of the pedestal.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen
Bathroom Hog

Bruce Willis (of no relation to the Hollywood film star) sat on the bathroom floor, his cheek firmly against the door. When all had been silent a short time, he untied his dress shoes, removed them, and his socks, and then quietly slipped out the door to find the ruined dining room empty of life. Through the wide window openings he spied a strange entourage of fifteen individuals moving down the street; six of them curled like macaroni noodles and floating through the air; the others horned, with staves and long flowing hair. He watched them proceed to the grocery store and enter. He nodded thoughtfully.

He turned and began searching what was left of the ice-creamery. The glass doors had been shot out of the wide upright freezer but the multitude of ice cream cakes within appeared relatively intact. He nodded at this. He found Pamela’s visor on the floor behind the counter and he put in on his head, ditching the chauffer cap. He tried the door to the back area and was appropriately surprised to discover the gaping black void instead. Another door, however, revealed a large closet interior which was still intact. A great slop sink was there and a cleaner’s cart and mop bucket. He nodded again.

He pulled the car keys from the pocket of his dress pants and proceeded carefully; alertly out to the remnants of the limousine. The trunk had thoughtfully been blown open for him so he put the keys away. The large box within had been badly charred by laser fire but he ripped it open and discovered that very thankfully, the gift he’d procured for his ten-year-old son was perfectly intact. Bruce surrendered a half grin as he peered inside the box.