CHAPTER 14
a Wager with Extraordinarily Off-Kilter Odds Elicits Enough Attention as to Shatter the Planetary Record for Most Teleportations in a Nanosecond
The crowd buzzed over the absurd wager. While trying to imagine the scenario of an intelligent Greeg, the circuit boards of many fine robots were forever liquefied. Things got way out of control when a random spectator phoned his debt counsellor to announce that Dr. Rip just made his most foolish bet ever. After that, word quickly spread that if you could make it to the Greeg cage on the 5th planet from Tralfar in the next half hour then you might also be retiring in the next two years. Cash-strapped clients swamped in debt (hoping to make a bet of their own) immediately flew into a frenzy of action. Many sought out the nearest teleportation booth. On particularly crime-ridden planets you could see line-ups extending miles into the horizon. The fugitives patiently waited in line for days. It is not difficult to muster such patience when you’re a guilty tax-evader scheduled for dismemberment.
Debt clients began to materialize all around the Greeg cage. They appeared in random locations, causing certain spectres to suffer the embarrassing act of Bodily Displacement Syndrome.
Rip let go of the Greeg cage and turned to face the ever-multiplying mob. He relished their attention, and was for once happy that a debt counsellor had been phoned. To add a layer of theatricality he paced back and forth in front of the cage. He tripped over a ledge and decided sitting down was the best thing for him to do at the moment.
“I see by the sudden appearance of so many desperately poor people that I have made a good wager.”
“I’ll bet you can’t teach a Greeg how to make a jug of frozen orange juice in six months!” screamed a desperately poor Snail-oid from the back of the crowd.
“Everyone listen here,” spoke Rip, “you hopelessly debt-ridden lot might as well teleport back to your places of hiding and await your inevitable dismemberment, because this particular bet is for my old friend Joe, and for Joey alone.”
Jim laughed at the thought of being Rip’s friend.
“What’s so funny?” asked Rip. “Is the bet too good for just you?”
“No, no,” said Jim. “You were right before. The bet was made to me alone. All these other leeches… I mean, all these leeches should just teleport out of here.”
Some of the leeches vanished. The ones scheduled for an earlier dismemberment stuck around, clinging to the hope of a life-saving bet.
“What say you, Johnny?” asked Rip. “Do you take the bet?”
Jim paused for effect. “I humbly accept your wager.”
“Ha ha!” laughed Rip, clapping his hands. “All we need now is a witness.”
“WITNESS!” shouted four thousand random members of the mob.
“I guess that's enough witnesses,” said Jim. “It’s an official challenge. You will acquire a Greeg, and within two years you will make it more intelligent and presentable than anyone here. If you do not, you will give me your priceless fleet of Obotron 7 space ships. I want all the windows scrubbed. And full tanks of gas too. I loathe hunting for investment bankers.”
“You know,” whispered Rip, “I think this might be my greatest wager ever.”
Jim thought he saw tears welling up in a few of Rip’s eyes. Suddenly a severed hand that had been momentarily caught up in a time-pocket flew through the air and smacked Rip in the face.
“I’ll leave you to the business of finding a Greeg,” said Jim as he walked off in the nearest direction away from Rip.
Once the autograph session ended and the crowd dispersed, Rip approached the Greeg-keeper’s tent.
“Ahem… hello?” he said as he parted the tent flaps. A rank stench emerged from within. Evidently Greeg-keepers don’t live much better than Greegs.
“What do you want?” snarled Reg.
“Haven't you been watching any of the events going on outside?”
“No… I’ve been in here watching my show.”
Rip looked around the tent and saw nothing on which a show could be watched. Not even an imaginary show like schmold TV. All that lay inside the tent were a few tables with dead things placed on top of them. Reg did very little in his spare time aside from eating the nearby population of Crabbits into extinction. Of their skulls he made tables on which to place dead Crabbits.
“You didn’t see the chaotic mob right outside your tent? I think we even shattered the planetary record for most teleportations in a nanosecond. You must have felt some of the land-quakes?”
“No, I’ve been in here watching my show, like I said.”
“I’ll fill you in,” said Rip.
He went on to tell a long rendition of everything that just happened. Being that it just happened, I’ll skip ahead. But know that Rip told the story with his usual eloquence and exciting flair for showmanship.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” laughed Reg. He banged his hands against the table. Bone fragments were scattered across the mud floor. “You can’t teach a Greeg anything! You can’t get them to be clean! You’ve surely lost your fleet of ships to this Elizabeth guy.”
“I disagree,” said Rip. “It can be done. I will transform a Greeg within two years!”
“What’s all this got to do with me anyway?” asked Reg.
“I need one of your Greegs. How else am I going to win the bet?”
“One of my Greegs?” asked Reg. His red eyes glowed darker crimson, as they were prone to do when he grew upset. “Not a chance can you have one of my Greegs! I’m barely getting by with the low number I have right now. I don’t even have enough for a double-digit orgy, and the tourists are only paying lots for the big group scenes. There’s no way you can have one of my Greegs.”
“Think of it like an investment. I’ll give you the Greeg back after two years, regardless of whether I win the bet or not,” lied Rip. “But imagine I do win the bet… you’ll suddenly find yourself in the ownership of an intelligent, clean and presentable Greeg. Never in their history have Greegs garnered those adjectives. Think of the rare attraction you’d have on your hands if you owned such a specimen. Tourists would flock from the farthest dimensions, even the invisible one, just to have a look at this Greeg. You could charge whatever you wanted for admission.”
Reg grew interested. “And if you don’t win the bet?”
“You’ll still have your Greeg back, after only a short two year rental period. And even if I don’t entirely transform the Greeg, I’m sure that in a couple years I can at least teach it enough tricks to greatly enhance your outdated show.”
“Hmm… I suppose the show is a bit outdated.”
“A bit? Are you kidding me?” said Rip, reaching the climax of his suave hustle. “The Greeg show is done. It needs something new. Everyone’s seen Greegs having sex, it’s just not that crazy any longer.” He couldn’t have been lying any more. Greeg carnivals were more popular than ever throughout the universe. Just not on the rundown, out-of-the-way planet Reg had chosen to live on.
The painfully slow cogs of Reg’s rotted brain began to turn. You could almost hear his thoughts creaking, like the sound of a thousand fingernails scratching The Floating Chalkboard of Elbereth (something that has actually been done, much to the chagrin of those now-deaf folk who forgot to wear earplugs while doing it).
“If I introduced something new to the Greeg show... I could get rich?” he asked.
“That’s right!”
Reg lingered over this incredulous thought. “I’ll do it!” he finally shouted. “You can have one of my Greegs!”
“You won’t regret it,” said Rip. “When can I take the beast?”
“Right away!”
“Good. There is only two years after all. But that’s still enough time.”
“I suddenly believe in you,” said Reg, feeling the stoned-like effects of Rip’s powerful methods of deception. “You seem like a creature of great intellect.”
&nb
sp; Dr. Rip T. Brash the Third was indeed a creature of great intellect, however this assumption would not have been made if Reg were a creature capable of the sense of smell, as ordinarily no creature of great intellect would have on their breath the scent of 12 Crammington Krish Fortinis.
Reg led Dr. Brash to the Greeg cage.
“You can have that one,” he said, pointing at Zook. “I have suspected he is slightly more intelligent then the other Greegs.”
“Why do you suspect that?”
“He bangs his face against the bars slightly less often than the others.”
Greegs & Ladders - By Zack Mitchell and Danny Mendlow Page 14
