“Who are you?” asked Rip and Wilx.
“We are the ghosts of the Obotron Crew Members,” proclaimed the ghastly voices. “We have banded together in the invisible dimension, where we are better known as Algreenian-Fog Specters. We have returned to the physical dimension to exact our revenge on these careless fools who used us, who murdered us, for nothing more than their silly games and whimsical wagers. By infiltrating the highest ranks of Kroonum Law Enforcement, we are now ready to do what most dead folks can only dream of. We are going to put the very cosmic dirt bags responsible for our death on trial!”
“No wait! I’m not one of them!” I cried out. “I’m not immortal at all!”
“Errrr…” began Rip.
“Well… that’s not entirely true, persay, any more,” said Wilx.
“That longevity formula you injected in yourself was kind of a bit more of an… immortality formula.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Congratulations!” said Rip. “It means you’re the first ever Greeg to become immortal. You also won me this nice pile of invisible money by not having your internal organs burst into ice flames as soon as the formula hit your bloodstream, as Wilx predicted would happen.” I finally understood why Rip had been holding his arms outstretched like he was carrying firewood.
“Yeah, we’ll be confiscating that,” said the former Obotron Crew members reincarnated as judicially vengeful Algreenian-Fog Specters. “Now get your ass into the courtroom. The judge awaits you.”
Windy gusts began uncomfortably tugging, pulling and prodding us out of the cell and into the courtroom.
“I still can't understand what would drive you to have such a lack of emotions and care for the consequences of your actions,” I said to Rip as we walked the long glass tubeway leading to the courtroom.
“Boredom, you will learn,” Rip said matter of factly, “is the most torturous thing that exists.”
We entered the courtroom.
“Hello again,” said the judge.
“Hello Reg,” said Rip. “You probably want your Greeg back now don’t you?”
CHAPTER 34
The Trial
It’s true.
Reg, my former carnival Greeg-keeper, was now an official first-rank judge for the Kroonum Courts of Law. I suppose that’s justice. Or not.
Reg was still very much a scary goblin-like creature with fangs and claws and red eyes, yet in recent years he had somehow succeeded in making himself far more frightening. I think it had something to do with the black hooded robe he wore whilst perched atop a throne made from the skeletal fragments of the convicted. He was the embodiment of fear, so much so that hundreds of film scripts were being pitched to Reg on a daily basis, all of which requesting he fill the inimitable role of the Grim Reaper. Thinking himself too short for the role, Reg had yet to reply to any of the filmmakers. He was also worried his carpel-tunnel syndrome would prevent him from being able to hold the heavy scythe prop during tedious hours of re-shoots, as there were sure to be reid was show up on set and improvise some of his characteristic creepiness. Nowadays his name frequently tops the charts of magazine polls concerning topics like “the scariest movie villain of all time and space” and “the #1 cause for sleep deprivation amongst children.”
This all happens, of course, in another dimension where Reg is not dead by the end of this novel.
Reg had only earned the status of a Kroonum judge because of the illegal wrangling and bribery performed by the Algreenian Fog-Specters.
The Specters did not want Reg to become a film star, so they filled his mind with all sorts of ideas to cause low self-esteem. For the success of the Specter's revenge plot it was imperative that Reg stay in the courtroom. Algreenian Fog-Specters (or anyone else that is dead) are unable to perform tasks on a physical level, hence the reason they didn’t just kill Rip, Wilx and I and call it a day. They are, however, adept at using their mental prowess to influence the actions of the living. The Specters ensured our judge was someone who personally hated us, so that we would be sentenced with the most brutal of verdicts regardless of the evidence. Reg had been promised several million dollars worth of invisible money that he would never see, literally or figuratively.
It is good that Specters cannot personally harm anyone. Many specters are dangerously angry about being dead. They cannot control their jealousy towards the living. Their scene usually degenerates into a violent revenge plot. Reg was now in control of our fate. Each unappealing scenario seemed to cancel out the last.
“I said you probably want your Greeg back now don’t you?” repeated Rip.
“No,” said Reg from his skeletal perch. “I have hundreds of Greegs locked up in the chambers. That doesn’t mean I feel any less angry for being ripped off.”
“But this Greeg is intelligent,” said Rip.
“And immortal!” added Wilx.
Reg was thoroughly against the idea of an immortal greeg. “Who wants an immortal Greeg? My favorite part of Greeg-keeping is watching them drop dead from the slightest of parasitic infections. And besides, once he's intelligent doesn't he cease to be a Greeg?”
“Great question,” said Rip, sensing an opportunity for stalling. “Let's debate that with lengthy philosophical discourse.”
“Why don’t we get started with the trial instead?” suggested the Specters.
Reg pounded his gavel. It shattered into fine crumbs.
“Why has my gavel shattered?” he angrily bellowed.
“Er… it is made of Crabbit skulls?” replied a Specter.
“So? I make everything out of Crabbit skulls.”
“They have weak bones, your honor.”
“Why do they have weak bones?”
“I believe it comes from a dietary deficiency of vitamin A.”
“Why are Crabbits so low in vitamin A?”
“We’ve recently figured that out, your honor. It seems Crabbits follow a strict diet of cannibalism. The only thing they would be caught dead eating is each other.”
“And?”
“Well… Crabbit meat does not contain vitamin A. Therefore if you only take sustenance from Crabbit meat you will merely continue to weaken yourself. Itquests for many unneeded hours of re-shoots made by the group of perfectionist auteur student filmmakers busy competing for the honor of directing Reg's first Vehicle Movie. Reg was unaware that height is now a minor inconvenience solved by the art of trick-photography, and that his scythe prop would be made of feather-lite styro-foam.
Reg eventually accepted his calling as an actor. He would go on to star in countless blockbusters. Only he wasn't acting. He played himself in every film. All he d is one of those annoying Catch-22s. The evolutionary cycle of the Crabbit has long been disastrous... a story of ill-fated choices, mutated genes and easily broken bones that is rapidly reaching its necessary crescendo. I expect the Crabbits will have killed themselves off within the next few seasons.”
Reg pointed to a group of Specters in the far corner. “You! Go out and present alternative food to the Crabbits. I want this cannibalism stopped immediately. And then introduce a source of vitamin A into their diet. I’ll not have their weak bones causing my brilliant inventions to shatter so easily!”
“I protest, your honor,” replied the specter. “Doesn't it seem right to let the Crabbits die off naturally? I don't think the Crabbits will respond to other food anyway. They are not forced into Cannibalism. Apparently there is an abundance of natural food surrounding the Crabbit population, yet they choose to dine on each other based on palette preference.”
“Palette?” asked Reg.
“You know... taste, texture, consistency. All the factors that determine a meal as good or bad. I personally died before ever having tried them, but I've heard Crabbits are superb.”
Reg pondered. He did not like the taste of Crabbits at all. The only food his species enjoys is Gahooleb. On Reg's home-world, the only place where Gahooleb can be harvested, it is merely the word for 'f
ood.' It is a demonic sustenance not entirely dissimilar to Schmold, a gloppy green sludge that isn't properly defined as either a liquid or a solid. Most creatures would be horrified to find it resting on their dinner plate, and further horrified to find themselves stone-dead after having been curious enough to taste a tiny morsel. When an open container of Gahooleb is mixed with the wrong planetary atmosphere it turns into pure sulphuric acid, which incidentally has no effect whatsoever on Reg's digestive system or general health.
“Besides,” continued the specter, “We can't introduce Vitamin A to the Crabbits. We've not got any reasonable source of it at the moment. All we've really got is dead Crabbits.”
“Then go find some milk or something!”
“No milk-producing creatures on this planet at all, your honor. Probably explains this whole dilemma.”
“I have an idea,” I said, butting in.
“Silence!” shouted Reg.
“It's just I think I can fix your problem somewhat effortlessly.”
“Every minute of our time you waste is another year of imprisonment I will add to your sentencing. Now explain your plan with meticulous detail.”
“Brown-noser,” whispered Rip. I ignored him.
“You see,” I began, “I have for a considerable amount of time lived on a world that was overly abundant in milk. You wouldn't believe how many milk-producing creatures freely roamed about the surface of this planet. These creatures were called Mammals. Of all these mammals, humans were the only ones who drank the milk from a different mammal. Some mammals produced desirable milk for humans. Others produced milk that for humans to consume would be considered a gross offence. The centrepiece of the desirable milk-producers was a quadruple-stomached creature known as a Cow. A blundering beastly sort of animal. So many humans wanted cow-milk so regularly that it only made sense to take full ownership of the Cow species. It was decided to transform the Cow from a creature into a tool of productivity. Once institutionalized within a cramped environment of dim lighting and abrasive mechanical structures, Cows soon lost their zest for life and became indiscernible to the eye from a clunky scattering of assembly-line equipment. They even lost their ability to speak, not that anyone remembered how Cows had once amused the world with their whimsical coffee-table anecdotes. The only word from Cow language to have survived in their brains was the resonant “Moo!” The Cow's word for the most rudimentary and primal verbal expression of emotional displeasure, similar to the universally accepted form of protest via loudly yelling 'Boo!' Anyway, in my time on this planet I sought to preserve certain alien rarities that I thought were worth preserving, one of which was a few hundred gallons of milk. Of course, at this point, Cows milk had become advisedly indigestible due to a few generation too many who indulged themselves in scientifically tampering with the hormones of the already sufficiently naturally-functioning system of the Cow, in hopes of greedily producing 'Super-Cows' that pumped out more milk than ever thought possible. Quantity over Quality was the popular motto of the era. Any semblance of nutrition had been genetically modified right out of the cow. I didn't see the logic of it being preferable to have 1000 gallons of rotten milk as opposed to having 10 gallons of good milk, so instead I acquired milk from one of the surrogate producers, an organically fed, free-range, non-genetically tampered quadruple-legged beast of the Capra-Hircus genus, otherwise known as a farm goat. This milk has survived my travels, and is laying dormant in the deep-freeze section of our spaceship. I have kept it's presence unknown by the rest of my party, for any liquid material that finds its way onto our ship is usually immediately consumed in a marathon of manic alcohol-brewing experimentation. I donate this milk to the courtroom, should it heighten our chances of leniency.”
Reg did not at first reply. Often he appeared to not be listening. He was in fact doing more than listening. He was reading. Whenever someone says something lengthy or above his intelligence level, as in whenever someone speaks at all, Reg is forced to observe the words as automatically printed out to him by his desperately needed Smart-into-Dumb Translator. This gadget also provides Reg with a suitably intelligent example reply that he does not always choose to follow.
“You give milk? We feed to Crabbit?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I said.
The previously chosen Specters were sent to round up the few hundred gallons of milk from our ship. As part of their courtroom duty, Specters are given the ability to physically move items of low weight through the technological aid of telekineto-beams. They are only able to move what Reg instructs them to, otherwise they would have just tossed a grenade or two in my general direction and retired to the afterlife.
“I can't believe you gave away all our milk,” whispered Rip.
“You didn't even know we had it in the first place,” I replied.
“Exactly!”
“Shall we continue with the trial?” urged one of the Specters.
“Yes,” said Reg. “Wait. No.”
“No?”
“I’ve not got my plate of Crabbits. How can I expect to be cruel and heartless without some dead flesh to toy with? Someone get me a fresh plate.”
“Right away, sir.”
A Specter promptly vanished from the room and returned with a tray of Crabbits. Reg took one look at the plate and threw it against the wall.
“What is this?” he angrily shouted. “Where are all the bones?”
“These Crabbits have been specially de-boned for you, sir.”
“What for? Everyone knows I collect the bones for making furniture and other useless doohickeys with. It’s the only reason I kill these things. They taste like band-aids.”
Rip looked confused.
“What’s a band-aid?” he whispered in my ear.
“Something you would need wrapped around your brain, if they made them small enough.”
“We thought it would be a more pleasant dining experience without the bones,” replied the specters. “You’ve been rapidly losing teeth from biting down on sharp fragments. We thought you’d like to retain some teeth for the purposes of eating. It is another annoying catch-22.”
“If Crabbits have such weak bones, then why are they causing my teeth to break?”
“Your weak teeth has something to do with a lack of vitamin A in your diet.”
“Why aren’t I getting any vitamin A?”
“All you eat are Crabbits. We’ve just gone over several times at length how Crabbit meat contains no vitamin A whatsoever. This is all overly simplistic.”
Reg looked infuriated. “Is my whole life just made up of catch-22’s?!”
“It seems so.”
“Then somebody get me some of that damn milk!”
“Right away, sir.”
A Specter frantically floated off to get some milk. He momentarily returned empty-handed.
“There’s no milk left, your honor. It’s all been taken down to the Crabbit beach, at your recent request that we introduce a source of vitamin A into their diet.”
“Well then get down to the beach and bring me a Crabbit that has ingested milk.”
“Ok,” said the specter as he headed to the beach. He again momentarily returned empty-handed.
“Sorry, your honor. It seems the Crabbits don’t like milk. The ones who tried it were instantly putrefied. The rest then knew to stay away.”
Reg slammed his fist down, shattering the table and spilling his drink onto the crowd. Some of it splashed onto Rip’s arm, causing his skin to slightly bubble as if the drink had been concocted from pure sulfuric acid, which in fact it had.
“Ok,” said Reg, feeling a little better after his violent outburst. “Let’s carry on.”
“May I have a glass of water?” asked Rip. He was desperately hoping to stall the trial in any way he could. The ingestion of water is actually lethal to Rip’s internal organs, but he had learned about the diversion tactic of asking for a glass of water many times in American movies with trial scenes or police interrogations.
Other than his familiarity with dramatic courtroom movies, Rip didn't know anything about America. The reason he even knew about those movies was because they are the only human achievement to transcend the barrier between planet Earth and Rip's own home planet. American trials were so compellingly dramatic to Rip's people that they henceforth made it the basis for their own legal courts. Not because human legality was considered efficient or fair, but simply because all the shouting, crying, cheating, gavel-banging and opportunities for rousing speeches, applause, more crying and other histrionics were about as entertaining as justice could get.
“What the hell is water?” asked Reg.
“Fair enough.”
The lights were dimmed. The compilation disc of ambient courtroom music was ritualistically stomped on. The broken disc was then swept up and thrown out the window. The wind sent the shards drifting into the open door of a nearby apartment, where someone with too much time on their hands spent years inventing the technology capable of repairing the disc. Once finished, this person was severely disappointed to learn the disc was a mediocre compilation of ambient courtroom music. The mysterious character then shattered the disc and proceeded to fix it all over again, just for something to do.
The fragments of the broken Crabbit gavel were also swept up. The trial had officially begun.
“You three are on trial for the reckless crashing of a space-ship into the surface of Lincra, the most popular planet in existence. How do you plead?”
“Guilty by necessity,” replied Rip.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. “They’ll have us chopped up and made into tables or something.”
“Ssh. They already know we did it.”
“Guilty by necessity?” asked Reg.
Rip stood up. “Yes. We had to crash that ship. It was a clear case of us or them.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well… it’s a long story. But while my friends, I mean acquaintances, and I were exploring Lincra, our ship was descended upon by savage thieves who stole our fuel. We didn’t notice we were out of fuel until we’d already flown away, and by that point it was too late. Fumes allowed us to take off, but the instant we reached orbit it was clear we were about to crash back into the surface of the planet. So it was us or them. We were forced to drain the fuel out of one of our fleet ships, and if that meant the fleet ship would then in turn be the one to crash, well, so be it.”
Greegs & Ladders Page 15
