“Enough!” yelled Fralgoth. “Pass up the beard or die.”
“You won't kill me. We mentioned that.”
“Wrong. I can have another replica made if I need to. It's just really expensive.”
“No you can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because Broog is dead. No one else but him could recreate the perfection of the replica. And without perfection nobody will believe you are Commander Flook.”
“You lie! Broog is alive!”
I had no idea. I had only just recently heard of Broog, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
“It's true. Flying grimbat messengers delivered the news this morning. Have you heard of Grimbats? They're one of the rare beings who can honestly claim to know everything about everyone. It takes a special class of busy-body. The messengers announced that Broog, the legendary disguise-artist best remembered for his baffling yet insanely entertaining publicity stunts, was found lifeless in his summer cabin on Grelk, the planet made of tar pits. Amazingly his death was not related to the fact that he lived on a volatile planet made of tar pits. Everyone told him he was crazy to build a summer cabin there, or to go there at all under any circumstance for even the briefest of moments, but he persisted in his steadfast manner of illogical rebellion. It had long since been assumed that Broog would perish from drunkenly walking into a tar pit in the middle of the night, yet I heard he was killed by the government or overdosed or something. Or both. That's how a lot of them go. Artists, I mean. Governmental assassinations or overdoses. Or both. Didn't you know?”
“I don't believe you.”
“Why not?”
“You added way too much detail. Broog's never even been to Grelk. I've read all his books.”
“Worth a try.”
“I'll give him a call, to make sure. Got his business card right here. Carrying Broog's business card is what defines a person as a great thief, and only the greatest thieves escape imprisonment.”
“So you don't need skill in stealing? Is that what you're saying? Whoever is in contact with or can afford the best disguise kit is the greatest thief?”
“Yeah. Wait a second... it's ringing.”
Thanks to Broog's habit of letting the phone ring for an excessive amount of time, Fralgoth did not even get to say one last word to his old friend. There was enough time for Broog to say most of the word hello, then Fralgoth was killed by the direct blast of a laser cannon. It was one of the types of laser cannons that first refracts through a Jardian mega-prism, splitting the beam into a million tiny beams which specifically target the most vulnerable parts of whatever life form is being vanquished. I saw Fralgoth topple over the edge, spinning the whole way down into the canyon. Charting the unknown.
Rip and Wilx were not my saviors. At first I thought maybe they were, but it seemed far too brave and uncharacteristic of them, which it was. My rescuers were a strange lot. It would seem the enemy of my enemy was indeed my friend, not my enemy.
“Who hangs there?” loomed an unknown voice from among the recently arrived spaceship in ownership of the laser-cannon.
“I, uh, it is I, Krimshaw--”
“What are you? Where are you from? Grelkian? Northern Trufalmdoon?”
“I'm a reformed Greeg.”
“A Greeg?” questioned the voice from the ship. A muffled conversation commenced, apparently in front of a microphone that someone forgot to turn off.
“Do we like Greegs?” questioned the Alien Voice #1.
“We don't really know any,” said the Alien Voice #2. “Especially not any reformed ones.”
“What are Greegs?”
“We've seen them in carnival shows before. They're entertaining.”
“That's true,” agreed Alien #1. “They are entertaining.”
“Yes, but would you want to socialize with a Greeg?”
“More specifically, would you want to socialize with a Greeg hanging desperately on the edge of a cliff? Or would you merely want to shoot the Greeg with the newly installed laser-cannon?”
“Don't!” I yelled. “I'm not with Fralgoth!”
“Fralgoth,” sneered Alien #1. “We hate Fralgoth.”
“Yeah, me too.” I was happy to have the conversation off me.
“We are glad to have Fralgoth dead,” said Alien #2.
“Yeah, me too,” I said again.
“Now we can inherit his plentiful supply of Luminesco-Cannabid-Sativa.”
“What's that?”
“A rare psychotropic herb that defies the rules of nature by only growing in the frozen conditions of the slopes of Mount Grucian on the Glassvexx planet. ”
“Fralgoth was into drugs?” I asked. “I thought he just dealed in trinkets.”
“Stealing voodoo antiquities is only one of the many side-habits of Fralgoth. It just happens to be one of the ones that made it into mainstream headlines. Fralgoth's true business passion is the thievery and distribution of the Sativa.”
“Can you guys help me up and then we'll discuss this? Or shoot me into the canyon. Just do something. It's starting to get to me, the feeling of nearly plummeting into a canyon. I've been experiencing that feeling for hours on end. Have you ever experienced the feeling of nearly plummeting into a canyon continuously for hours on end?”
“No. We have not had that honor.”
There was more conversation heard from the ship, except this time too muffled to hear. Alien #2 had remembered to cover the microphone, but had not yet learned about the on/off switch.
“We have decided,” said Alien #1, “to help you. Because if you hate Fralgoth as much as we do then you deserve to live.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Good logic.”
The ship continued to hover over the canyon while a robotic arm helped me back onto level ground. I collapsed from exhaustion.
“Who are you?” I said.
“We are the Confederation of Angry Drug Dealers, or CADD. What we are generally angry about, and pretty much the only reason we started up the confederacy in the first place, is to cause the downfall of sativa-thief Fralgoth. The crops of Mount Grucian on Glassvexx have been tended and harvested by my line of people for as many generations as the plant has existed. Fralgoth discovered and usurped our land, and has been harvesting the plant at much too greedily a pace. The rare potency of the Sativa high comes from the continuance of the original strain, which was supposedly blessed by ancient gods. The original strain was in danger of going extinct, but now without Fralgoth it may be safe a while longer.”
“Do you think my friends and I could take Fralgoth's ship?” I asked. “We're stuck here. And here is not a very livable place.”
“It's not so bad,” said Alien #1. “Have you met Milt, the fruit fly? He's made a life here. There's also the one who reads stupid books and makes signs.”
“He's gone now,” I said.
“There's still Milt.”
“Not all of those books are stupid,” I added.
“Yes they are.”
“Look, can we have the ship or not?”
More muffled discussion. “We guess you and your imaginary friends can use Fralgoth's ship to escape. But not before we clear the cargo holds of the 296 million standard-measure galactic tonnes of Luminesco-Cannibid-Sativa. We can leave you with a pound or two in the glove-box. That should be enough to last a lifetime.”
“I might have more than one lifetime ahead of me,” I said.
“Fine. We'll leave three pounds,” said Alien #2. “But you're getting greedy.”
I climbed down to where Fralgoth's ship had parked. By the time I traversed the steep canyon path the CADD had already cleared out the cargo holds and taken off. None of Fralgoth's crew were to be seen.
I entered the ship. Rip and Wilx emerged from hiding within one of the empty cargo holds. It was perfect timing to suddenly appear, if your intent was to arrive on the scene at exactly the moment in which your help was no longer needed.
“Where have you been?”
I yelled angrily at the two bleary-eyed maniacs. “I've been nearly falling into a canyon all day!”
“We tried to find you,” said Wilx.
“Yeah,” joined in Rip. “Did you know the ground on this planet moves? Not easy to find someone here. We kept inadvertently going in circles.”
I was still angry, but decided to let it go. It was a legitimate excuse.
“So Fralgoth's dead?” asked Wilx.
“Yeah.”
“That's good.”
“What happened to Fralgoth's crew?” I asked. “Did the drug dealers take care of them too?”
“Actually, we took care of them,” said Rip. “We weren't entirely useless.”
“How did you do that?”
“He's lying,” said Wilx. “The crew were frightened off by that looped recording of the shrieking demons.”
“I broke that sound-system,” I said. “Does that mean there are real demons?”
“No, there were more sound-systems. Quite a few scattered all over the planet actually. We suspect each of them guards a different item, stuff as equally valuable as the beard. Enticing, yes. But we don't want to stay here any longer. Maybe one day we'll return to look for other self-profiting items. For now let's go take over planet Lincra.”
We fleed Garbotron and charted for Lincra. Along the way we stopped to trade in the ship for one that could do impossible things.
CHAPTER 41
Lincran Revolution
We were high on the promise of owning planet Lincra. We were also high on what had been left in the glove-box.
Our plans were to fail, for during our journey the beard became useless. When we arrived at Lincra we learned that Commander Flook had been assassinated, and that the entire planet had entered a state of riotous turmoil caused by the unexpected yet well underway toppling of the Kroonum Ladder Union.
From orbit we could see the glow of the towering bonfires. The people of Lincra were gleefully rejoicing in the overdue burning of ladders and all things ladder-related. There were a lot of ladders to burn, hence the towering aspect of the fires. Much of the planet would be forever damaged during what has now been become known as the Age of Bonfires. At least the focus was forever taken off the damage we'd caused by our 'intentional crashing of an Obotron ship' episode.
Of particular note amongst the damage was the decimation of the investment banking corral farms. The ladder-revolution caused a crippling universal spike in gas prices, Lincra being practically the primary source of local IB.
How had interspersed throngs of civilian Lincran peasants managed to overthrow the well-funded and generally indomitable KULMOOG you ask? Everything happened while we were away on Garbotron. It seems the last will and testament of resident Lincran map-maker Nickbas L. Turkey had surfaced, proceeding to startle everyone with the vast amount of money it was worth. Mr. Turkey was shockingly in possession of far more money than was owned by every faction of the KULMOOG combined. No one was quite sure where he got this money, for he never seemed to do anything other than make maps and then give them away for free. Nickbas Turkey's vast fortune was found in the underground facilities of an obscure storage meteor near the Invisible Dimension. By the looks of the caked on layers of dust it would seem Nickbas had not moved or used any of his money in a long time.
Nickbas L. Turkey had always known that if he left his money to the people of Lincra they would in turn use the money to overthrow the KULMOOG. Saving the money to free the people was his purpose in life.
The civilians of Lincra proceeded to spend the money on whatever weaponry was more advanced than that owned by the KULMOOG. With this new weaponry the people were finally able to banish the KULMOOG into oblivion, followed by the immediate celebratory burning of ladders and all things ladder-related.
The ladders of Lincra would soon be replaced with teleportation booths, floating elevators and more shuttle-sliders. In later years this would prove to be a disastrous choice, for no one stopped to think about how all their physical exercise came from climbing ladders. Without ladders, the people of Lincra grew lazy to the brink of Greegdom. Many suffered a gradual disintegration of their bodily cells caused by perpetual physical apathy.
Being the one to have killed Nickbas and therefore being the one to have truly set in motion the toppling of the KULMOOG, Reg was now looked at as a sort of God amongst the Lincran peasants. We found him occupying the same lavish lifestyle we'd expected to gain from the beard.
Reg's compound was atop a spire in the center of the parking dome, reached by a mile-high set of stone stairs. The stairs were completely superfluous, as nobody else was really allowed in Reg's compound to begin with, and the select few inner-class minions always chose teleportation over the mile of stairs. Aside from the daunting stairs, a moat populated by the deadliest creatures of Hroon was busily under construction.
“What is this place?” I said, pointing at the tower. “What is happening here?”
“Don't you see?!” yelled Rip. “Look at all the bonfires of ladders! The KULMOOG has finally been overthrown!”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked.
“For the people of Lincra, yes.”
“For our plan, no,” finished Wilx. “Flook has either lost command or been killed, so impersonating him is a moot point.”
I threw the now-useless beard into the molten core of Lincra. The core was now visible from space, thanks to the collision of our crashed Obotron. The ship was still sticking out of the planet awaiting a proposed removal operation. The specters of the crew-members would not be free to roam until the ship was released from the fiery limbo of the planetary core. They were not likely to be freed, as the ship removal operation was being funded by the ladder makers, most of which had been lynched by now, leaving the question of who was going to do all this strenuous labour.
Later we realized the beard would have been worth a fortune if claimed as the actual beard shaved off the assassinated body of Commander Flook. Oh well. 'Fortunes come and fortunes go, the important thing is to enjoy the ride' so says The Book of The Immortals.
“Should we go?” asked Wilx.
“Why don't we see who's in there,” I suggested, pointing at the newly formed compound in the middle of the parking dome. “Looks like the sort of place where a leader would live.”
“Leaders of planets are not usually good people,” said Wilx. “Haven't you learned to avoid them? The higher up the leader, the greater the danger.”
“How about this,” suggested Rip, “instead of barging directly into the compound of what is clearly the highest up leader of this planet, we go down to the surface and ask some of the peasants what's going on. Gather the intel before making the move.”
We all agreed this was a good idea for the moment. We were quickly told about how Reg, the former Greeg-Keeper/Kroonum Judge was now the God of Lincra. All because he killed Nickbas, he who left the fortune required to overthrow the KULMOOG.
“Reg?!” snarled Rip. “He's the god of Lincra?”
“This is unacceptable,” said Wilx.
“Something must be done.”
“What?” I asked.
“We'll kill Reg.”
“How?”
“We'll get help.”
“Who's going to want to take on the leader of the most popular planet within five trillion universes?” I asked.
“Think about it. Who most deserves revenge on Reg?”
“The Crabbits,” I immediately replied.
“Right. Where exactly do Crabbits live?” asked Rip.
“Many different places,” said Wilx. “You know Grebular? That planet has a plentiful supply of Crabbits.”
“Isn't that a shape-shifting planet?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem for you?”
“Maybe. We'll see when we get there.”
“It's the closest planet with Crabbits, so it wins by default,” said Wilx. “We can't afford to go anywhere else. Prices of Investment Banker have multiplied by pi in the last
few hours.”
CHAPTER 42
Hroon Again, this Time with the Dreaded Movie Police
“What can we do to pass the time?” asked Rip. This was a common question asked amongst immortals.
“What about discussing the current events?” I suggested.
“Pffft... current events,” muttered Rip distastefully. “Who can say what is current in this maddening reality of time-travelling wormholes?”
“It could be something interesting to do while we waited.”
“Don't mind him,” said Wilx. “One of the regular side-effects of space-travel, especially when combined with immortality and time-travel, is an irritating and alienating feeling that you are never quite up to date with the current events. To the immortal time-traveller, news is usually more often old than new, and it's always confusing and unfathomable. Nothing ever seems to be from your own time or consciousness anymore.”
“Let's give the current events a try, please?” I asked.
As Rip groaned over the prospect of current events, I turned on the tele-screen and set it to play the most popular news program in the universe. The latest episode of Flying Grimbat Messengers Present appeared in front of our weary, immortal faces. During our time the Grimbat species had elevated themselves from useless gossiper of the Planetglomerate to celebrated inter-universal news pundits. As the chief anchor prattled on about some highly strange news he proceeded to regularly flap his wings into the lighting equipment while accidentally thrashing his gnarled body against the cardboard backdrop. Flying Grimbats should really be called Perpetually Flying Grimbats, as they can never stop flying or they die. This unfortunate condition does not mix well with attempting to contain oneself within the cramped space of a news desk, especially when one is the size of a triplet of giant vampire-bats with 3 sets of pterodactyl wings. Due to the budgetary problem of having to rebuild the set after every broadcast, the network unsuccessfully attempted to replace the Grimbats, who, because they found all the best scoops, always got final say about delivering their own news. When the cost of replacing destroyed equipment pushed the program to the brink of cancellation, someone at last had the revelation to merely do away with the generic indoor news-desk scene (which most people were sick of anyway) and instead film the Grimbats talking out in some open field where they were free to fly around. The news was also only shot in the daytime when no artificial lighting was required. After this transition in the show there was a slight drop in the percentage of viewers. It was always suspected that a group of people only watched the show for the comedic slapstick element of a Grimbat destroying a film set.
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