“There's probably a lot they didn't mention. Look how crazy this place is!”
“I can't look! I'm blind!”
“The falling thing is getting closer.”
The few Klaxworms who still had vision were looking up at the falling chunk of Glassvexx. They were completely oblivious as to what was about to happen to them in a matter of seconds.
“Everyone follow me, we've got a lot to do.”
The droves of Klaxworms began to explore the planet. The chunk of Glassvexx (which was the size of a couple skyscrapers) landed square on the entirety of their population. Not one survived to carry on the species. That was it. Done.
Although forever gone, and never even known while they were here, Klaxworms are not forgotten. They continue to make their mark on the collective consciousness of the universe. Their story became a popular piece of entertaining folklore. Except as if told through a silly game of Telephone, the Klaxworm story grew inaccurate as it was passed along between planets. The drug-related circumstances of the destruction of Glassvexx garbled the story into suggesting that drugs and Klaxworms were in direct connection with each other. Most versions relate the Klaxworms as the drug overlords who were collectively assassinated after venturing out of their hide-out. It is now a popular cautionary story that overprotective parents use to coerce their children into staying at home, as if to say:
“Don't do drugs and leave home... or you will die.”
CHAPTER 49
Revenge
I was saddened deeply when I learned the fate of the Klaxworms. I learned the fate of the Klaxworms in a matter of seconds after the scratching of the Chalkboard of Elbereth shattered Glassvexx. As soon as the seemingly unbreakable Jardian glass shrapnel began flying through space, a giant shard narrowly missed our ship and rocketed forcefully into space.
“Hmm,” said Wilx, “If my calculations are correct, that giant piece is headed straight for the planetglomerate.”
“Where?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Wilx showed me on his computer the location where the shard would strike... it was directly on the cave of the Klaxworms. I demanded we go to the Planetglomerate at impossible speeds and try to save them from extermination. I cared not if every Greeg and Grimbat was wiped out. I cared only for the Klaxworms. We arrived at the Planetglomerate just in time for me to see that the Klaxworms were leaving their cave in droves; for Wilx to inform me that his calculations were off by a tad and the shard was now headed for right outside the caves where they were all headed; and for me to shout “No! Go back in the cave, there's a giant flying shard of a recently exploded nearby glass planet coming right for you!”
I distinctly heard several Klaxworms turn and exclaim to whoever would listen, “See, what did I tell you would happen?”
A quick survey of the planet revealed that not a Greeg had been mildly bruised or scratched. Within minutes, all Greegs were certain that the giant monolithic shards were in fact statues built by Greegs and had not minutes ago fallen from the sky.
That, my friends, was it for me. All of the anger, the rage, the boiling psychopathy exploded out of me at that very moment. The Klaxworms were very dear to me. The fact that I was a Greeg and that without Rip and Wilx I would have been just as stupid as them was very clear to me. I became overwhelmed with a purpose. Revenge. Revenge on the fiendish scratchers of the Chalkboard. Revenge on those who had sought revenge on those who had sought revenge. I had written about such endless cycles of revenge being one of the worst traits of mankind in one my novels Who are You and Why am I Killing You Again? And its sequel Hey, Here's a Thought: How About We End the Massacres and Go For a Swim Instead? Neither were remotely well received, and in fact had me used as a scathing example of what whiny, peace loving pacifism is good for... namely the keeping of everyone else from getting a few more good wars and murders in without all the silly, moral objections.
I forgot all of these things and let the rage take hold.
“Back to the fleets of Fralgoth!” I screamed, as if leading a charge into battle. “Time to charge into battle!” I clarified in case anyone hadn't heard the battle charging inflection in my initial cry.
Rip and Wilx were always up for a good battle in their own way. Rip, in a seething, 'Let's kill the bastards whoever they are' sort of way and Wilx in a 'Let me know when the battle is finished I'll be reading in my study' sort of way. But both enjoyed a good battle nonetheless. I was happy to use them. They seemed happy that I finally had moved a smidgen closer to their level of insanity, and we all generally bonded well over the new course of action.
One ship versus 108 fleets of war ships is not a very good fight. Very similar to many of the 'wars' waged by The United States and other super powers in human history, except in this case, the small, helpless, side with no chance of victory was armed with a ship that happened to do impossible things. One of the things it could do was see inside the enemy ships and let us know what was inside them. A normal military commander would have used this tool to identify weaknesses and strengths and gain a strategic advantage by planning accordingly based on the knowledge obtained. Dr. Rip T. Brash the Third was not normal, nor a military commander.
“Nope, nope, nope,” Rip said, as he blew ship after ship to smithereens with the impossible ship's varied weapons systems.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Why do you keep examining the ships' cargo holds, then saying 'nope' and blowing them to smithereens?”
“What do you care, you're getting your revenge aren't you?”
“Well, yes, but several of the ships you've blown up have had decent stashes of Luminesco Sativa, seems a waste. Shouldn't we take out the ships with weapons then round up the ones with Sativa for ourselves?”
“Sativa, Schmasliva!” childishly mocked Rip. “That stuff is for amateurs, besides we've already got tonnes of it. Wilx, come in here and tell him what I'm up to and why I'm doing it. Nope, nope, nope...”
Blam! Schmoom! Grickle!
Wilx strolled out, barely looking up from his book. “What Rip is currently destroying is the combined strength of The Grand Fleets of Fralgoth – the largest ring of drug smugglers in the Universe. He is searching their cargo holds to find the mythical Grand Container Ship – rumoured to carry in its holds massive quantities of every drug and intoxicating substance there is. It is said you could swallow, smoke, inject, ingest, insert, intake, inhale, drink, guzzle, shoot, gargle, sniff, snort, schnoodle and bronk until the end of time and still not get through all the stuff. Rip naturally takes this rumour as a personal challenge and an affront to his very existence.”
“Nope, nope, there it is!” shouted Rip happily. “Yippee!”
“So now what's the plan?” I sighed.
“Live the dream,” said Rip incredulously. “Never-ending drugs, booze and the running of a carnival.”
“Planetglomerate... here we come!” said Wilx.
Rip got the impossible space ship to reach out two long tentacle-ish metallic arms with big, silly looking fingers to grab the Grand Container Ship and slam it several times against the side of an epic-moon until all of Fralgoth's relatives inside were dead. The impossible ship then put the Grand Container ship in what can only be described as its backpack and headed off towards the Planetglomerate.
Despite the insanely short time it took to get there, upon our arrival Rip had already drank eleven crates of Krammington Krish Fortinis, sniffed 3 bags of Zittle Dust, eaten no less than four thousand different kinds of mushrooms, and injected Cod into most of his eyeballs.
“Cod?” I asked.
“What, you mean those earthlings never did cod? But they had so much of it just naturally in the water!?”
“I guess no one ever thought to boil it, strain it, mix it with urine and inject it in their eyeballs.”
“Idiots. Cod is easily one of the most amazing drugs around.”
Upon our arrival, it became clear we weren't the only ones arriving at the Planetglomerate. Hoards of ships w
ere coming from all over.
Many, if not all, were packed with Carnival Greegs.
CHAPTER 50
The Last Chapter
“I hear you're taking Greegs? How much for Six Moobs full?”
“We're not paying an orange proddle for anything,” said Rip, popping a handful of Kratwollian Mind Capsules into his mouth. “We take your Greegs, you have no more Greegs. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“That's a horrible deal and not remotely what your flier advertised,” screamed the outraged Greeg vendor. “How am I supposed to afford the astronomical cost of replacing the Investment Banker it took just to get here?”
Rip snatched the flier out of the vendor's hands and passed it over to me. “We are not accountable for any falsities our marketing department might have mistakenly misinformed you of,” bellowed Rip condascendingly. “The deal stands, and space is running out.”
I looked at the flier, it was clearly a signed and dated, hand drawn, binding contract promising vast sums of wealth to anyone who brought Greegs to the Planetglomerate any time after the shattering of the Glassvexx system.
“Look,” Rip continued flippantly, “I don't know who's been out spreading these lies and rumours about our operation here, but...”
“I do! You have! You personally gave me this flier, and spent eleven years attending my carnival show every night convincing me to bring you these Greegs. You conceived four children with my eldest daughter. You..."
“Look, this isn't about me, this is about you and how you can't afford to fill up your spaceship. As it so happens, I'm a generous man, err... thing, and I can tell that you're a man who knows Greegs and needs a job. It just so happens we have many fine openings for positions ranging from Greeg feces shovelers, to Greeg feces examiners.”
“You bastard! What about my ship!”
“Your ship will be placed in a maze shortly... if you wish to accompany it, by all means...”
“I'll take the shovel one.”
“Good man, welcome aboard. Unload your Greegs over to the left.”
The ingenuity of Dr. Rip T. Brash the Third was undeniable. Whether he had purposefully, consciously or deliberately had everything come together in his favour or whether he was simply one of the luckiest creatures to ever live, I will never know. His Planetary Greeg Carnival was indeed a resounding success though, with a steady supply of enslaved workers bringing him new and exciting Greegs and their ships being sent off to far-off mazes, serving as a bribe to the Council of Eleven and a Half Thousand Different Coloured Robes. It was a scheme no one else could have pulled off. Trading knowledge for morality, Wilx was able to learn ever more about Greegs by observing The Ultimate Grand Greeg Carnival. So much so that his well researched and engaging book Greegs, Greegs and More Greegs would topple Dr. Kipple's as the definitive work on the subject. Many strange discoveries would come from observing The Ultimate Grand Greeg Carnival and the ensuing experiments Wilx would conduct. For example, once aliens began coming on safari expeditions to observe The Greegs in their natural habitat, it was conclusively proven that even when blatantly staring at hoards of superior beings, The Greegs would still somehow convince themselves they were alone, intellectually dominant and that anyone who thought otherwise was insane.
One curious event occurred on the day The Virgin Mary returned to demand child support from Rip.
“I demand child support,” she screamed.
“I thought your son was the one who was supposed to return?” asked Rip.
“He had a rough enough go of things the first time around, now give me some money!”
“Your entire species is obsolete silly woman, as is your outdated currency. Quit living in the past. Look what you silly humans de-evolved into!” Rip pointed at the savage Greegs nearby.
The Virgin Mary wept.
“Don't cry my dear, come into the tent and we'll have a look at your belly button.”
It was around this time that I realized I couldn't be around Rip and Wilx any longer. Surely if I was to stick around I would only become more and more like them. I would begin to think nothing of grotesque and obscene actions such as they felt were acceptable. I decided to get out while I still had a shred of dignity, of sanity, of morality, of decency left in me. I was immortal, this there was no changing. But I saw no reason why I had to be a bastard too. I commandeered the ship capable of impossible things, and set about doing some good with it. If for no one else but me.
I tried travelling sideways and diagonally through time many times hoping the Universe would shift things around differently. Hoping there was a Universe out there in which people never became Greegs. An existence where Klaxworms came out of their caves and were rewarded for their courage instead of instantly annihilated. A way that the incredibly unique planet that Jorf had unwillingly created wasn't overrun with Investment Bankers and eventually Greegs. Every time the outcome was the same.
So I tried one last thing. I retraced my steps and filled in the gaps of my little story as best I could. Made sure I got everything right. Translated everything correctly. Made it all able to be understood by you. By a human being. I figure that maybe, just maybe, by bringing this information to Earth, the seemingly inevitable future of this planet is not so bleak. Is not so inevitable. By dropping off this story, at this time in your history, maybe you can be made to understand just what you are. Just where you're going. Just what this place is. Just what it could be. Just what you're doing... and what you could be doing instead. We know that one Greeg can be transformed into a decent being. We know that one little fruit fly can take on a whole planet full of filth and nonsense. But can a whole planet of beings stop themselves from de-evolving into Greegs?
Maybe.
Just Maybe...
The Epic-Log:
Excerpts from the
Dishwashing Chronicles
(as Accurately Quoted from a Tattered 14th Grade Edition Clug Raddo History Textbook)
The Dishwashing Chronicles are what define all memories and stories of the half-planet Clug Raddo. Long after the planet itself has gone extinct, the only remembered piece of information about Clug Raddo will be the reason it lost its northern hemisphere. The event of the dishes.
It was during the year of Clug Raddo's 724th revolution in the 419th millennium of this particular galaxy when it all began.
Clug Raddo was once a popular planet in the Kroonum galaxy. At the peak of its heyday it sometimes surpassed Lincra in total daily visitors. The two planets were each so popular, and close in distance, they naturally became violently bitter rivals of the tourist market. While Lincra and the rest of the Kroonum galaxy was owned by the KULMOOG, Clug Raddo was owned and operated by the Blue Splotch Restaurant Corporation. They retained their control through a very rare and highly coveted Anti-KULMOOG loophole.
No other restaurant or food distribution service was allowed to conduct business on Clug Raddo. If you wished to eat on Clug Raddo, your only choice was to visit a Blue Splotch. The other option was to bring your own food from off-planet, only it's an illegal act with severe enough punishments to ensure that no one ever considered eating from anywhere but Blue Splotch.
If you were a permanent resident of Clug Raddo, you found work at a Blue Splotch.
One of the locals was a Grelkian alien known as Blok Mardem. He worked as an underpaid dishwasher at one of the many chain locations of Blue Splotch. It was chain restaurant #1790 to be exact, but it didn't matter because all of the Blue Splotches were the same, and had been specifically designed to be the same. Consistency was the vital factor of life amongst the Blue Splotch staff. If chain store #3092 was serving three scoops of coleslaw per order while store #9985 suddenly started serving two and a half scoops, management would have to immediately step in and bomb both of these locations. It was better to just start afresh than to risk any gamut of originality. Enough digression.
On the busiest recorded day in Blue Splotch Diner #1790, Blok Mardem reached his breaking point.
Recordings indicate it was so busy that Blok, the only dishwasher working that evening, was completely unable to keep up with the onslaught of dishes. The sinks were brutally clogged with soggy, half-eaten food. There was no time to unclog the drains, so instead Blok let the sickly, orange-brown 'water' full of unknown congealed matter mercilessly overflow onto the floor, creating a deadly skating rink on the tiles. The dirty water also poured into the dishwasher. Now that the water in the dishwasher was of this variety, the dishes were coming out dirtier than when they went in. Behind Blok there were several walls lined with deep sinks, all of which were full to the brim with piping hot pans scalded with blackened over-fried teriyaki sauce and metal inserts horribly caked with burnt-on, chunky tomato soup. The serving staff, in their frantic busy-ness, had lost all interest in sorting the constant wheelbarrow loads of plates and utensils that were being cleared from the tables. Despite there having once been a time when each different type of plate was sorted into its own separate stack, they were now being tossed together in random, teetering card-house piles of butter-slathered glass, coated with crusted cheese dips and half-devoured, soggy, broccoli, all of which was routinely splashed into Blok's face from the required high water-pressure of the rinsing hose. Blok made the classic mistake of spraying into a ladle, the perfect tool for water rebound. He was struck square in the eyes with the scalding water. A server then viciously threw a handful of spoons into a cutlery bin, effectively splashing Blok with industrial-strength, corrosive chemicals. He was partially blinded for the remainder of his shift, and probably suffered some sort of life-long side effect.
Blok was going to have to stay late for hours after the restaurant closed if he had any hopes of finishing. He was expected to do exactly that, only he didn't feel like it. He wished there was some way he could get rid of the dishes. Not just the dishes at Blue Splotch #1790, but all the dishes on the planet. He liked the idea so much he devised an ingenious plan which he thought would allow him to get away with the non-washing of all dishes forever. Some say he took his plan too far. Your opinions on the sympathetic qualities of Blok Mardem will be one of the primary essay topics on the final exam.
Greegs & Ladders Page 23
