Greegs & Ladders (25 page)

“Nothing in
this one,” I heard Wilx yell. “Move on to the next.”

This went on
for some time, with Rip and Wilx searching each of the ships and
finding nothing. I could easily see them from my far away perch,
for the ship's walls had been made of cheap particle-board and thus
burned up considerably during the atmospheric transition. After
awhile they returned.

“We didn't
find anything and none of these ships will fly,” said Wilx bluntly.
“Looks like we'll be spending the rest of eternity on a planet
called Garbotron. Everyone try to find a slightly non-garbage
infested patch of ground to curl up on, we're in this for the long
haul.”

“I've been
wearing this beard,” I said. “It doesn't seem to do anything.”

“No,” said
Wilx. “The beard is not magical.”

“So the beard
is useless?”

“The beard is
just as powerful as everyone says, only the power comes from
something much simpler than magic or voodoo.”

“What does it
do?” I asked.

“It was
crafted by Broog, the greatest disguise-artist ever to live. That
beard is the only known perfect replica of the inimitably
ridiculous beard-style invented and worn by the Grand KULMOOG
Commander Flook. Anyone who wears that beard can with ease
successfully impersonate the Grand Commander.”

“So?”

“Anyone who
successfully impersonates the Grand Commander will find themselves
in ownership of the Kroonum Union of Ladder Makers and Official
Overseeing Gods, therefore in ownership of the Kroonum system
itself. All you have to do is wear that beard and show up on Lincra
and you'll be immediately showered with money, power and whatever
species of sexual partner is your most genetically accurate
match!”

“Haha!” yelled
Rip. “We're rich! I mean we're way richer than we used to be!
Forget about that goblin Reg and his uptight courtroom scene! Let's
keep the beard for ourselves and go live the good life on Lincra!
Which type of grapes do you plan on having your slaves feed to you?
Green or red? I'm thinking green but I'm not entirely sold--”

“Why is the
beard made from third-rate products that cause leprosy?” I asked,
ignoring the dilemma of the grapes. “If this Broog character is
such a big deal, I mean.”

“Who knows,”
replied Wilx. “Maybe Broog made the beard as a prank.”

“A prank?”

“Broog is
known for taking pranks too far.”

At once a
voice boomed from the sky. The creature this voice belonged to did
not want us living the good life, or any life at all. The
disembodied voice belonged to Fralgoth, notorious intergalactic
thief of voodoo antiquities.

“Greetings,”
announced the evil voice of Fralgoth. “I see by your joyous
celebration that you have located the coveted Beard of Broog. I'll
be taking that now.”

“No!” yelled
Rip. “We decided to keep it for ourselves! Get lost!”

“Where is he
anyway?” whispered Wilx. “The sky is completely empty.”

As if he heard
these quiet words (which he had, being that his ship was fully
equipped with Whisper-Reduction Satellites) Fralgoth turned off his
ship's cloaking device . Suddenly a villainous ship appeared before
us.

“What a poorly
designed ship,” said Rip. “Look at the landing flaps, positioned a
few degrees too much to the left. You could never hope to
successfully slingshot around a proto-star and still have enough
momentum to sideways time-travel through a wormhole without slowing
down and ending up in limbo between dimensions for a few lifetimes.
What a dumb ship.”

“Who cares,”
said Wilx. “It's a working ship. That means we can leave. We don't
need it for doing impossible stunts, we only need it to fly to the
nearest planet that sells ships like that. Then we take the beard
to Lincra and live like gods.”

“I've been a
god. I want more. Besides, you think Fralgoth is going to offer a
ride?”

“No. We're
going to steal his ship.”

“One would
have to kill Fralgoth to do that.”

“Then today's
the day Fralgoth dies.”

It wasn't the
day. He was killed a week later. We decided to procrastinate and
spend some time drawing up plans and blueprints. Also we had to
first chase him down across much of the planet. After all the
effort, we weren't even the ones to kill Fralgoth. I'll skip ahead
to that part.

Hanging on the
Edge of a Cliff, Again

“Help!” I
yelled as I clung to the edge of a cliff. Fralgoth stood above,
patiently savoring the moment in which he would stomp on my
fingers. Below me was the usual 4000 foot drop into a canyon full
of jagged metal things. I had not seen Rip or Wilx in at least a
day. Not since our mad excursion into the swamp. Amongst other
things, the long chase across the planet had nearly left me stuck
in Liquid Lake. As a result of that and everything else in part of
the story I just skipped, I was now hanging over the edge of a 4000
foot drop into a canyon full of jagged metal things. No escape. I
expected to spend the rest of eternity crippled at the bottom of a
canyon on probably the worst planet of all time. But there was
hope, as you know, for I would not be writing about this incident
if I did not survive through it.

“Give me the
beard!” yelled Fralgoth. The beard was pretty much the only
advantage I had going for me. At least if I fell into the canyon I
would take it with me.

“Reach out
your hand-like appendage,” I said.

“Right, and
let you pull me over the edge? Throw the beard up here!”

“It was worth
a try.”

“If you pass
me the beard I'll help you up. If not, I'll stomp on your
fingers.”

“You won't
stomp on my fingers until you've got the beard. We both know
that.”

“True.”

“Help me up
first. Then you can have the beard.”

“Why would I
do that?”

“Because I
can't hold on much longer. You need to get the beard soon before
it's lost forever. The land here eats up everything, then spews it
out as unrecognizable waste. The only reason the beard is in good
shape is because it was protected by someone, probably a psycho-fan
of mine who came all the way here to get one of my books
autographed and then decided he might as well live here; no
governments or anything pushing him around after all, so he tried
to fashion a society of sorts, started making roads and signs and
transportation and Beard-protection facilities guarded by the
looped recordings of faraway shrieking demons and--”

“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.”