Once upon a time (which is how these things usually begin, unless you’re cursed or involved in a tax dispute), there lived a unicorn named Buttercup.
Now, Buttercup would like to make it abundantly clear that he did not choose the name Buttercup. It was given to him by an overly enthusiastic seven-year-old fairy named Twinkle Spanglestorm, who believed unicorns should be named after things you could put on cupcakes.
Buttercup had many typical unicorn traits. He had a horn. He could heal minor abrasions and one very specific type of eczema. He pooped sparkles (which was less glamorous than it sounds and more of a public sanitation issue). And he lived in the Enchanted Glade of Mildly Impressive Wonders, which was somewhere between the Forest of Doom and a surprisingly competent cicadas-led utopia.
But Buttercup had a problem.
A terrible problem.
Buttercup was afraid of glitter.
Now, this would be manageable if he had been, say, a goat, or an auditor, or even a particularly anxious porcupine. But he was a unicorn. In a magical land. Where the fairy economy ran entirely on glitter-backed currency.
Buttercup had tried everything. He had gone to therapy (his therapist was a sarcastic badger with a Ph.D. in Woodland Neuroses). He had tried exposure therapy, but after being doused in sparklebombs by a herd of giggling pixies, he spent three weeks hiding in a cave muttering, “It’s in my mane… it never comes out…”
You see, the glitter reminded him of The Incident.
No one really knew what The Incident was. Buttercup refused to speak of it, except to occasionally glare at a passing rainbow and mutter, “They knew what they were doing.”
It was whispered among the woodland creatures that it involved an experimental glitter cannon, a sentient disco ball, and a rogue elf named Shane. But the records had been sealed by the Council of Magical Mishaps (and also covered in jam, for reasons never explained).
Buttercup lived a quiet life, keeping to the less fabulous corners of the forest. He wore a hoodie (magically enchanted to be “anti-glam”) and avoided fairy gatherings, children’s birthday parties, and anything labeled “festive.”
But trouble, as trouble is wont to do, arrived anyway.
It came in the form of Princess Juniper Puddlepot, age nine and three-quarters, bearer of the Sacred Scroll of Sparkly Destiny, and wielder of the Bedazzled Wand of Slight Inconvenience.
“I need a unicorn!” she announced, bursting into the glade with all the subtlety of a trebuchet launching vuvuzelas.
Buttercup immediately attempted to flee behind a tree, but the tree was actually an extremely shy dryad named Marvin, who politely asked him to stop squishing his sap.
“Go away,” Buttercup said, attempting to camouflage himself by rolling in mud and muttering “I’m a large sad horse” repeatedly.
“You’re Buttercup the Brave!” said Juniper, brandishing a scroll that sparkled ominously.
“No, I’m Not Buttercup the Brave. I’m Buttercup the Emotionally Complicated. Now shoo.”
But Juniper would not be deterred. She explained, in that fast, breathless way that only small children and chipmunks on Molly can, that the Kingdom of Glitterlandia was under threat. An evil warlock named Sir Shinyboots had stolen the Glitterheart Gem and was using it to turn everyone into rhinestone statues. The only way to stop him was to summon a unicorn pure of heart and weird of hoof.
Buttercup, unfortunately, met those criteria.
Also, he was the only unicorn left in the phonebook.
“But I can’t!” Buttercup whinnied. “There’s glitter. I mean, you literally just said the word ‘Glitterheart’ and I think my eye twitched.”
Juniper frowned. “But you’re our only hope!”
“That sounds like your problem.”
There might have been a heartfelt moment of reflection here, if not for the sudden arrival of Sir Shinyboots himself, riding a giant hamster named Giorgio and wearing a sequined cape that violated at least three laws of physics and one decent taste.
“I HAVE COME TO BEDAZZLE YOU ALL!” he bellowed, as Giorgio squeaked menacingly.
Buttercup screamed. Juniper screamed. Marvin the dryad made a sound like a dying accordion and fainted.
And then something… strange happened.
Buttercup, in his terror, did something no unicorn had done in centuries.
He unicorned.
His horn glowed. His mane defrizzed. His hooves tapped out a rhythmic beat that summoned ancient and confusing magic.
A beam of pure, unfiltered sass shot from his horn and struck Sir Shinyboots square in the glitter. There was a blinding flash, a suspicious sound not unlike a wet sponge in a trombone, and when the light faded, Sir Shinyboots was gone.
In his place stood a confused mallard duck wearing a tiny top hat.
Juniper gaped. “You did it! You faced your fear!”
“No,” said Buttercup, trembling. “I blacked out from terror and shot chaos energy everywhere. Also, I think I peed a little.”
Still, a victory was a victory. Buttercup was hailed as a hero. Juniper named him “Sir Sparklebanisher,” which he hated even more than Buttercup, but he endured it because she gave him a sandwich and a glitter-free medal, and he hoped it would convince the bank to finally granting him that mortgage he needed.
Eventually, Buttercup came to terms with his fears. He still didn’t like glitter. But he no longer ran from it screaming. He just quietly scowled at it and kept a lint roller on hand.
And somewhere, deep in the woods, the sentient disco ball winked and spun slowly, waiting.
In the deepest pits of Hell, where the flames crackled and souls wailed in eternal agony, there was one place where the heat wasn’t just metaphorical. The kitchen of the Trattoria Inferno, a bustling fire-pit of gastronomic torment, was where the real action happened. And it wasn’t pretty.
“Alright, you worthless scum, let’s get this over with,” bellowed Chef Malebranche, a corpulent devil with an apron that read Trattoria Inferno: Too Hot for You. He stood over a giant cauldron of bubbling lava stew, his tail twitching impatiently. His assistants, a motley crew of lower-tier devils, all dressed in stained chef coats, scrambled to meet his impossible demands.“Chop faster, Grelt! That soul soufflé isn’t going to make itself,” Malebranche yelled at one particularly nervous devil, whose hands were trembling while trying to slice a screaming, squirming soul in half. “And you!” he barked at another, “Quit adding sulfur to the gravy, Mordekai. That’s the fourth batch you’ve ruined today.”
“Sorry, Chef,” Mordekai mumbled, wiping the sweat—or was it brimstone?—from his brow. “I thought it needed more kick.”
“More kick?” Malebranche’s voice grew dangerously low. “The souls in this soup are literally on fire. How much more ‘kick’ do you want?”
In the kitchen of Trattoria Inferno, the devils didn’t exactly have the luxury of fine dining. The ingredients were… unconventional, to say the least. The best-selling dish on the menu was Sizzling Souls au Gratin, a dish that involved fresh souls, still screaming, served with a side of magma-baked bone marrow. And for dessert? Infernal Lava Cake, a dish that came with a guarantee: you either burned your tongue off or you had no taste buds left. Literally.
But the kitchen wasn’t all about the food. It was about the entertainment, too. The souls they were preparing meals from weren’t just ingredients; they were performers. Some were lucky enough to have been chefs in their mortal lives, others were failed actors or used car salesmen, their screams and grunts adding just the right touch to the ambiance.
And then there was the constant pressure of the reviews. “Yes, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it,” muttered Grelt, the timid kitchen devil, as he tried to get a soufflé to rise, which was an exercise in cruelty in itself. “The Supreme Infernal Critic said the last batch of mashed souls was ‘too bland.’ Too bland! I mean, they were literally being boiled in sulfur!”Malebranche growled, running his forked tongue across his sharp teeth. “That critic wouldn’t know flavor if it danced a flaming waltz right in front of him.”
Just then, the kitchen doors slammed open, and in strutted a high-ranking demon, arms crossed and a clipboard in hand.
“Ugh, don’t tell me we have another inspection,” Mordekai groaned.“Not just any inspection,” said the demon, eyeing the crew with a sneer. “The Eternal Food Critic™ is coming. You know what that means, right? If he doesn’t like the food, you get sent to the Department of Soul Scrubbing for the next millennium.”
“Oh, joy,” Malebranche muttered. “It’s not bad enough we have to deal with Chef Beppo from the Eighth Circle, now we have to impress the biggest pain in the ass since the beginning of time.”
The demon sniffed the air with exaggerated disgust. “Is that… Is that… soul essence I smell? You’re supposed to marinate it, not burn it to ash! You devils couldn’t cook a soul properly if it came with a recipe book and a GPS.”
The kitchen crew, well-trained in the art of Hellish sarcasm, exchanged eye rolls.
“We were busy, alright? Souls were backing up in the afterlife, and the magma supply was running low,” Grelt muttered under his breath.
“Excuses!” the demon snapped. “Get the soufflés right or I’ll personally make sure you’re assigned to the Lobster Hell for the next eon. And trust me, you don’t want that job. Do you?”
The devils froze. The Lobster Hell was worse than the worst of the worst. It was a dimension where you boiled for eternity, but in giant pots of butter. Your skin became the crust of a shell, and you were served as appetizers to hungry demons. Who would Snapchat their dishes. No one ever came back from the Lobster Hell. It was a myth. A dreadful myth.”
Alright, everyone!” Malebranche roared, rallying the troops. “No more messing around! I want perfection on this plate, or else we’re all doing the crab-shucking shift.”
The devils scrambled into action, their movements frantic but practiced. The sound of sizzling lava and squirming souls filled the air, and the heat became unbearable. Yet, for all the chaos, there was something oddly comforting about the routine. They had a job to do, and that job was awful—but in Hell, it was the closest thing to purpose they were ever going to get.
As the critic sat down to sample the latest dish, he eyed the plate with disdain. “Hmm. This could be better. The souls are charred, and the lava reduction needs more zest.” He took another bite. “You know what? This might actually be the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire existence.”
Malebranche’s tail lashed with frustration. “Really? You don’t say? What a shocking revelation!”
“Yeah, yeah,” the critic muttered. “You devils think you’re so clever with your hellish flavors and novelty ingredients, but you’re just too… predictable. I’ve tasted more interesting flavours in the cafeteria of the Second Circle. At least there’s variety there.” He scribbled something on his clipboard, apparently marking it as a “two-star” dish.
“Two stars?” Grelt blurted, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Two?! I sacrificed a soul for that soufflé! A good one, too! Not some cheap banker soul—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” the critic snapped, tossing his napkin on the table. “I’ve been reviewing your stuff for centuries. You’ve peaked, Malebranche. You’ve peaked.”
The chef devil’s face fell. “What the hell are we supposed to do, then?” he growled, more to himself than anyone. “We cook with what we’ve got!”
“Well, what you’ve got,” the critic said, giving a mock sympathy pat on the shoulder, “is a hell of a lot of crap. I think it’s time to call it quits, boys. This kitchen’s officially cursed.”
With that, the critic stood, flinging the devilish crew one last, judgmental glance before strutting out the door.
Malebranche, who had been growing more and more furious with each word, slammed his fist down on the counter. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this! We’re going on strike!”
The other devils looked at him, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me!” Malebranche shouted. “No more serving bad reviews and endless soufflé failures! We deserve better! We’ll form a union! Trattoria Inferno is about to change!”
The kitchen went silent for a moment before Mordekai tentatively raised his hand. “Does that mean we get paid in souls again?”
Malebranche smirked. “No, we get eternal recognition. We’re going to redefine Hell’s culinary legacy!”
And so, the devils of Trattoria Inferno went on strike, forming a union that, much like everything in Hell, was destined for failure. The Most Important Hellish Judge personally arrived to shut them down, informing them that unionizing was strictly against the Infernal Code.
In the end, the devils were sent to the Lobster Hell. And as they were boiled in butter, they couldn’t help but think: at least they’d tried to spice things up.
There’s a reason nobody talks about the retirement plan for the Grim Reaper. And that reason is a four-day long contract that nobody reads until they’re a few centuries into the job and their bones start creaking like a haunted house. No one ever checks the fine print because, well, who expects a lass who snatches souls from the mortal realm to have anything resembling a pension Nest? It’s only after centuries of scything that the harsh truth hits you: You’re stuck, like a fly in amber, except the fly is you, and the amber is eternity.
The Grim Reaper sat hunched over a sad, cluttered desk in a cubicle that looked like it hadn’t seen a thorough cleaning since the Black Death. In the corner, her scythe was propped up like a forgotten umbrella, gathering dust. The dim, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an angry wasp that wouldn’t go away. The place smelled faintly of mildew, stale coffee, and something else—something that could only be described as “existential dread” mixed with the unmistakable stench of being stuck.
“So,” I said, sliding my mug of coffee across the desk to avoid looking directly at her. “You’ve been doing this for howlong?“
The Reaper didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Oh, since time started making sense. Roughly. Give or take a few eons. I’m not really sure, to be honest. Time’s a bit… fluid when you’re me.”
I blinked. “So, a few billion years. No big deal. Are you like… a contractor, or is there a boss?”
The Reaper chuckled, the sound like glass marbles clinking against granite. “Oh, there’s a boss. We all report to a higher… authority. But let’s not get into that, alright? They don’t pay enough for me to discuss their leadership style. Trust me, you don’t want to know what it’s like working for The Upper Management.“
I nodded solemnly, unsure if I was about to hear something scandalous or terrifying. “Gotcha. So, um… when do you get a break? Like, a real one? You’re probably due for some time off after all these years.”
The Reaper’s skeletal fingers paused on the form she was filling out, and for the briefest moment, I saw something that could have been despair—except it was so ancient and hollow that it became something I don’t have a name for. “Breaks? You think I get breaks?” Her voice was a rasp, but there was an edge to it. “I don’t get breaks, kid. I get paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” I echoed, trying not to let out a nervous laugh.”
Yeah, paperwork.” She leaned back in her chair—a creaky, ancient thing that probably had faded lots of long-dead office workers in its time. “You think this job is just about reaping souls, huh? That’s the fun part. The paperwork? That’s the nightmare.”
She picked up a stack of forms and tapped them on the desk with a sound that could’ve been mistaken for the rattling of bones if you didn’t know better. “I’ve got a filing cabinet full of complaints. And forms. And surveys. Do you have any idea how much I hate surveys? And don’t even get me started on the soul rating system.”
I blinked again. “Soul rating system?”
“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes—which, as a skeleton, is a remarkable feat. “After I take a soul, they rate me on a scale of one to five stars. If I don’t get five stars, I have to go back and explain myself. All the way back to the beginning. And if they’re really unhappy, they get to file a complaint. That’s where it gets ugly.”
“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “So, you’re not just collecting souls—you’re also doing customer service?”
The Reaper stared at me for a long moment, then sighed like an old woman on a porch who had been asked the same question one too many times. “You think this job is glamorous? Let me tell you about the last time a soul rated me poorly. It was an angry guy named Jono who didn’t like the fact that he died in a potato sack race. He gave me a one star review. One star! After all the effort I put in, Jono thought I was too abrupt. That’s the level of entitlement we’re dealing with. Do you know how many forms I had to fill out? Three.”
“Three? You filled out three forms for a one-star review?” I asked, incredulously.
“Well, technically four, but one of them was an ‘escalation form.’ You don’t even want to know about that. I had to go all the way up to middle management in the afterlife. Do you know what a nightmare it is dealing with bureaucratic souls? They’ll argue about everything.”
I took a long, thoughtful sip of my coffee. “And you can’t just… retire? You’ve been at this job for—what—eons, and you can’t clock out?”
The Reaper paused, then leaned forward, her skull gleaming in the dim light. “I would retire if I could. But the paperwork is… well, it’s not just the filing. It’s the rules.” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling, as though the cosmos itself were watching. “You don’t just walk away from this job. There’s no pension, no retirement fund, and definitely no insurance. And if I retire, someone else has to take over. Someone who might not be as good at it. Someone who might decide to get all compassionate and mess up the whole system.”
I stared at her. “Wait. So, you’re telling me you don’t get a retirement plan?”
“Nope. No pension. No sick days. Not even any kind of decent job expenses. I’ve tried. They told me to ‘go to HR,’ and when I did, they handed me a brochure about ‘spiritual wellness,’ then tried to upsell me a 10-step program for feeling at peace with eternal existence.”
“Wow,” I said, incredulously. “That’s… terrible.”
The Reaper sighed deeply. The kind of sigh you make when you’ve just realized there’s no way out, and it’s fine because you’re used to it. Or it’s not fine, but you gave up. “Yeah. I tried taking a personal day once. Just one. I was feeling kind of down, you know? It happens. So, I filled out the proper forms and— bam —they denied it. ‘You must attend mandatory transcendence training first,’ they told me. So I sat through six hours of a cosmic wellness seminar where they handed out pamphlets about ‘letting go’ and ‘embracing the void,’ while I was expected to meditate in the presence of 500 other souls who were also dead but in varying stages of denial about it.”
“That sounds… horrible,” I said, cringing.
“Tell me about it. Do you know how hard it is to meditate while holding a scythe?” The Reaper shook her head. “And the worst part? When I got back, they made me fill out a post-wellness survey.”
I choked on my coffee. “A survey?”
“Oh yeah. They made me fill out a satisfaction survey to gauge how ‘centered’ I felt after the experience. Then they asked if I’d recommend the ‘transcendental meditation for soul-harvesters’ program to a friend. I said no, and they made me write a comment explaining why. Do you know how long it took me to type that comment on this keyboard with these skeletal fingers? Two hours.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Two hours? To fill out a comment about why you hated transcendental meditation? For a mandatory wellness program?”
“Exactly,” the Reaper grumbled, shifting in her chair with a clink. “And after all that, what did I get? Nothing. No vacation. No relaxation. Just more forms. No one ever told me about this side of the job. When I signed up for the gig, I thought I’d be, you know, snatchingsouls and delivering justice. Instead, I’m stuck here in a cubicle, collecting complaints and explaining to souls why they can’t have another chance at life. It’s like I’m the customer service representative for the afterlife, only I don’t get any of the perks.”
I stared at her. “So… why don’t you just quit?”
“Quit?” The Reaper gave a humorless laugh, her skeletal face creaking. “Quit? If I quit, the system falls apart. That’s why I can’t retire. There’s no one else who can handle the soul-collection business with my level of efficiency. And do you think anyone else could deal with the sheer whining from the newly deceased? No. I’m the only one who can keep things running smoothly. I’m too good at it.”
Talking about being a victim of your own success.
“But you hate it.”
“Of course I hate it! Who wouldn’t? You think I want to spend eternity managing paperwork and listening to souls gripe about their afterlife experiences? All I wanted was a little peace and quiet! A beach vacation with a cocktail, maybe, while I read The hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy for the hundrenth time. Just a dayoff where I don’t have to face an angry ghost or deal with… well, whatever you call this situation.” She gestured at the chaotic clutter of forms and file folders.
I leaned back in my chair, finally putting my coffee down. “I think you need therapy.”
The Reaper chuckled dryly. “I’d go, but… you guessed it: paperwork.”
And with that, she grabbed her scythe, adjusted her robe with a sigh, and turned to leave. “Duty calls. I’ve got another soul to ‘gently escort’ to the afterlife. Wish me luck with the ‘customer satisfaction’ form afterward.”
As she shuffled toward the door, I called after her, “Hey, next time you’re filling out a form, please remember to rate your experience with me. I’m aiming for five stars.”
Without turning, the Reaper gave a mock salute. “Yeah, yeah. If I survive the paperwork, I’ll make sure to give you a glowing review.”
And with that, she disappeared into the abyss of her eternal, paperwork-filled existence.
Becks couldn’t tell what annoyed her more: being the human who finally made first contact with a race of superior aliens or having to work despite this.
She could remember her abduction, a combination of a spaceship that underwhelmingly looked like a cyan FIAT 126 crossing her path and a violent impact. As she lay on the road that would lead her to the corner shop, her mind had time to register the embarrassment of being splayed on the tarmac in a hoodie, tracksuit pants and flip-flops. Then the cyan 126 hovered above her and – under its chassis – a passage shaped like a doorframe opened, a rectangle of blinding white light breaking up the dark colouring of the car’s underbelly. And when – stereotypically – she was tractor-beamed across its threshold, she found herself standing upright in a very posh office, way bigger than logic would expect from the interior of such a small vehicle. Mahogany wooden floor, walls and a desk of the same material. The only accent of colour, strongly contrasting the room, came from two bright yellow upholstered wingback chairs.
The room was very well lit, despite a lack of windows, by a series of chandelier-shaped lamps hanging on the walls.
She took a step forward and twisted her ankle, “Fuck…” she muttered, as she looked down: she was now wearing a pastel pink power suit and black heeled shoes.
She couldn’t walk on heels and she hated it.
“Ms. Rebecca Stafford?” A voice that sounded like five different children with a Scandinavian accent talking in chorus made her jump out of her skin.
She looked towards the voice.
On one of the chairs – empty just a moment ago – sat the most singular being Becks had ever seen. Clad in a blue suit with pineapple prints all over and a yellow shirt, there was a scrawny… man? His face looked gray / greenish and gills were intermittently opening behind his ears. On his face there was a pair of those joke glasses, the one with a fake nose, eyebrows, and ‘stache incorporated, and the lenses were covered by some cardbox with very badly drawn eyes upon it. The top of the head was covered by a bald cap.
The hands were hidden by blue latex gloves, of which several fingers were obviously empty. Around the midriff of the suit, something kept flopping under the clothes.
Becks stared at the figure with ping pong ball-shaped eyes and a slackened jaw until he repeated: “Rebecca Stafford?”
“Y…Yeah…”
“Rebecca! I am Bobby! I just want to say congratulations! You’ve been selected for a very exciting business opportunity!”
“Okay, sorry… No offence but…”
As she stammered some excuse to turn down whatever scam this creature was trying to pull on her, Becks slowly moved toward the door of white light she came from, keeping her eyes on a sprig of hair of the fake eyebrows that was stuck to the slimy skin just under the bald cap, but – as she turned to leave – she was confronted by the black mahogany wall.The door was gone, and they were boxed into the room.
“Hey… where is the, uhm…?”
“Rebecca.”
“Hm?”
“Why don’t you come here?”
Becks approached very slowly, both out of fear and because of her shoes.
“Here,” the four or five different voices of the creature named Bobby said, kindly, as one of the mostly empty gloves pushed a tall glass of water towards her.
Rebecca looked suspicious. As if in answer to that, the strange man said “I mean… why would I spike your drink? I’ve already abducted you.”
Becks shrugged at this and accepted the glass. “Thanks?” she said, confused, but kindly.
“Rebecca, you’ve been selected to represent your species in what is probably the biggest court case in your history. I think. Well, either way, it’ll look good on your CV.”
“My species?”
“Gonna explain something to you real quick. Rebecca, do you know what sea-monkeys are?”
Becks was blank for a few second. From when the weird flying 126 had hit her to now had only passed, what? A couple of minutes? And in that short period of time, the amount of absurd stuff she had to process was so enormous, that – after a few beats – her brain just decided not to process it. To stage a strike. So, she suddenly calmed down and decided against logic that what was definitely a non-human in a bad disguise asking her about sea-monkeys, of all things, was just another Thursday.
“Yeah, those weird prawns that come to life when you add water to them, aren’t they?”
Bobby was delighted, “Excellent!” he clapped his mostly-empty gloves, then pushed the joke-glasses up to his face.
“Well, brine shrimps, to be pedantic,” he carried on. “But still. See, you’re my client’s sea-monkeys,” he blurted out, letting a nervous laugh ending the sentence.
Becks looked at Bobby.
Bobby looked at Becks.
Bobby coughed to break the silence. It didn’t work.
“May I call you Becca?” He tried.
“No, I prefer Becks.”
“I see. Well, Becks, would you like to take a seat and a sip of that water?”
Becks nodded, plopped on the yellow armchair and took a gulp from the glass without moving her eyes from the indefinite spot she was staring at without blinking.
“Is there anything you’d like to say about what I just told you, Becks?”
“Well…”
“Yeeees?”
“When you say you, do you mean I am your client’s sea monkey, or all of humanity?”
“All of humanity. I did say Sea monkeys, plural.”
“That’s true, sorry.”
“Not a problem.”
“Ok, soooo… all of humanity is one individual’s pet?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Right.”
“I’m glad you took it so well,” Bobby beamed, ignoring the fact that Becks’ eyes had never moved from the spot on the wall they were staring at nor blinked.
“BLOODY WHAAAAATT??” Becks snarled, suddenly.
“Well, I thought you guys would have understood, by now, that you haven’t originated on planet Earth?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Planet Earth has the perfect conditions for our species!”
“Does it?”
“Duh!”
“Well, think about it: the planet has temperatures that range between minus eighty something and plus fifty something degrees Celsius, and you guys are only happy between seventeen and twenty-five-ish. Not to mention that seventy percent of the planet surface is covered in water that you cannot inhabit nor drink.”
“Yes, b- but…”
“BUT!” Bobby interrupted Becks’ stammer, “it’s good that you think that Earth is a suitable habitat for your species.” He concluded with a smile that threatened to dislodge the fake nose, which was promptly pushed back on the fish-like face.
“Snack?” one glove pushed a bowl of fish flake food towards Becks. When she shook her head, Bobby shrugged, scooped some of the food and fed it to the inside of his shirt collar. His midriff flopped squishably.
“Are you a bunch of fish in a suit?”
“A school of fish.”
Becks raised a warning eyebrow, so Bobby answered the question with a sigh: “We find that species are more comfortable dealing with representatives that look like them.”
Becks looked at the pulsating gills on Bobby’s neck. “I see,” she said.
“Hang on,” she carried on, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, “why is it good that I think Earth to be a suitable habitat for us? What is this biggestcourtcaseofourhistory you mentioned?”
“Oh well, it’s just that the UG has sued my client for animal cruelty…” Bobby trailed off.
“The UG?”
“The United Galaxies.”
“Right. And we are the animal who’s been mistreated.”
“Yes, we mean no offence by that.”
“None taken. So…?”
“So, my client has sent me here because we’d like you to officially agree that humanity has been taken care of in the best way possible and that my client doesn’t need to make any further arrangements moving forward.”
“Well… Society is a bit fucked up at the minute, and the planet is dying… so.”
“I’m confident we can get to an agreement.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, I do hate this part,” Bobby said, grabbing a heavy tome from next to his upholstered chair and dropping it open on the relevant section, on the sleek wood of the desk, “but as per interstellar law, we’re bound to conduct a good faith negotiation with a qualified member of the species…”
“I… I am the qualified…? And… and this is the good faith…?”
“Exactly! But you see, during the negotiation, the parties have no duty of care towards each other, and my client, unfortunately, does own the oxygen present in your atmosphere…” the fishes making up Bobby’s body made a sound like they were sucking air through their teeth, as if they were sorry to say that.
“Your client owns the oxygen? And… what? They’re just gonna take it?”
“Between you and I, you’re much better off just making a deal with my client.”
“But… how is this a negotiation? We’re going to die! Our planet is frying, our resources are running out! The ones in power aren’t giving us healthcare but are building space hotels…”
“Yeah, but that’s symptomatic of your society…”
“Society must be changed, then!”
“Also, we have to do this within today.”
“WHAT??”
“If an agreement isn’t achieved by end of business hours today, the case is dismissed.”
“Listen, I can’t do this… I do traffic tickets, why pick me?”
“We’d love a signed agreement immediately.”
“Oh God… You didn’t pick me because I am a good lawyer. I bet that you could pick anybody, as long as they’re technically qualified…”
“There were a lot of moving parts that our team had to consider…”
“You’re taking advantage of a loophole!” Becks stood up in the excitement, a finger pointing at Bobby.
“And it’s only good business to do so.”
An awkward silence suddenly exploded inside the room. Becks let herself fall back into the chair. She kicked the heeled shoes off her feet.
“You know…sometimes… You feel like you’re rubbish at your job. But – you know – then you tell yourself: ohno, you’rejustdepressed, therehastobesomeoneworseoutthere. I also have PMT today, this is really not the right time for me to realise this.”
“May I offer you a chocolate hash brownie? Is it too early for your species to do drugs?”
Becks looked at the clock above Bobby’s head. It said 9.29 am.
“It’s late enough,” she muttered. Bobby brought her a hash brownie.
As she chewed, Bobby tried to console her: “Oh come on, I’m sure it is just a coincidence you’ve been chosen. Maybe this is not your field, but I’m sure you’re good in what you do.”
Becks smiled a sad smile: “Well… I win sometimes…”
“You see?”
“Mainly when the cop doesn’t bother to show up… gotta love a no show!”
“See? Celebrate your victories!” Bobby cheered, pawing another fistful of fish food down his collar, as Becks finished her hash brownie.
For the next forty minutes or so, Bobby compiled the agreement that was to be signed by Becks, involving her in the process, though she only contributed to the conversation with groans.
Suddenly, her pupils grew very large, like a cat’s when focusing on a prey.
“Let me see that,” she said, grabbing the book Bobby had dropped on the desk.
“Hey, just a minute…” Bobby tried to protest.
Becks ignored him, instead making noises with her mouth as she hovered her finger above the page looking for something, until: “Here it is!! Whendisputingthesuitabilityofahabitat, thedefendingparty – that’s your client, he has been sued by the UG – willhavetherighttoahearingin the jurisdiction of said habitat. That’s Earth. You’re the representative, but your client has to actually be here to get a deal signed.”
“Well, I represent them…” Bobby said, but the squishy noise grew louder from inside his suit.
“And we must come to an agreement before the end of business today, you said. Earlier, you also said that you were sent here by your client. I take it they’re not local?”
“Well, they’re not in the galaxy, at the minute… some important business had to be taken care of…”
“And how long would it take them to come here to sign the agreement?”
“In Earth’s days?”
“In Earth’s days?”
“Please.”
A massive sigh escaped Bobby’s gills and after a long pause, his voices croacked: “About six thousands years.”
“A no show!!!” Becks jumped from the chair, both fists held up high in celebration.
Bobby shouted his frustration at losing the case, tentacles erupting from his collar, sleeves and from under his jacket.
Becks recoiled in horror.
Then he recomposed himself, “Sorry, that was very unprofessional of me. Congratulations on a successful negotiation. You’ll have to email the UG with the changes that you’d like for my client to apply to your planet. I’ll give you their email address.”
*
A few months later, Becks received the following email from the UG:
“Dear Rebecca Stafford,
We’ve reviewed the changes you’ve requested to your own natural habitat.
They were the following:
1) TV programs are not to invite as guests populist politicians. Alternatively, do not invite populist politicians equipped with mouths.
2) Both religious and secular authorities can wear funny costumes only during Carnival or on Halloween, exactly like everybody else.
3) All racists must become the ethnicity they hate. For white people hating black people, this will not extend to their penises.
4) Any person believing in a deep state can use the term “they” to indicate the hypothetical, evil, secret masters who control everything only the same amount of times they use the same term to refer to a non-binary person. If they run out of uses for the term “they,” the believers in the deep state will have to refer to the evil masterminds as “magic meanies.”
5) Whoever kneels to accept a knighthood from a royal figure anywhere in the world, won’t be allowed to stand up again.
6) Every singer, poet, and writer will be allowed to use the word “love” up to ninety-nine times. At the 100th use of the word, they’ll be punished by execution.
7) All of those who will try to convert other people to any religion using the phrase “It’s impossible that the perfect beauty of the universe was just random and not the creation of a divine mind” will be instantly infested with the taenia solium, colloquially known as the pork tapeworm, so that they can observe the perfect beauty created by the divine mind of their god from up close.
8) Every time a person will try to convince a person who isn’t their partner and didn’t ask for advice to have children, a kid from foster care will be immediately dispatched to their living room for them to parent for life. This will be repeated for every unsolicited sentence such as “Who will look after you when you’re old?” or “You will love kids when you’ll have yours.”
9) Every person who listens to music or watches videos loudly in public will get a pair of headphones welded to their ears.
10) For intellectual honesty, every video or program about UFO, ghosts, or miraculous apparitions, will have to feature a laughter track.
11) Every worker working for a business that they don’t own and votes right wing must have their wishes immediately granted: halved salary, sixty weekly hours, unpaid overtime, and two white hot pins in their nipples.
12) Deflect the orbit of the asteroid Apophis on Prince Andrew.
13) Every cliché, spoken or written, will cost £13 per letter.
14) All national anthems must be played with the anus.
15) Every man who puts his hands on a colleague, even “as a joke,” and even on “innocent” places such as arms, back, shoulders, or hips, will become fluorescent yellow for a week.
16) When someone is delivering a homily, a lecture, or any moral-ish sermon, a number of how many times they’ve masturbated in their life will flash above their heads. This is to maintain the right perspective.
These possible changes are pending reviews and the process will take between six and nine Earth’s decades.
You will be notified with the outcome as soon as one is reached.
Cantankerous Cockerel 