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.
You can just chuck your dirty clothes in a washing machine rather than having to haul them to the nearest river and start scrubbing by hand; you can turn water into ice by using your freezer like a demigod, rather than having to wait for winter and try to preserve it; and -most importantly- you have a tiny glowing rectangle in your pocket that can give you, at any given moment, the sum total of human knowledge. Which is, of course, why we all use it to stare slack-jawed at increasingly apocalyptic headlines while ignoring our increasingly apocalyptic sinks.
Yes, I’m talking about doomscrolling. The charming digital ritual where, instead of sleeping, you spend hours flicking through increasingly catastrophic news, updates, and social media posts until your anxiety resembles a squirrel who’s both in a very deep k-hole and holding a sparkler in a thunderstorm.
It’s the 21st-century version of reading The Book of Revelation, only with more GIFs and fewer dragons.
The beauty of doomscrolling is in its elegant efficiency. In just five minutes, you can learn that:
– The climate is turning Earth into a rotisserie chicken,
– The economy is playing an elaborate prank on your bank account,
– And some man in Greater Manchester has tried to have sex with a pile of leaves (I wish I was making this up for comedic purposes.)
All while an influencer is sobbing on TikTok because their oat milk was too “mainstream.”
And it’s addictive. Like Pringles for your prefrontal cortex. Once you scroll, the algorithm whispers sweet nihilism into your ear: “One more post. It might be hopeful. It won’t be, but it might.” And you believe it. Because hope, like that guy on your Tinder, is always slightly disappointing but weirdly persistent.
Let’s talk about the algorithm for a moment. The Algorithm (capital A, because it’s clearly achieved deity status) doesn’t care about your mental health. It wants engagement. And nothing engages quite like doom. Joy is polite and leaves after one drink. Doom lingers, drinks all your wine, and starts reading conspiracy theories aloud at 3am.
Even the news headlines are playing the game. “Experts Warn of Imminent Global Collapse (But It’s Behind a Paywall)”—because if the world is ending, it’s very important that only premium subscribers know about it. You wouldn’t want to die uninformed and poor.
And don’t get me started on the comments section. It’s like watching a pack of particularly screeching baboons flinging shit at each other from their respective mums’ basements using only emojis and spelling errors. Yet, somehow, you can’t look away. Because what if SickOnMyDuck94 is right about the bees being CIA drones?
We doomscroll not because we enjoy it, but because it gives us the illusion of control. If we just know enough, maybe we can outwit the impending doom. But knowledge without action is just anxiety in a trench coat, and meanwhile, you’ve got carpal tunnel and haven’t seen sunlight since 2021.
This is what they call “information overload” – a phrase which, by the way, is itself an alarming understatement. “Overload” makes it sound like there’s too much information to process, whereas the reality is there’s just too much bad information, leaving your brain in a state of permanent, low-level panic. It’s like someone trying to drown you in the least satisfying way possible, one news story at a time, each one a tiny gulp of misery that never quite kills you but leaves you gasping for air. There is no release. There is no resolution. There’s only more doom.
But fear not! There is a solution. It’s called “putting your phone down” and “touching grass,” both of which sound suspiciously like things the government would want you to do.
So, yes. Doomscrolling: the modern pastime of spiraling existential dread, now available in dark mode.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check the news again. Just in case something terrible hasn’t happened in the last eight minutes.
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.
I wish I could claim that politics is terrible in a specific country.
It isn’t.
The world’s eyes are trained on American politics. I’m not going to spend a lot of words on it, but if you work as a P.R. for any organisation and- before the welcome party is even over – you’re already pulling overtime deciding how to dress up a Sieg Heil salute for the media, you might want to open Indeed and update your CV, because it’s going to be a long four years.
But I live in England, and politics has been ridiculous for a while, here, too. I used to live in Italy during Berlusconi’s prime, and guess what? It was terrible, there, too. And somehow it has managed not to improve after he died, either.
God, I just turned 36 and – in politics years – I feel like I’m aeons old. I spent 20 years under Berlusconi’s shadow alone. You get a lighter punishment for killing someone.
My point is that watching the electorate choosing a leader feels like watching a post apocalyptic soap opera. Not a good one, either, with clever writing, plot twists, and tridimensional characters. No. We get the villain (the politicians who will inevitably get elected) telling the hero (the electorate) to slathe their body in honey. Then the hero gets swarmed, stung and bitten by wasps and flies, like in the third canto of Dante’s Inferno. Every episode for twenty seasons. And the hero still hasn’t connected the dots.
After twenty seasons of the villain telling the hero to cover themselves in honey, the hero finally understands why they’re always tormented by insects: it’s because women have a right to abortion! And the villains gets elected once again.
Sometimes, the villain will openly post pictures of them with the CEO of Asbestos inc., and tell everybody that they will start shoving asbestos into teddybears.
“But they mean well,” the hero will coo.
After a lifetime of this, I’m starting to see democracy akin to placing a group of toddlers next to an infinity pool filled with fuel, shoving a box full of matches in their pudgy hands, and then congratulating ourselves because this is clearly the best system we can come up with.
But the truth is that I’m just being unfair and jaded. This could work.
This could work, but.
We’ve all had to deal with people. We’ve all heard comments so ignorant that left us speechless. Comments that are followed by an awkward silence broken solely by the sound of your bollocks cascading to the ground.
There’s a reason why, election after election, we’re getting closer and closer to totalitarianism. We can still save ourselves, but if you think that doing nothing and hoping that a collective consciousness will be suddenly ignited by mainstream media, then I have some flying pigs to sell you.
There’s a famous, very old book called The Betrothed by Italian novelist Alessandro Manzoni. In it, a guy called Renzo needs to see a lawyer because of reasons, and decides to bring him some chickens as a gift (it’s set in the 17th century.) So he grabs a couple of chickens by their feet, and goes. As he walks, the chickens – now finding themselves dangling upside down and facing each other – start pecking at each other.
We’re like Renzo’s chickens.
Instead of focusing on the hand carring us as an offering to a rich somebody and start a class war, we’re too busy pecking at each other in an endless culture war.
The problem isn’t just that we are gullible; it’s that we actively choose not to learn. The educational systems, which were once designed to foster critical thinking and debate, have become little more than factories churning out passive consumers rather than informed citizens. The irony is that in an age of unprecedented access to information, we seem more ignorant than ever. We are so overwhelmed with data that we can no longer discern fact from fiction, truth from spin. Worse still, the tools designed to help us learn — social media, news outlets, online forums — have become instruments of manipulation, drowning out any meaningful discussion with a cacophony of misinformation.
And so, the cycle continues. The electorate votes, the politicians continue to lie, and the machinery of totalitarianism grows ever more efficient. One right at the time, freedom is shaved off. It doesn’t come in the form of a dramatic coup or an overt military dictatorship (not yet, at least,) it comes in subtler way.
Like a predator that doesn’t shove you in a van to spirit you away, but undermine your confidence with venomous narcissism, controls who you can see, keeps you financially dependent… until fear of upsetting the captor becomes the only reality we know.
No one’s stopping you from speaking out, they’re just making it so inconvenient that you stop doing it.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. The electorate can still save itself, but only if it wakes up and takes responsibility for its own education. The real work begins now — outside the classrooms, away from the politicians, and in the places where actual knowledge resides: in books, in conversations, in critical thinking. It’s time for a revolution of the mind, one that demands self-education, asks uncomfortable questions, and, above all, refuses to be spoon-fed lies.
There are books, there are podcasts, there are actual experts out there, and, no, they don’t appear on your social media feed between influencers doing the Macarena.
Surround yourself with good people.
Organising is the next step. Once the electorate begins to understand the depth of the problem, it must come together to challenge the system. The power lies not in individual protests or isolated cries of dissent, but in collective action, in the shared will to demand real change. No more blind obedience. No more accepting the status quo. The future of democracy depends on the ability of the people to recognise the wolf in sheep’s clothing and to say, “Enough.”
If we don’t act, we’ll find ourselves in a society where questioning anything is considered subversive, and the only “truth” is what’s been handed down from on high. If you want democracy to survive, you need to read, you need to ask questions, and most importantly, you need to start holding politicians accountable.
Or soon, we won’t be in the driver’s seat anymore.
Or rather, we’ll still be.
Like a toddler holding a steering wheel while the car’s being driven by a drunk uncle who’s just trying to get to the pub.
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 