Greegs & Ladders (31 page)

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 were coming from all over.

Many, if not
all, were packed with Carnival Greegs.

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...

Excerpts from
the

Dishwashing Chronicles

(as Accurately Quoted from a Tattered
14
^th
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 724
^th
revolution in the 419
^th
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.