Greegs & Ladders, Zack Mitchell, Danny Mendlow [read with me .TXT] 📗

initial interest. The film was permanently shelved, although some spoke of revival with hushed reverence. The prop-ships eventually drifted into space and found their way to Garbotron, where they were now being raided by an immortal pair of well-seasoned travellers of time and space.

“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.

 

CHAPTER 40

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