Greegs & Ladders (28 page)

Prollk sat
down. He promptly threw his microphone into the ocean.

“No one will
be able to hear you if you throw your microphone in the ocean,”
said the reporter. “Someone get him a new microphone!”

“No!” said
Prollk. “No microphones. I have a loud voice. They can hear me just
fine. Start the interview.”

“Actually,
they can't hear anything.”

“Who cares,”
said Prollk. “There's hardly anyone here.”

“Are you
joking? The audience is in the millions.”

“What?” said
Prollk. His disbelief was so genuine that it became apparent he was
not fully aware of his surroundings. “Aren't I performing stand-up
comedy right now? The crowd isn't very good tonight. Barely a dozen
people, all mingling around in the back making noise with their
cell phones and clinking glasses. Who can get a laugh in this
dump?”

“Just look out
there,” said the reporter, pointing to the endless vista of
spectators. “There are millions of people gathered on this planet
for the specific reason of listening to what we have to say. When
you throw your microphone in the ocean you are negating their very
reason for being here. Are you aware the fuel cost of coming here
has bankrupted at least 20% of the crowd?”

“Doesn't
matter,” said Prollk. “I won't use a microphone.”

“Why?” asked
the reporter.

“To be
infuriatingly random, because I do not approve of this whole
scene.”

“I see,” said
the reporter. “Nonetheless, we would like to have Dr. Julmook ask
you a few questions. Is that okay?”

“Yes. But only
a few questions.”

“Is it true,”
began Dr. Julmook, “that you are completely insane?”

“Yes,” replied
Prollk, who's words were now being shown in subtitles on the big
screen.

“Is it true
you are immortal?”

“Yes.”

“Where is this
immortality elixir you have taken? We would like to have some so we
can sell it for lots of money.”

“There isn't
any more. I took the last of it.”

“Oh,” said Dr.
Julmook. “Is it also true that--”

“Interview
over,” interrupted Prollk. “I said a few questions. I'm going now,
because I disapprove of this whole scene.”

Prollk left
the stage. No one tried to stop him.

“Maybe Janet
can answer some more questions,” said the reporter. “Tell us what
became of your leaders?”

“We don't
know, but if they were somehow still alive we would definitely try
to kill them. We always took comfort in knowing that Prollk would
be able to exact our revenge.”

“Wouldn't they
deserve a second chance?”

“No. They were
the worst leaders imaginable.”

Suddenly Rip
stood up. “THEY WEREN'T THAT BAD!” he yelled.

“What?” asked
Janet.

Only the
surrounding thousand or so people had heard Rip, so the message was
passed along through the crowd. By the time it reached the stage it
had been added to with the usual string of non sequiturs that
inevitably comes with playing a game of telephone amongst millions
of wackos.

“Who said
that?” asked Janet.

“I DID!”
yelled Rip, once again needing the majority of the crowd to relay
the message.

Wilx, Rip and
I were now on the big screen. Rip's identity was kept safe by the
specter costume.

“It's YOU!”
yelled Janet as she recognized Wilx and I.

“Uh-oh,” I
said. I turned to face Rip. He was already gone. Somehow he'd found
the time to write a note and leave it on his chair. It read:

Got my own
ride. Stowed away with a proto-star hopper.

Meet you at
Grebular. Can't stay in this place.

“We'd better
get out of here as well,” said Wilx as he began fumbling through
his pockets. “Where's that stupid floating elevator remote?” he
asked himself.

“That was our
old ship, remember?” I said. “Our new ship doesn't have a floating
elevator.”

“Oh yeah,”
said Wilx just as he found the remote, which was then thrown into
the ocean in the spirit of Prollk.

“What are we
going to do?” I asked. There were many security guards looking in
our direction, all of whom were holding clubs and nets.

“I don't
know,” said Wilx as he continued to empty his never-ending pockets.
Piled on the chair next to him was quite a collection of unknown
electronic gizmos and other strange inventions.

“What are all
those things?” I asked.

“Not entirely
sure,” he replied. “Most of this is highly laughable technology
from a distant past. I only keep it in the off-chance I must return
to those pasts. But one of these gadgets might be useful given our
current time-frame and dilemma.”

“You don't
even know what all these things do?”

“I remember
what some of them do,” said Wilx as he frantically pressed random
buttons and switches.

“What's this
thing?” I asked, holding up a donut-shaped micro-chip console.

“That is an
Instantaneous Self-Destruct Remote,” said Wilx. “One press of that
button and you are immediately guided into the nearest black
hole.”

I chucked it
away. The security guards were moving in fast. We were probably
going to be banished to the Invisible Dimension. Maybe thrown into
another Space-Maze if we were lucky. It was more likely they were
simply going to bury us in the bottommost layer of the most
particularly disgusting region of Garbotron. We still had a couple
minutes before they would reach us from across the crowd.

“So, are you
ever going to explain your mysterious ability to produce the amount
of items that couldn't fit in the pockets of a dozen coats?” I
asked Wilx. I wasn't sure if I even cared about the mystery or if I
was just trying to strike up one last free conversation before
being captured. Wilx evidently felt the same, for he surprised me
by delving into the story instead of saying it was a bad time for
exposition.

“This coat I
always wear, I bought it at the estate auction of a dead
genius-inventor. I didn't know it was special. I just needed a lab
coat and it was going for a good price. No one else knew either,
otherwise it would have cost a fortune. I quickly discovered the
pockets never seemed to end, but rather extended into another
dimension. A dimension I now use as an infinite storage
locker.”

Just when we
thought the scene couldn't get any crazier, a loud disembodied
voice suddenly announced:

“
INTERNATIONAL AGREEMENTS AND NATIONAL LAWS PROTECT
COPYRIGHTED MOTION PICTURES, VIDEOTAPES AND SOUND RECORDINGS.
'UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION, OR DISTRIBUTION OF COPYRIGHTED MOTION
PICTURES CAN RESULT IN SEVERE CRIMINAL AND CIVIL PENALTIES UNDER
THE LAWS OF YOUR COUNTRY.

'THE INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL POLICE ORGANIZATION – INTERPOL,
HAS EXPRESSED ITS CONCERN ABOUT MOTION PICTURE AND SOUND RECORDING
PIRACY TO ALL OF ITS MEMBER NATIONAL POLICE FORCES. RESOLUTION
ADOPTED AT INTERPOL GENERAL ASSEMBLY, STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN, SEPTEMBER
8, 1977
.”

The guards
bearing down on us were curious enough to stop pursuit and look
around for the origin of the amplified voice. Hadn't all the
microphones had been thrown into the ocean by Prollk?

A parked
spaceship de-cloaked itself. A door opened. A ramp extended. A
squadron of 24 robots emerged.

The robots
were met with incredible bouts of laughter from the crowd. After
all, the technology that had created them was of vastly poorer
quality than anything the crowd had ever seen. They looked rickety
and harmless, yet they were programmed to be able to uphold their
strict orders with extreme force. All looked identical, about 3
feet tall and capable of motion with dual wheels. Each were
emblazoned with the S.S.R.S. logo across their chest.

Also, each of
them were installed with their very own nuclear bomb.

“It's the
S.S.R.S!” someone screamed. “Run!”

“What's the
S.S.R.S?” asked Wilx.

“
We are
the
STOCKHOLM SWEDEN ROBOT SQUAD
!” answered the robots.

They seemed to
speak with a collective voice. “We have been alerted to a gross
perpetuation of movie piracy! Where are the criminals? Where are
the ones who had unauthorized film screenings?”

“We don't
understand!” said one of the reporters.

“Our piracy
homing beacon led us to this planet. The data shows that for the
last several thousand years there have been films playing through
Sky-Projection Mode to an entire civilization of nonpaying
creatures,” said the robots. “The initiative set forth by our
creators on September 8, 1977 in Stockholm Sweden declares we are
owed royalties and interest for this grievous theft. Now where are
the ones who played the movies?” asked the robot again.

The crowd was
silent.

“If the
criminals do not come forth,” said the robots, “we will be forced
to punish everyone here by way of nuclear detonation.”

“What's
nuclear?” asked the reporter.

“We'll blow
you all up,” clarified the robots.

A legion of
fingers pointed at the specters.

“It was them!”
cried the crowd.

The robots
turned to face the specters. “Are you the ones who had unauthorized
screenings of the following films?” they asked. A long list of many
popular motion picture titles suddenly appeared on the
big-screen.

The specters,
being dead and with nothing to fear, pled guilty to the
charges.

“
You
will come with us,” said the robots. “We are taking you to the
prison planet known as Plorix III. You will spend the remainder of
eternity in a soul-crushingly grey atmosphere of concrete walls and
anti-nutritional, overly-microwaved meals served on pink plastic
trays. There will be no screenings of any films, authorized
or
unauthorized.”

The specters
explained how they weren't going anywhere, and that they were free
to watch whatever movies they wanted.

“If you do not
comply, we will detonate the nuclear bombs.”

“Now might be
a good time to leave,” I whispered to Wilx.

“Can you
swim?” he asked.

“Of
course.”

“Good, grab
one of these laser-guns,” he said, at last finding a useful
item.

“Why do I need
a laser-gun?” I asked.

“Ocean-monsters. We're going to have to swim to our ship. It's the
only chance of escape.”

“It is?”

“Yes. None of
these nuts are immortal enough to survive the Hroon Ocean. Now be
prepared for the shock in temperature change. The water here is as
cold as it gets.”

“It is?”

“No more
questions,” said Wilx as he pushed me into the freezing ocean.

We swam
rapidly, shooting at the mass of monsters who currently wished for
nothing more than to savagely dine on our exotic flesh. The
monsters were easily deterred. They quickly sent out word to all
other monsters that we were not worth the effort or the severed
tentacles.

Wilx was a
genius for suggesting we swim. We were much safer in the water than
on the surface. Anyone alive wouldn't dare to follow us, from fear
of freezing or monsters, as well as their problem of needing to
breathe underwater. All these factors did not apply to us
immortals. The only real threat came from the specters, who were
able to telepathically heckle the most vulnerable part of our
subconscious. It took everything we had to hold off their
indomitable will.

My limbs
were jelly from the vigorous swimming. For a moment I thought I
might just give up and sink to the bottom. Wilx grabbed my arm and
dragged me the few remaining meters. He immediately set the ship
to
Get-Us-Out-Of-Here-Right-Now
Mode. Our ship, in its impossible ways, decided to
create a diversion by materializing an exact replica ship (complete
with ultra-realistic robotic mannequins strategically placed in
front of the windows) in our place The real ship turned invisible
and took off.

For hours
after the press conference ended, various groups of curious people
tried to enter the fake ship. The specters were of course
particularly intent on entering. When this proved impossible, they
compromised by taking up the hobby of shouting carefully crafted
threats and insults from outside the partially frosted windows.
They took turns rotating between doing the heckling or floating
around a writer's table brainstorming the best jokes. The duplicate
ship went on to perpetually drift through space, always being
trailed by a least a few Specters heckling the subconscious mind of
robotic mannequins.

Who are the
Movie Police?

On a side
note, the nuclear bombs were not set off. Although the robots were
fully capable of performing such an act, they were still feeble
things who could only perform about a half dozen different physical
movements with zero fluidity. One thing they didn't have was a
turning neck. Someone from the crowd noticed this, then merely
crept up behind the robots and pushed them into the ocean. Their
brain functions and nuclear detonating capabilities were
immediately shorted out. The crowd wasn't exactly sure what they
had survived or why, but they applauded nonetheless.

Back on the
ship, Wilx asked me what the robots were all about. I was
well-informed on the subject.

“Those robots
came from Earth,” I said.

“Really?”

Rip was not
here to bemoan another lengthy info-dump, so I told the story
freely.

“Yes, they
were invented in the Earth year 1977 by a group of anti-piracy
movie moguls. The plan was to set loose a free-roaming squad of
robot police to make sure no one watched a movie without having
paid through the teeth for it. Naturally, criminals were to be
rounded up and placed on a secluded island prison. One of the
inventors foolishly pitched the idea of intelligent robots with
speech-boxes that claim to be equipped with nuclear bombs in order
to frighten criminals into utter compliance. Everyone else agreed
it was too great a lie to believe, so instead the robots were to be
issued with more practical measures of force like machine guns and
pepper-spray. However somewhere in the path of paperwork the orders
were completely misinterpreted, and the robots were not only
programmed to say they have bombs, but they were actually installed
with fully functioning nukes, the detonation of which was entirely
up to the whim of the robot.