“Our shuttle has landed sir but there’s problem.”
“We don’t have time for problems Jenkins, we have a Universe to conquer. What’s the hold-up?”
“It would appear Earth’s leader is temporarily unavailable sir.”
“Unavailable! What is it with these tin pot planets and their jumped up rulers. If he’s not there get someone else to sign the papers.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that sir. It has to be the Earth’s leader or the document is invalid. Intergalactic Commission Order No. 134531 states we cannot invade, occupy or destroy any known planet unless a treaty of surrender has first been signed by the legitimate leader of that said planet.”
“Damn the Commission and their bureaucracy! Have we any idea when this person will be available?”
“Apparently his diary is free all day Wednesday sir.”
“Better make an appointment for first thing then. And as soon as the damned document is signed Jenkins, I want this grimy little planet obliterated.”
“Yes, sir. In the meantime can I suggest we use this down time to deal with Mars and Saturn. The paperwork has been cleared. We can easily destroy them both and be back in Earth’s orbit by late Tuesday.”
“It’s Billy here boss. I’ve found the car. Just where you said it would be.”
“Good lad Billy. Look on top of the front tyre, driver’s side, you should find the ignition key.”
“Got it, boss. What now?”
“I need you to get it valeted Billy. I’m taking the wife out for an anniversary dinner tonight. I want the motor looking at it’s best. Take care how you drive it. Don’t want to find any scratches.”
“Oh and Billy, you’ll find a dead body in the boot. Can you dispose of that as well? There’s a good lad.”
A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of Kent Bonham
“You expect me to live here? I’m sorry but I have my reputation to think about.”
“Sorry Johnny, this is the best I could do. It’s better than a lot of the places I’ve looked at. At least this one’s still standing.”
“Sir Johnathon, if you don’t mind Peter.Remember, you’re my agent, not a long lost friend. I’m from royal blood, you know. Did I ever tell you about that descendant of mine, Sir Horace Fitzgerald? He fought alongside William the Conqueror.”
“Yes Johnny, sorry, Sir Johnathon, you’ve told me that story a number of times. Now, about this place, you in or not?”
“I suppose so. But only until you find something more up market. More me. By the way, what happened to the last occupant?”
“He got exorcised by some local vicar. Apparently he…”
“Spare me the details Peter, there’s a good fellow.”
“Don’t worry Sir Jonathan, you’re made of firmer stuff than that. Now, I’ve got a party coming in at midnight. Make a good job of frightening them and this could be a nice little earner. Maybe a couple of appearance with your bloody head under your arm. That always finishes off any sceptics”
A 199-word story for Sunday Photo Fiction.
Photo courtesy of Mike Vore.
The car screeched to a stop.
“That’s it, Billy, I’ve had enough. If you think you can do better, you drive!”
Before Billy could answer Debbie had flung off her seatbelt and was clambering out of the car.
“Debs, don’t be like that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t having a go at you. It’s just this road is so quiet and this darkness is making me jumpy. Please, Debs, get back in the car.”
There was an ominous silence. Billy knew there was only one thing worse than his wife being angry and that was her not talking to him. He sighed, realizing he had a lot of making up to do. Climbing out of the car he said,
“Come on Debs. Talk to me, please. Tell you what, why don’t I drive for a bit and give you a rest. And I promise, no more moaning. What do you say, Debs, do you want me to drive?”
Billy walked to the back of the car expecting to find his wife standing there, arms folded, with that practiced, ‘I’m not happy with you’ look on her face, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Debs, where are you? Come on, don’t be daft, it’s too dark for playing silly games. Debs …?”
The hand over her mouth and the knife at her throat stopped Debbie from answering her husband.