Greegs & Ladders Read online

  Long ago it was made public to the Greeg community that the congregation had not been taking the offerings of schmold to any secret volcano that is the living heart of Whatever It Is That Created Everything For the Sole Entertainment of the Greeg. They were merely putting the schmold in their own houses. The entire celebration of the Greegian deity is a scam perpetrated by an elite group of maniacal Greegs, who for some unknown reason must own more schmold than anyone else. Was the public upset? Not really. Their desire to compete over who has the most expensive schmold offering quickly trumped the anger of being ripped off.

  Greegs love showing off how much schmold they have, even if it results in no longer having the schmold.

  THE MIDDLE:

  of Carnivals and Things… but mostly of Things

  CHAPTER 11

  Zook and Naddy

  He sat upright in his cage as the sounds of jeering and screaming jarred him from his sleep.

  “Come on now, these people paid good money to see you three get it on.”

  Moments before he was swimming in an ocean of schmold. He didn’t know it was called schmold of course. Just knew it felt oh so good. Much better than being poked at with a pointed stick. Which he was at the moment. He farted and sneezed at the same time, sending globules of greenish, yellowish goo cascading down his hairy face. Momentarily sure that it must be schmold, he grabbed the snot and rubbed it all over himself. He got some in his eye which stung and burned. He decided to try and remedy this by jamming his fingers in his eyeballs to stop the pain. It didn’t work. It only made him yelp out with more pain. This woke up the other male in the cage. The other male in the cage flew into a rage, furious at being awoken from a fabulous dream. His dream involved having just decided what combination of rotations, spins and poses he would employ after running and jumping off of a 100 meter high dive springy board right into his own, brand new schmold pool.

  The other male picked up a pile of Greeg feces and rubbed it all over the first male’s face. To make things easier, we will henceforth call these two males Zook and Naddy. There is absolutely no reason to suspect these names have any significance, they are completely random.

  Zook, the first male, did not understand why his friend would share such nice stinky feces all over his face like that.

  “What a lucky break!” Thought Zook.

  Clearly, this terrific new stench and nauseating outward, physical appearance would guarantee that Zook would get to attempt first, third, and probably eighth as well today. His inability to comprehend Naddy’s reasoning infuriated Zook, leading him to grip Naddy by the back of the head and clang clang clang his good friend's face into the bars of the cage until it was all bloody. Just for good measure, Zook pissed all over Naddy’s bloody face.

  By this time the female had seen about enough. She was completely and utterly turned on. She revealed the sterility covers and the two males rushed over to see which one was to be chosen first, third, and most importantly, eighth.

  11 minutes had passed since Zook had first awoken from his nap.

  This was why Greegs were such a damned fine carnival attraction!

  CHAPTER 12

  Specters and Greeg-keepers

  Viewing this skeezy carnival show was a gathering of Algreenian fog-specters. They were in dire need of some high quality entertainment, having just finished a legendarily bad cruise of some of the more boring outer dimensions, including a tour of the famous invisible dimension. Life is much worse when everything is invisible, despite what was boasted about on travel posters. Carnival Greegs are highly recommended as a pick-me-up for anyone who has recently visited the invisible dimension, and so here were these Algreenian spectres drifting around waiting for the show.

  An impatient spectre tried to pick up a rock and throw it at Naddy but his spectral, non-existant hand merely passed right through the solid object. The spectre then asked the nearest living creature if they would do him the favor of throwing a rock at the Greegs. The creature obliged, throwing a rock at Naddy, further worsening his mangled appearance. While this was going on, Zook thrashed his arms about wildly. It was a ridiculously pointless thing to do.

  “We paid for a show!” yelled the rock-throwing instigator.

  “Yeah! A show! We want to see something!” chimed in the rest of the crowd.

  “Don’t you know we’ve just been through the invisible dimension?” screeched a belligerent specter. “Not a whole lot to see there! In fact, nothing at all.”

  The Greeg-keeper continued rapping on the cage bars with his electro-club. Greegs usually became obedient once the electro-club appeared. This particular Greeg-keeper was a tall goblin-like creature. He had fangs and claws and red eyes. His name was Reg. He was more frightening than his casually friendly name would suggest, being a tall goblin-like creature with fangs and claws and red eyes.

  “These specter-folk haven’t got all day,” growled Reg. “Or do they?” he added, turning to face the specters. “Are you lot dead? What’s the deal with all the floating and the translucence?”

  “No, we’re not dead,” replied one of the specters. “We are living creatures born in a ghostly form. When we die we become bodies of flesh and blood.”

  “That’s stupid. A bit backwards, don’t you think?” asked Reg.

  “I say the only thing that is backwards is the fact that we have paid you for a non-existent show, when in fact you should be paying us for the wasting of our time.”

  “I’m not sure you’ve even paid me,” said Reg. “All I’ve got is this invisible money. Can’t even see it to know if it’s there.”

  “We told you, that money is perfectly transferable from within the invisible dimension. Once you’re there you can trade the invisible money for any sort of bejewelled holograph-coins or whatever other foolish currency you’re trading in nowadays.”

  “Right,” said Reg. “I understand that part. Just not sure when I’ll ever bother to go to the invisible dimension, that’s all. This money will probably just end up sitting around taking up invisible space on my visible dresser.”

  “Not go to the invisible dimension? You must go to the invisible dimension,” said a specter in a manner snooty enough to suggest that anyone who doesn’t go to the invisible dimension is leading a wasted life.

  “I don’t get it, you’ve all been going off about how boring the invisible dimension is,” said Reg.

  “Yeah, but we’re specters. We’re practically invisible ourselves. We prefer to see solid objects to counterbalance our spectral state. The invisible dimension might be a nice change-up for you though. I hear one of flesh and blood feels thinner while there.”

  Reg grew annoyed. “Look, I’m never going to visit the invisible dimension. The cost of travelling there is way more than what I’ll make trading in the money. Plus I think it’s all a scam.”

  Caught up in their heated discussion, Reg and the specters failed to notice the Greeg show starting in a tremendous way. There was a great battle over who would make the coveted eighth attempt, with Zook prevailing because of his aforementioned newly acquired stench. The show was over by the time the specters focused their attention back on the cage. Because they didn’t see anything Reg was forced to refund their invisible money. Unbeknownst to Reg, specters are not great liars. The pouch of invisible money was indeed real, and would have fetched several islands worth of bejewelled holograph-coins, granted Reg could handle the mind-shattering experience of crossing the invisible dimension’s psychic threshold, which of course he couldn’t, being an imbecilic goblin. After the specters drifted away, Reg approached the cage.

  “Those are good customers we lost because of you!” he yelled at Zook and Naddy.

  Naddy tried to explain how well the show had gone, and that it was the audience's fault for missing out.

  “Never mind,” said Reg as he walked away from the cage. “Useless Greegs. Just go back to dreaming about your green pools or whatever it is I hear you muttering about in your sleep.”


  Zook thrashed his arms about wildly.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dr. Rip T. Brash Makes a Wager

  Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third was neither a doctor nor was he royalty. He wasn’t the third of anything, he’d never been to school and he wasn’t really so much of a ‘he’ either. It’s just weird calling him an ‘it’ but he had no discernible sexual orientation. Not because he lacked sexual organs. Rip had no discernible sexual orientation precisely because he had so many sexual organs. He had an absolutely ridiculous assortment of penises, vaginas, coil rods, flipper flaps, egg baskets, cram rams, biddle twocks, horm guffles, abble taters, phrish kerrings, wodder musks, mickle shoots, marrinvioles, and all sorts of other exotic pieces of procreation and pleasure. At this point, Rip couldn’t really remember which ones he was born with, and which he’d had surgically implanted or removed. He was a hulky thing. A clunky, yet carefully put together specimen. He had many eyes, some of which were capable of site. He had a few brains, some of which were capable of thought. He had four arms, three legs, nine tentacles, eight nipples, three beards (but only one chin)… in general he had a lot of extraneous parts. He was like a car with too many accessories, many of which served no practical purpose. Practicality was not what Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third was all about. Rip was brash though, especially when wildly intoxicated at a carnival, which he most certainly was. He was prone to making outrageous and outlandish claims when drunk. Unfortunately for him, his friends were prone to taking him up on these claims and bets then collecting when he failed miserably to achieve them. This is likely the explanation for most, if not all, of his sexual organs. They weren’t really friends as much as they were leeches. This was so true that it was common for intergalactic debt counselors to suggest to cash strapped clients “Perhaps you should try going drinking with Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third at a carnival.” Nobody knew how he had so much money to lose on outlandish bets. It’s true every once in awhile he would actually succeed in the task laid out for himself in a loud mouthed, drunken stupor the night before, but not nearly enough times to be breaking even. On this day Rip was more drunk than usual, and so his primary mouth was flapping more than usual. Sensing a real chance to not only cover his debts, but perhaps wind up owning a few thousand civilizations as well, Rip’s drinking partner, Jim, wasn’t taking Rip up on any of his bets early on in the night. He instead downplayed them as effeminate and pathetic in the hopes that Rip would continue one-upping himself until the bet was so outlandish and impossible to achieve that Jim could never lose.

  This is, of course, exactly what Rip did. Beginning with a paltry claim that he could stick his whole head up the anus of a Graffling Wocker Frit, spin around three times, return to the bar and still go home with the prettiest four headed being in the building, Rip eventually got so drunk and ran his mouth to such a degree that he made the most preposterous drunken wager ever made in the long and glorious history of preposterous drunken wagers.

  This was it.

  Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third opened his drunken face and guzzled back his eleventh Crammington Krish Fortini (about ten and a half more than one should engulf in a lifetime). He slammed the Jardian glass bottle on the top of the bar and shouted out “I got it!”

  At this point the entire bar had given up whatever false conversations they’d been having and were all just focusing on Rip’s self imposed escalating stakes, waiting to see what ridiculous final challenge Jim would pull the trigger on.

  Rip grabbed Jim by the hairy tube dangling from the back of his neck and dragged him to the Greeg cage. A crowd of about 200 visible beings, the odd specter and several recording devices followed the pair out to what had surely become the most interesting thing to happen at the carnival in days. Rip, always a showman, clambered on to the side of the Greeg cage, barely held on to the bars with one hand and held up his twelfth CKF with the other.

  “I, Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third, do solemnly declare in the name of all things…”

  Several shouts of ‘get on with it’ and other such encouragements were volleyed in his general direction, along with several pounds of half eaten food, severed limbs and hunks of hard granite.

  “Fine, fine, no sense of tact and ceremony but fine, here it is. I bet you, Grahm…”

  “Jim!” Corrected the mob.

  “Gerry, right, I bet you my priceless fleet of Obotron 7 Space Ships, er, Jill, that I, me, yes, can take a lowly, stupid, useless carnival Greeg, and have them smarter than enough to pass as a decent, semi intelligent creature, person, thing… in two years. Smarter than all of you even!”

  The mob went silent. Then a laugh broke out from the back and collectively rolled on up to the front. Jim, rolling around on the ground, unable to believe his luck, screamed out “Yes, yes! Hahahaha YES!”

  CHAPTER 14

  a Wager with Extraordinarily Off-Kilter Odds Elicits Enough Attention as to Shatter the Planetary Record for Most Teleportations in a Nanosecond

  The crowd buzzed over the absurd wager. While trying to imagine the scenario of an intelligent Greeg, the circuit boards of many fine robots were forever liquefied. Things got way out of control when a random spectator phoned his debt counsellor to announce that Dr. Rip just made his most foolish bet ever. After that, word quickly spread that if you could make it to the Greeg cage on the 5th planet from Tralfar in the next half hour then you might also be retiring in the next two years. Cash-strapped clients swamped in debt (hoping to make a bet of their own) immediately flew into a frenzy of action. Many sought out the nearest teleportation booth. On particularly crime-ridden planets you could see lineups extending miles into the horizon. The fugitives patiently waited in line for days. It is not difficult to muster such patience when you’re a guilty tax-evader scheduled for dismemberment.

  Debt clients began to materialize all around the Greeg cage. They appeared in random locations, causing certain spectres to suffer the embarrassing act of Bodily Displacement Syndrome.

  Rip let go of the Greeg cage and turned to face the ever-multiplying mob. He relished their attention, and was for once happy that a debt counsellor had been phoned. To add a layer of theatricality he paced back and forth in front of the cage. He tripped over a ledge and decided sitting down was the best thing for him to do at the moment.

  “I see by the sudden appearance of so many desperately poor people that I have made a good wager.”

  “I’ll bet you can’t teach a Greeg how to make a jug of frozen orange juice in six months!” screamed a desperately poor Snail-oid from the back of the crowd.

  “Everyone listen here,” spoke Rip, “you hopelessly debt-ridden lot might as well teleport back to your places of hiding and await your inevitable dismemberment, because this particular bet is for my old friend Joe, and for Joey alone.”

  Jim laughed at the thought of being Rip’s friend.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Rip. “Is the bet too good for just you?”

  “No, no,” said Jim. “You were right before. The bet was made to me alone. All these other leeches… I mean, all these leeches should just teleport out of here.”

  Some of the leeches vanished. The ones scheduled for an earlier dismemberment stuck around, clinging to the hope of a life-saving bet.

  “What say you, Johnny?” asked Rip. “Do you take the bet?”

  Jim paused for effect. “I humbly accept your wager.”

  “Ha ha!” laughed Rip, clapping his hands. “All we need now is a witness.”

  “WITNESS!” shouted four thousand random members of the mob.

  “I guess that's enough witnesses,” said Jim. “It’s an official challenge. You will acquire a Greeg, and within two years you will make it more intelligent and presentable than anyone here. If you do not, you will give me your priceless fleet of Obotron 7 space ships. I want all the windows scrubbed. And full tanks of gas too. I loathe hunting for investment bankers.”

  “You know,” whispered Rip, “I think this might be my greatest wager ever.”

  J
im thought he saw tears welling up in a few of Rip’s eyes. Suddenly a severed hand that had been momentarily caught up in a time-pocket flew through the air and smacked Rip in the face.

  “I’ll leave you to the business of finding a Greeg,” said Jim as he walked off in the nearest direction away from Rip.

  Once the autograph session ended and the crowd dispersed, Rip approached the Greeg-keeper’s tent.