The quarters were cramped in the back office of Hipster Hutt. There was barely enough room for us to huddle together on the floor. I missed the luxurious space and cornucopia of supplies provided by Price Town.
Blandie, who’d discovered Alien Jones’ space phone, wasn’t doing much to reassure me that saving her was worth it.
Alien Jones grabbed his aching head.
“I’ve traveled from one end of the universe to the other and I swear humans are the only beings who react to a being they aren’t sure of by kicking it in the face,” the Esteemed Brainy One said.
Ignoring her victim, Blandie used AJ’s space phone to take one selfie after another to post on Randombook, a popular social media site catering to both East and West Randomtown.
“Hashtag Zombie Apocalypse,” Blandie said as she typed with her thumbs then posed for another one.
“She certainly is in love with herself,” VGRF noted.
The duck face selfie – a mystery even to the Esteemed Brainy One
“Why do Earth females insist on taking photos of themselves whilst making their lips protrude like a duck bill?” Alien Jones asked. “Are Earth men attracted to water fowl?”
The space phone let out a loud ring and then projected a three foot tall hologram of another alien.
Surprised, Blandie shouted a trail of obscenities and dropped the phone. The hologram shut off but we could still hear an angry voice.
“JONES? JONES! HOW DARE YOU HANG UP ON YOUR SUPREME OVERLORD?!”
“For the love of Scalamox’s Forbidden Quadrant!” Alien Jones shouted as he dove for the phone.
The Esteemed Brainy One punched a few buttons and the hologram was back.
We all stared at the image of an alien who looked similar to Alien Jones, but wore an elaborately bejeweled crown, a flowing cape, and carried a scepter. Also, he was gray instead of Alien Jones’ usual green color.
Alien Jones set the phone on the desk then hit the ground, bowing up and down repeatedly.
“I’m sorry Oh Potent One. It was one of the miserable humans. She dropped the phone with her clumsy ape like fingers. All hail the Mighty Potentate!!!”
AJ turned his head toward us.
“Hail the Potentate, you barbarians!”
ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY POTENTATE!
It was always an odd experience to see Alien Jones communicate with his boss, the Mighty Potentate, Supreme Overlord of Alien Jones’ homeworld. AJ was a being of great wisdom who’d dedicated his life to reason and rational thought and yet whenever his boss was around, he turned into a blubbering lackey.
I can’t say as I blame him, what with the Mighty Potentate’s track record for vaporizing his subordinates.
VGRF, Bernie and I let loose a very half-hearted, “All Hail the Mighty Potentate.”
“What?” Blandie asked. “I didn’t vote for him.”
“Ha ha,” Alien Jones said. “Human humor. To what do I owe the pleasure of your most glorious transmission, Your Potentosity?”
“Jones,” the maniacal despot said. “What is this I hear that the Chosen One’s life is in jeopardy?”
“Jeopardy?” Alien Jones asked, trying to deflect the question with a question. “I know of no jeopardy, Oh Mighty One. Chosen One, are you well? Are you feeling jeopardized?”
I didn’t know the protocol of how to address this particular alien situation.
“I…uh…feel fine?”
“I’m not talking about his health,” the Mighty Potentate said. “Although now that we’re talking about it, son of a braying tawazal beast Jones, would it kill you to get the Chosen One to do a few jumping jacks once in awhile? He’s looking awfully pudgy.”
“Duly noted,” Alien Jones said, and then to me yelled, “Chosen One! Jumping Jacks immediately!”
“Aw come on.”
“How dare you defy the Most Potent of Us All?”
“Fine.”
There wasn’t a lot of room but I managed to provide a few lackluster jumping jacks for show.
“Jones, I’m talking about allegations of a zombie apocalypse in the Chosen One’s residential area. It’s been all over the human television transmissions. Are these reports valid or are the just a new form of that most reviled form of media…”
The Mighty Potentate shuddered then continued, “…reality television.”
“I’m sorry, Supreme Overlord. I do not wish to disappoint you but I cannot lie to your either. The reports are true but rest assured, your humble servant is on the case and I will not rest until the Chosen One is delivered to safety.”
“See that you do,” the Mighty Potentate said. “And how is the Chosen One’s novel coming along?”
Alien Jones stalled on that question, just as I’d been stalling to write my novel my entire life.
“Come again, oh Omnipotent Overlord?” Alien Jones said. “The transmission is fading and I…”
It was never a good idea to screw with the Mighty Potentate.
“DO NOT DECEIVE ME, JONES! I DEMAND A STATUS REPORT ON THE CHOSEN ONE’S NOVEL AT ONCE!”
It’s a good thing Alien Jones doesn’t poop, because he probably would have. He was surely trembling like he wanted to.
“You heard the Mighty Potentate, Chosen One! Report on your novel immediately!”
I stepped in front of the hologram.
“Umm…hello Mr. Potentate.”
“Greetings, Chosen One. Please do not be shy. Regale me of the novel you are writing, the story I have foreseen that will inspire all humans to demand a higher level of storytelling from Earth’s entertainment industry, thus shutting down the reality television menace once and for all.”
“It’s uh…it’s going good Potentate. Really good.”
“Elaborate.”
“What?”
“ELABORATE!!!!”
Damn that guy was shouty.
“It’s the most badass novel ever. It’s got mystery, action, suspense, drama….”
The Mighty Potentate listened intently.
“…twists and turns, hot naked chicks, explosions, daredevil stunts, wars, fires, pestilence, plagues…”
“Go on.”
“Oh and there’s a big car chase and the hero of the novel has these uh….uh….”
I noticed Bernie’s 9MM poking out of his bug out bag.
“The hero has gun hands.”
“Gun hands?” the Potentate inquired.
“Yes,” I replied. “‘Johnny Gun Hands’ is his name. The Mafia cut off his damn hands and left him for dead but he didn’t die so he replaces his hands with guns, shoots all of his enemies and then he uncovers a conspiracy in which umm…umm…yes! I’ve got it. He uncovers a conspiracy in which a group of furries, you know, those weirdoes who dress up in plush animal costumes and have sex with each other, are importing knock-off designer handbags out of Kuala Lumpur.”
The Mighty Potentate tapped a finger on his jaw as I ranted away.
“And so, the bad guys kidnap the only woman Johnny ever loved, so he breaks into their secret lair and BLAM BLAM BLAM Johnny massacres every last one of those furries with his gun hands and the ending…oh my God the ending. Johnny and his woman walk into the sunset and they want to get married but they can’t because, holy shit, Johnny has guns for hands so you know, it’s not like they can do it or anything because it would be way too dangerous.”
I took a moment to breathe. Everyone in the room was fixated on me now.
“So Johnny walks off all alone and he’s depressed and he sticks his gun hands up to his temples and is about to end it all but NO! You know what he does?”
“What?” Bernie asked, transfixed on the story. “What does he do, yo?”
“Johnny sets up a center to take care of other people who are also afflicted with having guns for hands and he finds a sense of peace and inner happiness from being able to help others suffering from the same problem he has and he lives to a ripe old age, fully content with the life he lived.”
We all remained silent, waiting for the Mighty Potentate to say something.
“That sounds like…”
He stopped, removed his crown, scratched his head, then continued.
“…THE BEST F%&KING IDEA FOR A NOVEL I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!”
Alien Jones gasped a sigh of relief.
“Thanks Potentate,” I said. “Can I ask you something? Are you sure I’m the Chosen One?”
“Of course,” the Mighty Potentate said. “I have foreseen it. My predictions are never wrong.”
“Well,” I said as I wrapped my arm around Alien Jones, “For what it’s worth, this guy is a real credit to your organization.”
“Who? Jones?”
“Yes,” I said. “His column is an asset to the Bookshelf Battle Blog. Sometimes his words drive my stats as high as 7.5 readers.”
“Astonishing,” the Mighty Potentate said. “Though you are aware you’ll need to write a bestseller to avoid world domination, yes?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Splendid!” the Mighty Potentate said. “Good luck with the zombie apocalypse. I expect the Chosen One to remain alive, Alien Jones and Chosen One?”
“Yes?”
“I expect to see a rough draft of Johnny Gun hands by the end of the year. POTENTATE OUT!”
The hologram shut off.
Alien Jones hopped up onto the desk, grabbed my shoulders and yelled, “What have you done?!”
“What did you want me to do? Tell him the truth? That everyday I come home from work, try to write a novel, give up after three words and watch The Walking Dead in my underpants with a bowl full of Cheetos?”
“Lying to the Mighty Potentate always makes things worse,” Alien Jones said. “Do you realize you’ll actually have to write a Johnny Gunhands novel now?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I know just who to call to ask for some writing tips.”
Bookshelf Battle 