Losing Your Load
By Gary Hewitt
Karell stared at the screen. She prayed Davino HabbalBaddi did not get on her case.
“Anyone got the report for Altan Exports?”
His accusing eight eyes scoured the office.
“Mr HabbalBaddi, I have it here Sir,” squeaked Karell.
The office manager stormed over to her desk.
“Did you not see I marked it U R G E N T?”
Karrell's hands darted to and fro amongst the piles of memos and plunk-it notes. One of her six hands handed over HabbalBaddi's report.
“You damn Gorfick's are all the same,” he muttered. He snatched the paper and stormed off.
HabbalBaddi's middle face flushed in orange. His staff knew the stardust hit the cooler unit when his face turned the colour of deep space.
He was interrupted when the Ejackian Teleportprinter churned into life.
“Get that Abubabell.”
His clerk flew to the printer and plucked a note from the machine. Her wings almost stopped beating when she read the heading.
“I never thought I’d see one of those,”
“What? Bring it here.”
He seized the paper and turned purple.
Ogrenoid: Cargo Lost.
Figures swirled in HabbalBaddi's head; trillions of Zentagi's were invested on the consignment.
“Out of my way,” he shrieked and headed to his inner sanctum.
HabbalBaddi slammed the door. He punched the ID locator of the Ogrenoid into his Fractallocuter.
HabbalBaddi's voice screamed at the emerging image.
“This is Davino HabbalBaddi, office manager of Presics Logistics. What's this nonsense about a lost load?”
The image strengthened. Davino could visualise the interior of the Ogrenoid. He fumed when his pleas were ignored. He spotted movement to the left. Davino jumped when powerful jaws sprang at the screen. He shivered for he knew the name of the dangerous creature.
He assured Admiral Denier Humisle it would be safe to transport Farnocks to Rhesa Prime. His personal poron rang.
“Davino, it’s Sorgaram Pwattan here. What's this about a lost load?”
The Chief Director of Presics Green space division disliked surprises.
“I'll be right up.”
Davino's seven legs scuttled towards the imperial office. The alienated office staff glanced at their trembling boss. His three heads had turned black.
“Sit,” ordered Pwattan.
Davino cowered under his bosses gaze. Sorgaram was the most impressive Gutawaler he had ever seen. Sorgaram's stomach had grown to huge dimensions and his array of eyes could seek out the tiniest flaw in any alien’s composure.
“A Lost load, Davino. This is furoggian terrible.”
The rise in Sorgaram's voice shattered Davino's electron shield of confidence.
“Can you explain the loss of over seventeen trillion Zentagis?”
“Farnocks, Sir. The stupid humans didn't follow protocol.”
“Who authorised this?”
“It was a joint decision.”
“Answer the furoggian question.”
“I did,” said HabbalBaddi. He examined the pixellated floor.
“You're responsible,” cursed Sorgaram. He pointed an accusing tentacle at his office manager.
HabbalBaddi did not dare reply.
“I've got no choice Davino.”
Sorgaram opened up a cavernous drawer to his left. He removed a Mallevian Extrapolator.
“You’re fired,” he said.
He pressed the orange button. Davino HabbalBaddi was sucked into the sacking device. Sorgaram was damned if he was going to be blamed.
- - -
Gary Hewitt has had several stories published in various publications including Linguistic Erosion, M-Brane and the Rusty Nail. His style tends to be dark/bizarre. He is also a member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre writers' group.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Losing Your Load
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