in one of his many sumptuous offices, this one in the heart of Los Angeles on the coast of what was once the United States of America, he sighed and relaxed back against his leather easy chair. The rumbling massage balls slowly rolled out the kinks in his upper back while he contemplated his own ingenious. A small pile of grapes, exotic cheeses and mini scones sat to his left within striking distance of his chubby fingers and he occasionally selected one to taste. He liked food, did Bilderbus.
The World Security forces had quelled much of the fighting that had erupted over the election some months ago, and he and his fellow Jesters had devised a neat trick to distract the masses from the colossal civil unrest. Bilderbus thumbed through the reports. Yes, the giveaways of free virtual reality games had indeed allayed public concern. Commerce was at an all-time low, and suicides tripled in the last four months, but ah, well. You couldn’t please everybody.
He was just dozing off when a whoop sounded over the alarm klaxon above his view screen. Bilderbus started quite violently, sloshing red wine on his jiggling belly which he blotted at hastily with a silk napkin before pressing a fat forefinger to the communications toggle.
“What is happening out there?” he demanded irritably. He thought he had rather earned his rest today, having just come through delivering a speech on the importance of the Jester educational programs. Hard work, speeches.
“Unidentified craft,” came the tense reply of a defense analyst, “Bearing 30-degrees north. They’re closing in,” the sexless voice added emotionlessly.
“Well, blow it up, or something,” he snapped crossly, “I’m trying to nap!”
“How primitive,” an amused voice said from behind Mr. Bilderbus. He started again, this time sloshing a good portion of the red wine down his front. With a muttered curse, he turned to survey the room.
Standing on the hearthrug was a werewolf. Or at least, that was Bilderbus’ first impression when he turned to look. The creature stood there looking very peculiar indeed—a long snout full of sharp teeth, dark beady eyes and two long ears pointing up completed the appearance of a man with the head of a jackal. Below his collar he was humanoid, although his skin all over was an odd steel gray. He wore a long white pleated skirt that left his torso bare and his strong muscular legs ended in hind paws. He bore a striking resemblance, in fact, to a statue Mr. Bilderbus had once seen in Egypt.
He fumbled with the arm of his easy chair for the toggle that would alert Security, “Help!” he gulped, “There’s an Egyptian god in my bedroom!”
That done, Mr. Bilderbus faced the werewolf squarely, feeling inadequately prepared for whatever attack might be forthcoming after his panicked call to Security. Yet no attack came and after a moment he relaxed enough to notice an air of regret in those canine features.
In fact, the jackal-headed man standing on his hearthrug seemed so truly disappointed in him that Mr. Bilderbus slipped unconsciously into that frame of mind he always assumed when dealing with hostile press. The paparazzi in particular could be absolutely devastating on a hesitant response, so Mr. Bilderbus seized control of the conversation with a positively cheerful, “Ah! It is you!”
The creature looked not unpleasantly surprised at having been recognized, which Bilderbus took as encouragement to go on, “My dear sir, please forgive me—I was a tad distracted when you arrived. Secretary must have forgotten your appointment,” he made a show of frowning in the direction of the door, simultaneously tapping a large calendar screen on his desk.
“What was our appointment for…again? Here,” he added, gesturing, “Do sit! Can I get you a glass of sherry?”
He followed up with a poured glass and a cheerful nod of encouragement to “drink up”, absently hoping this would occupy the fellow long enough for Security to save him.
“That will not be nethethary,” The werewolf had a distinct lisp, which took Mr. Bilderbus aback. It was so at odds with his otherwise powerful appearance that the President stuttered a hasty, “I…I’m sorry?”
“I am here to dithcuth termth for your planetary inclusion in the Galactic Trade Company clientele,” the werewolf lisped.
His air was a tad bit snooty, Mr. Bilderbus thought, especially for someone with rather too much tongue in their voice.
“Indeed?” he inquired, having as of yet still no idea what the creature was talking about. He pretended great interest—that being the art of politics after all.
“Yes,” the werewolf affirmed, “I believe you are now the ruler of this planet?” he gave a small nod of respect—one sovereign to another, which Bilderbus did not overlook in spite of his very great confusion.
“Ah, yes well,” he hemmed for a moment, stalling for time. It did not seem prudent to admit to holding office before a jackal-headed body builder. Who knew what the creature’s intentions were?
And yes, there it was. From the other side of the door came the sound of many rapid footsteps and half a dozen heavily-armed OWSF officers burst in.
The One-World Security Force was infamous for its corruptibility, but they wasted no time asking bribes from this creature—they surrounded the werewolf and held steady guns trained on him as their sergeant barked, “Stand down!”
“I thay!” the werewolf cried, backing up a step, “That is quite unnecessary I am sure,” he held up his hands to show they were quite empty, “Mr. President, this is no way to begin negotiations! We are here as an invitathun,” he particularly stressed this latter, a fine spray of spittle shooting out as his canine tongue attempted English.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Bilderbus said slowly, “There has been a misunderstanding.”
“Yeth! I do believe so,” the creature nodded.
“Let us take it from the beginning,” the Earth President said diplomatically, “Where did you say you are from, exactly?”
At just that moment, the analyst who had first warned of the approaching aircraft spoke again over the intercom, “Mr. President, the unidentified craft has ceased its trajectory. It seems to be standing by.”
“Ah, yeth,” the werewolf nodded sagely, “It is awaiting further instructions from me.”
“And what are your instructions, exactly?” the Chief of OWSF demanded.
The werewolf straightened himself up to his full six feet. He was of a height to the human men in the room, and seemed very strange there, Bilderbus thought, with his deep gray skin and jackal head. Quite out of place, really.
“I am Anubis, your new Reprethentative for the Galactic Trade Company,” he gave another small bow.
“Representative of what, exactly?” Bilderbus asked, curious in spite of himself. He thought he knew all the minority groups lobbying on Earth currently, but had never heard of this one.
“And, erm…what is the Galactic Trade Company exactly?”
In reply Anubis made a grand gesture with the hook-ended scepter in his right paw and a beam of light shown forth from its tip. The light shimmered and twisted into a holographic image of Earth and a tiny voice rolled forward a narrative tale for his edification.
“Earth,” the tiny voice squeaked.
“Third
