Read Greegs & Ladders - By Zack Mitchell and Danny Mendlow Page 48
CHAPTER 45
How to Kill Your Former Greeg-Keeper
(and Unsuccessfully Raid His Refrigerator)
We put the Crabbits in an indestructible cell. I gazed at them through the 12 feet of mega-Jardian glass.
Despite what you may imagine based on the names of particular animals from
Earth, Crabbits are not named as they are because they resemble a hybrid cross between Crabs and Rabbits. They look nothing like either of these animals. Crabbits are a slithery type of creature, a horrid land-eel that looks like an inside-out stained sock-puppet harvested from the depths of Garbotron, complete with cracked googly eyes and burnt orange troll-doll hair.
They also have a row of sharp carnivorous-like teeth.
“Back to Lincra!” shouted Rip. “If there's anything left!”
The state of things on Lincra had gotten far more intense during our quick Crabbit Collecting/Current Events mission. By now the bonfires had started to spread beyond the desired perimeter of burning. Much of the planet was to be engulfed in the hasty flames. Some of the more perceptive peasants had tried to stop the initial lighting of the fires, for they realized not only was the atmosphere of Lincra already being pushed to the brink of destruction by the daily influx of Investment Banker-guzzling space cruisers, but also the valuable wood the ladders were made from could be broken down and turned into useful, entirely non-ladder related stuff. Everyone else agreed the ritualistic cleansing of the bonfires was a more appealing thing to do. The fires were lit and the dancing and the chanting began. Reg's parking dome compound was the only safe haven from the wild blaze. We found the old goblin drunkenly passed out beside a half-eaten plate of Crabbits. He must have been fairly wasted to have not finished the meal.
A multitude of surveillance technology encircled Reg's compound, and yet our ship, being one that does impossible things, went completely unnoticed as we hovered silently outside Reg's window plotting our revenge.
“How do we get the Crabbits from the ship to the room?” asked Rip.
“Someone takes them over,” replied Wilx.
“Who?”
“I don't know. You?”
“But how?”
“Just knock them out and put them in a bag. Then dump the bag into the window. The Crabbits will probably reawaken before Reg does.”
“How do I knock them out?”
“Hit them with a bottle or whatever you find lying around.”
“I don't think it'll be that easy,” said Rip. He was noticeably scared of the Crabbits. “Have you seen how quick they are? They'll just slither up and gnaw my legs off. I won't have a chance.”
“Reg has been hunting these creatures all by himself for years and he's still alive.”
“Yeah, but Reg is tough. He's a seven-foot tall goblin with fangs and claws and red eyes. I can't do the things that a seven foot tall goblin can do!”
“That's not true!” said Wilx. “Think of all the impossible things you've done in your many lifetimes! Aren't you the guy who successfully orchestrated the orbital direction of eight different proto-stars just so you could line them up in a row? And then didn't you jump through all of them simultaneously? You set the new universal record for Least Amount of Severe Burns After Leaping Through the Most Amount of Proto-Stars.”
“Maybe.”
“And aren't you the guy who successfully impregnated the Virgin Mary?”
“Yeah, that was me.”
“Can't forget about when you slayed a Galactic Gobbling Groobin, armed only with your conversational routine of droll witticisms.”
“True.”
“What about the time you found that mildly interesting fossil?”
“What's your point?” asked Rip.
“It had part of a shell.”
“I didn't mean about the fossil. What's your point to all of this?”
“My point is that you're better than Reg! If he can survive hunting these creatures then you can do the same. Now go collect those Crabbits... and don't let them gnaw your legs off!”
“Why can't we have the specimen pod deliver the Crabbits the same way we collected them on Grebular?”
“All the pods are broken.”
“I see.”
Rip took a moment to muster up the courage to face the deadly Crabbits. Just as he opened the door and ran in screaming and flailing his arms, all the Crabbits mysteriously dropped to the floor.
“Hah!” laughed Wilx. “I already drugged them to pass out for the next hour! You never would have stood a chance against their speed. Only someone like Reg could do that!”
“You mean, I'm not as tough as Reg?” asked Rip.
“No. But I give a pretty good morale-boosting speech, don't I? Plus there's still time in the story for you to prove otherwise. Let's get these Crabbits out of here.”
We delivered the momentarily unconscious Crabbits into the window, which had been foolishly left open.
Reg had hunted Crabbits from nearly every world they inhabited. Except for Grebular. Yet when these Grebularian Crabbits woke up, they immediately desired revenge against the stranger. With all of his endless hunting expeditions and plans for general extermination, Reg had done so much damage to the Crabbit species that the image of his face had been naturally downloaded into their collective consciousness and transmitted across distant galaxies to all other living Crabbits. That way should any of them be unfortunate enough to cross paths with Reg they will at least be given a heads-up about the whole matter. This particular baker's dozen of lethal abominations were the Chosen Crabbits. They were the summation of everything their species had lived (but mostly died) for.
The first thing they saw was Reg's furniture, crafted from the skeletons of their universal kin. Other Crabbit bones swung from the ceiling, hanging on thread made of Crabbit-sinew and waiting to be turned into easily breakable tools. Through the immensely powerful collective consciousness of the Crabbit, they vividly remembered every detail of the lives of each of the Crabbits who now swung in pieces in the compound of an insane goblin on a half-destroyed world. This only sent them into a greater rage.
The first Crabbit gnarled a leg. Reg was so knocked out that it took him a moment to wake up and feel the pain.
“Hey, what's going on?” he finally asked the darkness.
Reg clicked on a light and saw that many Crabbits had gnarled away his limbs.
“Is the age of Reg over?” he asked. “But I only just became a god a few days ago.”
The vitamin A factor might have saved him, for once the Crabbits had chewed to the bone they conveniently broke all their weak teeth and were unable to continue attacking. This proved to not matter whatsoever, for the gnarling required to reach the bone was more than sufficient enough to kill Reg in less than a minute.
We raided his refrigerator, but only found a foul type of fermented Crabbit liqueur. Against our warnings, Rip drank it anyway. He was sick for a while. Wilx chartered the ship toward the next crazy venture.