Gran Moran, Intergalactic Division

Writing Prompt: Pet humans are a distinct, domesticated breed, and capturing one from the wild for the exotic pet market is both illegal and highly unethical. Your captors, however, did not particularly care.

Sentient beings were off limits. No matter how primitive. And by all the Gods humans were as primitive as they come. But times were tough, for none more so than Gran Moran. The poor Idios-Twopple. That may sound insulting, it isn’t, it’s simply his species. In Latin it might mean highly intelligent (it didn’t, of course).

Gran Moran was a farmer, not of crops, but of the Universe’s most exotic creatures. But with the imminent approach of Gran’s home World (Idio-Twop-Pan-II) exiting the Universal Union, he had to do something. By now it was all too clear that Madam March (Councilor of Idio-Twop-Pan-II, unwillingly so after the surprising vote to leave the Union and the sudden dispersal of all other representatives… it was widely rumoured that March’s fellow Councilors had fled to the Barbadian Regions that surround the Moons of Eurpoia) had absolutely no idea what she was doing or how to broker a deal on trade.

Trade. That was the key. Gran feared that his inter-Universal trade of exotic species would all but die out once his home World finally left the Union. So he’d taken a job, on behalf of a peculiar (call them eccentric if you prefer) being that had requested one of these humans. Not in their natural state, of course. They wanted the human bred with an Octollagus Fell (imagine an eight-legged cat with the same number of eyes and the half deformed body of Jaborg’th). Just why anyone would want so frightful a creature was beyond Gran, but they were willing to pay him, enough to retire on, and in these uncertain times that was more than enough reason to break the rules. After all, rules are made to be broken! Gran had argued with himself. Besides, humans are only barely sentient.

Meanwhile in London, the United Kingdom of Earth, 00:35 GMT, Saturday 12th of January 2019.

Theresa May was tucked soundly in bed, but far from asleep. She was hunched over her laptop, the screen casting an unflattering light on her rather tired looking face, her nightcap slanting half off of her head.”I must say, I think I’d fare better with intergalactic politics than this poppy-cock.” she chuckled, swirling the sherry-brandy in its crystal-cut glass, “Send me to Mars and I’ll broker a deal on borders with the Martians, no problem at all! But trade deals with Europe…” she gulped a half glass of her sherry in one, flattened the lid of her laptop and settled back into her bed. “What a f*cking nightmare.”

Theresa closed her eyes, and hoped that sleep might come (though these days her sleep was filled with literal nightmares of dear old Donny riding a rocket with a face suspiciously likes Nigel Farage’s, chasing her through fields of wheat).

“Here we are.” Gran was wiping frantically at his foot high forehead with several misshapen paws. He was sweating like a mad Crayf’or on Tuskerra, the planet of flames. Gran’s ship was equipped with technology that the primitive human species would have marveled at, but in comparison to the wider Universe he was riding a donkey in the desert of space. The bubble-wrap shaped ship did at least contain a cloaking device devious enough to hide it from the Earthlings that kept watch on the skies. Poor critters, a big wide Universe out there, and nobody wants to play with them! Gran shrugged. Serves them right I suppose, we’ve seen how they treat each other… imagine how they’d treat guests! Here they come with their knives, knives, knives! Gran laughed. That’s Primes for you! (Primes was a less than complimentary term for primitive species).

Gran set his sensors over Earth, searching for the perfect candidate… honestly, anyone will do, as long as they’re fertile. It would be a female that Gran took, on account of only having a lone male Octollagus Fell.

“London? Well if you say so…” the sensors locked in on the capital of the United Kingdom of Earth. These Primes like to give their silly little play things such fancy names. “Now, let’s search for a house, any house.”

I don’t have to tell you that it was Number 10 Downing Street the Ship’s sensors focused in on. This might all seem awfully convenient for the sake of a story, and well… that’s simply because it is. Nobody knows what goes on in the minds of Ships, but seeing as the first of their kind were hand-crafted by Fate it goes to figure they know a lot more about what’s going on (and what’s going to be going on) than most anything else in the Universe.

“I dare say I drank too much Sherry!” Theresa woke from a terrible slumber. Donny nearly got me that time. She swept up her nightgown and fled for the bathroom, in desperate need of the toilet.

It was at this moment that the roof of Number Ten was carefully dismembered by the beams of a bubble-wrap space-craft, almost invisible to the naked eye. Theresa looked up in sheer horror as a tentacle-like bionic arm wove its way down from above, and grabbed her around the waste.

“This is highly inconvenient! I’ve a meeting with Parliament tomorrow morning!” she screamed as she was swept up to the skies.

The arm retracted into Gran’s ship, dropping Theresa onto an oddly damp floor of mirrored moss. Gran turned to Theresa and smiled, baring blunt fangs in the form of buck-teeth. Theresa fainted, but not before relieving herself all over Gran’s floor. Not that Gran would notice with the floor already damp and pungent.

(It might humour you to know that the dampness of the floor was in fact Gran’s own urine. The room was essentially one enormous bathroom. This was also where the Ido-Twop phrase watering the moss came from).

Gran shook his head in disbelief at the unconscious woman sprawled about his Ship’s floor. “She’ll do, I suppose.” and so off he went, and not a moment too soon for in the short minutes that passed half the city and the British Territorial Army descended on Number 10. Not that any of them could have stopped Gran’s ship… a great many would have liked to film the whole series of events though, on account it would go viral and no doubt earn them some small slice of fame and fortune.

There is much more to say of Theresa’s adventure, too much in fact! So I’ll leave you knowing this… she was quite right in her notion that intergalactic politics was more her forte, for she managed to strike a deal between the Universal Union and Idio-Twop-Pan-II. Well it was either that or she’d have been sent off to a now rather disappointed Octollagus Fell. It seems in matters of politics you just need the right motivation to get the job done.

Copyright © K R Perry 2019

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