Greegs & Ladders - Zack Mitchell, Danny Mendlow (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📗

to achieve them. This is likely the explanation for most, if not all, of his sexual organs.They weren’t really friends as much as they were leeches. This was so true that it was common for intergalactic debt counselors to suggest to cash strapped clients “Perhaps you should try going drinking with Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third at a carnival.” Nobody knew how he had so much money to lose on outlandish bets. It’s true every once in awhile he would actually succeed in the task laid out for himself in a loud mouthed, drunken stupor the night before, but not nearly enough times to be breaking even. On this day Rip was more drunk than usual, and so his primary mouth was flapping more than usual. Sensing a real chance to not only cover his debts, but perhaps wind up owning a few thousand civilizations as well, Rip’s drinking partner, Jim, wasn’t taking Rip up on any of his bets early on in the night. He instead downplayed them as effeminate and pathetic in the hopes that Rip would continue one-upping himself until the bet was so outlandish and impossible to achieve that Jim could never lose.

This is, of course, exactly what Rip did. Beginning with a paltry claim that he could stick his whole head up the anus of a Graffling Wocker Frit, spin around three times, return to the bar and still go home with the prettiest four headed being in the building, Rip eventually got so drunk and ran his mouth to such a degree that he made the most preposterous drunken wager ever made in the long and glorious history of preposterous drunken wagers.

This was it.

Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third opened his drunken face and guzzled back his eleventh Crammington Krish Fortini (about ten and a half more than one should engulf in a lifetime). He slammed the Jardian glass bottle on the top of the bar and shouted out “I got it!”

At this point the entire bar had given up whatever false conversations they’d been having and were all just focusing on Rip’s self imposed escalating stakes, waiting to see what ridiculous final challenge Jim would pull the trigger on.

Rip grabbed Jim by the hairy tube dangling from the back of his neck and dragged him to the Greeg cage. A crowd of about 200 visible beings, the odd specter and several recording devices followed the pair out to what had surely become the most interesting thing to happen at the carnival in days. Rip, always a showman, clambered on to the side of the Greeg cage, barely held on to the bars with one hand and held up his twelfth CKF with the other.

“I, Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third, do solemnly declare in the name of all things…”

Several shouts of ‘get on with it’ and other such encouragements were volleyed in his general direction, along with several pounds of half eaten food, severed limbs and hunks of hard granite.

“Fine, fine, no sense of tact and ceremony but fine, here it is. I bet you, Grahm…”

“Jim!” Corrected the mob.

“Gerry, right, I bet you my priceless fleet of Obotron 7 Space Ships, er, Jill, that I, me, yes, can take a lowly, stupid, useless carnival Greeg, and have them smarter than enough to pass as a decent, semi intelligent creature, person, thing… in two years. Smarter than all of you even!”

The mob went silent. Then a laugh broke out from the back and collectively rolled on up to the front. Jim, rolling around on the ground, unable to believe his luck, screamed out “Yes, yes! Hahahaha YES!”

CHAPTER 14

a Wager with Extraordinarily Off-Kilter Odds Elicits Enough Attention as to Shatter the Planetary Record for Most Teleportations in a Nanosecond

The crowd buzzed over the absurd wager. While trying to imagine the scenario of an intelligent Greeg, the circuit boards of many fine robots were forever liquefied. Things got way out of control when a random spectator phoned his debt counsellor to announce that Dr. Rip just made his most foolish bet ever. After that, word quickly spread that if you could make it to the Greeg cage on the 5th planet from Tralfar in the next half hour then you might also be retiring in the next two years. Cash-strapped clients swamped in debt (hoping to make a bet of their own) immediately flew into a frenzy of action. Many sought out the nearest teleportation booth. On particularly crime-ridden planets you could see lineups extending miles into the horizon. The fugitives patiently waited in line for days. It is not difficult to muster such patience when you’re a guilty tax-evader scheduled for dismemberment.

Debt clients began to materialize all around the Greeg cage. They appeared in random locations, causing certain spectres to suffer the embarrassing act of Bodily Displacement Syndrome.

Rip let go of the Greeg cage and turned to face the ever-multiplying mob. He relished their attention, and was for once happy that a debt counsellor had been phoned. To add a layer of theatricality he paced back and forth in front of the cage. He tripped over a ledge and decided sitting down was the best thing for him to do at the moment.

“I see by the sudden appearance of so many desperately poor people that I have made a good wager.”

“I’ll bet you can’t teach a Greeg how to make a jug of frozen orange juice in six months!” screamed a desperately poor Snail-oid from the back of the crowd.

“Everyone listen here,” spoke Rip, “you hopelessly debt-ridden lot might as well teleport back to your places of hiding and await your inevitable dismemberment, because this particular bet is for my old friend Joe, and for Joey alone.”

Jim laughed at the thought of being Rip’s friend.

“What’s so funny?” asked Rip. “Is the bet too good for just you?”

“No, no,” said Jim. “You were right before. The bet was made to me alone. All these other leeches… I mean, all these leeches should just teleport out of here.”

Some of the leeches vanished. The ones scheduled for an earlier dismemberment stuck around, clinging to the hope of a life-saving bet.

“What say you, Johnny?” asked Rip. “Do you take the bet?”

Jim paused for effect. “I humbly accept your wager.”

“Ha ha!” laughed Rip, clapping his hands. “All we need now is a witness.”

“WITNESS!” shouted four thousand random members of the mob.

“I guess that's enough witnesses,” said Jim. “It’s an official challenge. You will acquire a Greeg, and within two years you will make it more intelligent and presentable than anyone here. If you do not, you will give me your priceless fleet of Obotron 7 space ships. I want all the windows scrubbed. And full tanks of gas too. I loathe hunting for investment bankers.”

“You know,” whispered Rip, “I think this might be my greatest wager ever.”

Jim thought he saw tears welling up in a few of Rip’s eyes. Suddenly a severed hand that had been momentarily caught up in a time-pocket flew through the air and smacked Rip in the face.

“I’ll leave you to the business of finding a Greeg,” said Jim as he walked off in the nearest direction away from Rip.

Once the autograph session ended and the crowd dispersed, Rip approached the Greeg-keeper’s tent.

“Ahem… hello?” he said as he parted the tent flaps. A rank stench emerged from within. Evidently Greeg-keepers don’t live much better than Greegs.

“What do you want?” snarled Reg.

“Haven't you been watching any of the events going on outside?”

“No… I’ve been in here watching my show.”

Rip looked around the tent and saw nothing on which a show could be watched. Not even an imaginary show like schmold TV. All that lay inside the tent were a few tables with dead things placed on top of them. Reg did very little in his spare time aside from eating the nearby population of Crabbits into extinction. Of their skulls he made tables on which to place dead Crabbits.

“You didn’t see the chaotic mob right outside your tent? I think we even shattered the planetary record for most teleportations in a nanosecond. You must have felt some of the land-quakes?”

“No, I’ve been in here watching my show, like I said.”

“I’ll fill you in,” said Rip.

He went on to tell a long rendition of everything that just happened. Being that it just happened, I’ll skip ahead. But know that Rip told the story with his usual eloquence and exciting flair for showmanship.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” laughed Reg. He banged his hands against the table. Bone fragments were scattered across the mud floor. “You can’t teach a Greeg anything! You can’t get them to be clean! You’ve surely lost your fleet of ships to this Elizabeth guy.”

“I disagree,” said Rip. “It can be done. I will transform a Greeg within two years!”

“What’s all this got to do with me anyway?” asked Reg.

“I need one of your Greegs. How else am I going to win the bet?”

“One of my Greegs?” asked Reg. His red eyes glowed darker crimson, as they were prone to do when he grew upset. “Not a chance can you have one of my Greegs! I’m barely getting by with the low number I have right now. I don’t even have enough for a double-digit orgy, and the tourists are only paying lots for the big group scenes. There’s no way you can have one of my Greegs.”

“Think of it like an investment. I’ll give you the Greeg back after two years, regardless of whether I win the bet or not,” lied Rip. “But imagine I do win the bet… you’ll suddenly find yourself in the ownership of an intelligent, clean and presentable Greeg. Never in their history have Greegs garnered those adjectives. Think of the rare attraction you’d have on your hands if you owned such a specimen. Tourists would flock from the farthest dimensions, even the invisible one, just to have a look at this Greeg. You could charge whatever you wanted for admission.”

Reg grew interested. “And if you don’t win the bet?”

“You’ll still have your Greeg back, after only a short two year rental period. And even if I don’t entirely transform the Greeg, I’m sure that in a couple years I can at least teach it enough tricks to greatly enhance your outdated show.”

“Hmm… I suppose the show is a bit outdated.”

“A bit? Are you kidding me?” said Rip, reaching the climax of his suave hustle. “The Greeg show is done. It needs something new. Everyone’s seen Greegs having sex, it’s just not that crazy any longer.” He couldn’t have been lying any more. Greeg carnivals were more popular than ever throughout the universe. Just not on the rundown, out-of-the-way planet Reg had chosen to live on.

The painfully slow cogs of Reg’s rotted brain began to turn. You could almost hear his thoughts creaking, like the sound of a thousand fingernails scratching The Floating Chalkboard of Elbereth (something that has actually been done, much to the chagrin of those now-deaf folk who forgot to wear earplugs while doing it).

“If I introduced something new to the Greeg show... I could get rich?” he asked.

“That’s right!”

Reg lingered over this incredulous thought. “I’ll do it!” he finally shouted. “You can have one of my Greegs!”

“You won’t regret it,” said Rip. “When can I