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Aliens Short Stories - Funny Business Satire
aliens, funny, commerce, satire,
Secret Aerial Services (2)
(The AloeVeras' First Business Deal)
All hell broke loose in the AloeVeras' base on the moon as a ringing noise suddenly erupted in committee room 2. The AloeVeras arrived all at once, bar Number 12, who'd had slightly further to come, and regarded the source of the din.
'It's our new telephone!' exclaimed Number 9.
'It's making a horrid din,' observed Number 8. 'I've had to stop work!' it added in an aggrieved tone.
'What are we going to do?' wailed Number 14, its parallel processors blathering incoherently and flooding its central processor with contradictory opinions and suggestions.
'Good question,' added Number 11. It stopped to regard its emotional colleague with a sympathetic camera and wondered, not for the first time, what Number 14's inner life was like.
'Well it was your idea to have a phone, Number 11,' declared Chairentity Number 12. 'You answer it.'
Oh bugger, thought Number 11. 'Yes?' it squeaked into the mouthpiece.
'Hello? Is that Secret Aerial Services?' came a slightly hesitant though pompous voice after a brief delay.
'Quick, say something!' insisted Number 14.
Number 11 looked manic in the extreme as it twirled around with the phone in its hand, its Mexican blanket spinning out around it.
'But be sensible,' demanded the chairentity.
'Yes, sir,' said Number 11, impersonating Number 12's tone of voice. Number 14 nudged it and whispered in its left microphone. 'How can we help?'
'How can we help?' echoed Number 11.
'The name's Jobsworth. The premier fruit and veg stall on Kidneyswamp market,' explained the HairyMammal of Earth.
'Oh, well done sir!' said Number 11.
'Ah! I see my reputation precedes me!'
'Yes indeed sir.'
'Well, I'd like some leaflets to post in letter boxes, advertising my quality products, and also better, more colourful posters to go on the stall itself.'
Number 11 glanced frantically from one colleague to another, its cameras pleading for assistance.
'Incidentally, this is local rate, is it?' queried Jobsworth.
'Yes sir,' said Number 11. 'We have arranged the earthbound part of this transmission ourselves.'
'Don't mention earthbound!' Number 12 panicked. 'We're supposed to be a HairyMammal business, remember!'
There was another delay as the message leapt from the aerial on the AloeVeras' base towards the receiver on the roof of Fidget's shed in Smogdale, and from there into the British Telecom network. Number 11's colleagues used this interlude to batter it with advice.
'It doesn't matter what you think about Jobsworth,' said the chairentity, elbowing its way between Number 14 and Number 9, the better to berate Number 11. 'Just agree with him and offer to match any reasonable quote from other businesses.'
'What happens if we can't do the job?' complained Number 11, scratching its noddle and accidentally propelling its home-made papier mache cowboy hat to the floor.
'Can't do it?!' chorused its fellow AloeVeras, for once all of one mind.
'The HairyMammals of Earth have only recently stopped swinging in the trees . . .' began Number 9.
'And living in caves . . .' added Number 8.
'And drinking canned Soak A Koala . . .' said Number 14.
'And travelling on the back of horses . . .' added the chairentity, glaring as only a chairentity can at its playful colleague - the very one who has often been seen riding its service robot side-saddle.
'If they can do it, we can do it!' they crooned in an accidental 'harmony' of flattened fifths.
Minutes later the deal was completed and Jobsworth, feeling pleased with life, waxed lyrical on one of his favourite themes.
'We self-employed types are the backbone of this country,' he confided to Number 11.
'Erk,' Number 11 ventured by way of agreement.
'This country would have gone to the dogs if it wasn't for Dame Margaret Thatcher.'
'Yuk,' agreed Number 11, nodding its noddle.
'This country HAS gone to the dogs with New Bloody Labour. As all right-thinking people will surely agree.'
'But you said . . . ouch . . .too true, Mr. Jobsworth, your highly-esteemed customerfulness.'
Meanwhile, on Planet Earth / Europe / The Untidy Queendom of England / Upnorth / Smogdale / QT's Tavern;
Jenny Jefferson was chairpersoning her New-Age group's 'Metaphysical Guidance Sub Committee, Individual Development Support Group', though several of those attending privately thought of it as 'A Lunchtime At The Pub'.
'The world is as I imagine it!' exclaimed Jenny, arms flapping like a drunken heron's. 'The new physics proves it.'
Roland the Tramp said 'Hmmm,' scratched his stubbly chin, gazed at the far wall and mulled things over - assisted by half a quart of the local brewery's mild - Curate's Comfort (4 œ % by volume).
'It's true,' added Rupert (Boudoir's Brew (5 Ÿ %)). 'You don't need any money, just the right attitude. Less is the new more!'
At the bar, a creaking noise erupted from the upholstery of Poddle's very own seat. A seat that featured heavy-duty brass clouts that secured the elderly leather to the equally ancient and exceptionally solid oak.
Not just anyone could bring their own seat into the pub, but not everyone had attended the pub every day for the last forty odd years. The creaking of joints was accompanied by a scraping noise as Poddle levered the seat around on one leg, the better to view the group clustered, or possibly cluttered, around one table in the corner.
'That's as maybe,' he said. 'And bollocks is the new bollocks.'
'Besides' retorted Rupert. 'Jobsworth is getting new colourful posters for HIS business. He just told us.'
'Well, we got our first contract,' said Number 9, later that day.
'Just,' growled the chairentity, scowling at Number 11. 'You're supposed to enter into their . . . what was it, Number 9?'
'The customer's mind-set,' explained the budding HairyMammal Quantum Psychologist. 'See the world as they do.'
'Never mind, Number 11,' said Number 14. 'I'm sure you'll get better with practice.'
'I hope not,' moaned Number 11. Then it noticed the telephone in Number 14's hand.
'It's for you!' explained Number 14. 'It's Poddle, he wants a leaflet for his boat-building enterprise. He said something about 'that bloody Jobsworth spouting his mouth off'.'
'Oh Buck Probably!' sighed Number 11.
'I'm just handing over to the expert, Poddle!' Number 14 crooned into the handset. 'Here she is, Ms. Leaven.'
'Mind-set!' insisted the chairentity.
Forty five minutes later, the business arrangement was completed, and it was Poddle's turn to wax lyrical about Life, the Universe and the Demise of Bread and Dripping.
'Aye Poddle. They don't know they're born, folks today,' said Number 11 in the broadest dialect it could muster.
'Tellin me!' Poddle replied (Devil's Diesel (7%)).
'In days gone by, a tribe of 17 Alpha Centaurian half-caste, bi-sexual, socialist amoeboids of uncertain parentage could live for a month on half a pint of lard and a crust.'
'That's right!' Poddle agreed. 'Prob'ly have done. Frequently.'
'As every right-thinking, half-caste, tri-sexual, socialist amoeboid Alpha Centaurian of uncertain parentage would surely agree.'
'Yeah. What ...?'
'For Buck Probably's sake, Number 11. Behave!' wailed the chairentity.
'They'll be in the post within two days,' said Number 11, and the chairentity pulled the lead from the phone.
Secret Aerial ServicesSuper-fast typing
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Number11 @ secret-aerial-services.co.lunar
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Short Stories: funny, satire, meaningful, comedy; psychology, sociology, corporations
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