“Borolax! For the fifth time now! Answer the bell!”
His eyelids lifted like the sunrise. Not that there was one. The horizon was a black sheet with pinpricks of white.
“You keep this up, you big oaf, and you’ll be looking for a new job—and good luck finding one on this side of the galaxy!”
Borolax released a yawn that rumbled the hallways of the space station and sent his boss running. “Borolax, do this . . . Borolax, do that,” he grimaced, slow and deep as he squirmed into his blue XXG (extra extra ginormous) work polo. “Can’t ever let poor, tired Borolax sleep.”
“You’ve got one chance!” he heard his boss yell. “You sell that planet, or you can take your next nap on the unemployment line!”
Borolax crushed the artificial gravity under his gray wings as he soared into the hangar. His shadow engulfed entire ships like a black hole. He sucked in his stomach so he could fit behind the front desk. Tugging back his droopy cheeks, he wore his widest, toothiest smile.
“Welcome to Baltasar’s Space Oddities . . . my name is Borolax . . . how can I be of . . . assistance?”
Four little customers clad in silver armor stood on the other side of the desk, nearly tumbling backward as their eyes scaled Borolax’s long leathery neck.
One dwarf, wielding an assault rifle, stepped forth and saluted Borolax with the metal arm of a master sergeant. “Hail! Dragon! Know that I fear nei’er man nor worm. And if yeh mind yer serpentine manners, I shall refrain from mountin’ yer head o’er me fireplace.”
Borolax bent his neck forward to nod. But his customers screamed and scattered to avoid his still-very-toothy face. When his head returned to its default position, the dwarves regrouped. Borolax arched an ear to the whispering of mice.
“Somethin’ wrong, Colonel?”
“Ah, it’s nothin’, really. It’s jus’, well, I’ve never bin one for negotiatin’, yeh know? But I’m sure the captain would be moar than happy ter go in me stead, wouldn’t yeh, Dikaiosýnē?”
“Uhm, so, I’ve never told yeh guys biffore, but I’m really, really, really allergic ter serpents. Very allergic. Deathly allergic. So . . . say, why don’t yeh go, Sōphrosýnē? Yeh got a const’tution fer everythin’ from health ’lixirs ter sixty-second detect-gold potions!”
“What? Meh? I’m a coward! Send Andreía. He’s the brave one!”
Three pairs of eyes casted their votes on two boiled eggs that gaped back.
“Gods guide yeh, Lieutenant!”
When the dwarves turned back to the dragon, his eyes were closed, and a bubble of spit bobbed up and down on the side of his mouth.
“Dragon!” the chosen dwarf barked with a firm step.
“We got yer back!” one of the others shouted. But all three had taken cover behind an orcish zero-gravity catapult that was on clearance.
Borolax’s eyelids rolled back like the clouds stripped away from a fiery sunset. His lips quivered, and his spit-bubble popped, raining down on the cowering dwarves.
The lone dwarf puffed up his chest. “I am Lieutenant Andreía. I hail from the Greek dwarf planet Plato.” Andreía couldn’t read the dragon’s moon-size face but knew he could hear him. Dragons were born fluent in all languages. Even Dwarthodox. And Andreía’s Dwarthodox wasn’t just any Dwarthodox. Even Dwarthodox, which was the second oldest tongue in the civilized universe.
“We be in the market fer an asteroid,” Andreía said. He glared up at the dragon while silently ordering his legs to quit wobbling like they were in zero gravity.
Borolax looked as if he were going to fall asleep again. “You want to buy a rock . . . ?”
“Aye! Fer minin’ purposes . . . if there be ’nethin’ ter mine, ’course.”
The dragon’s shadow seemed to shift on the wall behind him. “Hmm . . . Borolax take a look.”
A holographic catalogue jumped out like a ghost between them. Andreía swallowed his heart back down. “Got ’nethin’ in stock?” he asked, less out of curiosity and more to keep the air clear between them. The last dragon he had met had a fascination with trying to see how many dwarves he could fit in his mouth.
Borolax shook his head with prolonged sadness before speaking. “Next shipment of rocks . . . expected next month . . . sorry.”
Andreía glanced over his shoulder. His companions were already shaking their fists as if the lack of asteroids in the sector were the dragon’s fault.
Then Borolax’s ears twitched. You’ve got one chance! he remembered his boss yell. You sell that planet . . . But he couldn’t remember the rest of the sentence because he had dozed off when his boss had said it.
“Wait,” Borolax boomed. Andreía swore his feet left the ground when the dragon spoke. “No rock . . . but Borolax has planet!”
A planet? Andreía thought, stroking his belly-scathing beard with a gauntlet. “Well, a planet’ll have plenty ter mine, tha’s fer sure. But yeh see, we don’t exac’ly have the cash fer ’nethin’ with a circumf’rence bigger than a couple o’ miles, so . . .”
“Planet cheap!” Borolax pleaded.
Inexpensive! he heard his boss scream in his mind. Cheap. Inexpensive. Both meant the same thing. Only one got things sold.
“Planet yours for twenty galactic coins. Sold as is. No returns.”
Andreía whistled. “Jus’ twenty, eh? Must be a halflin’ planet.” He shrugged as he dug into his pockets. “I only got ten. Maybe I can see if the other fellers got—”
“Planet on sale! Ten coins.”
“Well, I miscounted. Only got nine.”
“We have special discount for dwarves. Ten percent off.”
“Aye, but I’ve another problem, yeh see? These coins aren’t galactic, they be from the fairyverse. It’s a long story, but yeh see, we were lookin’ fer this elvish doodad, an’—”
“Planet now one galactic cent!”
The lieutenant blinked. “Fer real?” Then he frowned. “Okay, dragon. What be wrong with it?”
“Nothing wrong!” Borolax said quickly . . . for a dragon, that is. “Boss said Borolax sell planet, or Borolax lose job. And Borolax lose two jobs last week. And boss not say how much to sell planet for. So, Borolax sell cheap . . . or inexpensive.”
“Oh, well, arigh’, I see yer predic’ment. Hah! Must be meh lucky day, it is. Can’t say no to a planet fer a penny, tha’s fer sure. Very well, dragon. Sign meh up!”
Borolax grinned from ear to ear, his eyelids drooping with relief. “Do you want to add the three-year protection plan for forty-two million galactic coins?”
Andreía flicked a penny across the desk. “I’ll take meh chances.” He watched as the dragon punched a button on the cash register and tore off a tiny receipt for his tiny customer.
“Thank you, dwarf . . . you have made me very happy this day.”
“And thanks ter yeh, dragon!” Andreía waved, clutching the planet title in his fist like a sacred scroll.
“It’s a good planet, I hear boss say . . . only reason he didn’t want it . . . is he couldn’t afford the real estate tax.”
Andreía’s foot hovered off the ground. “Real ’state tax?”
“Thank you for shopping at Baltasar’s Space Oddities . . . have a good day.”
“Wait! What was tha’ abou’ taxes?”
But Borolax was already fast asleep.
As the lieutenant joined his squad, he unrolled the slip of paper in his hand. “Tax due? Three hundred trillion galactic coins? Past due? Plus interest? Good gods, what is this place!”
His companions followed his trembling eyes to the name on top of the title.
Earth.
This story was a writing exercise based on the following prompt: You are a galactic realtor and need to sell a horrible planet to a customer or your boss will fire you.
