Snufftoons, Ch. 1

            Invader 898 was a veteran of forty-nine successful and efficient invasions.  He’d achieved the rank of Invader First Class, one of the most prestigious positions in Inpire Inc.  He was second only to another little green alien, Invader 4055, and 898 vowed to earn the next promotion before 4055.

There were no second bests in Inpire.

Out of the billions of little green men hatched every fiscal year, 93.77% of them did not become legitimate invaders.  Some simply weren’t called upon for employment, and they withered and died.  Some were assigned civilian jobs, maintaining Inpire’s infinite and labyrinthine bureaucracy.

Most died horrible deaths on their invasions.

Those lucky enough to become successful invaders were considered the very lifeblood of Inperial society.  It was through glorious invasion that the entire universe would one day be theirs.  It was through insatiable greed that they achieved cultural purity.

But while invaders were honored for doing their part, sometimes they turned out defective.  These invaders had to be put down.

The weak had to be culled from the herd.  The Invaders Handbook said this was the way of the universe, and 898 accepted this.  After all, he was one of the strong.  He no longer had to pray for employment.  He was a reliable invader, and his promotion would be testament to that.

The First Classers lived in the Imperial luxury barracks, which weren’t very different from standard barracks.  They slept in their pods all day, contemplating Inperial protocol and waiting for their assignments.  The Superintendents personally delivered assignments to the First Classers.

Naturally, the invaders always accepted.  There was always more to acquire, more to achieve, more advancement through performance.  Greed was an invader’s lifeblood, and refusing an opportunity, no matter how dangerous, was unfathomable to them.

The luxury barracks was filled with invaders lying in pink porcelain pods, each one whistle/humming in his sleep.  A Superintendent entered the barracks, wearing flowing silver robes.  A holographic screen floated just to the side of his bulbous green head.

The Superintendant let out a fierce whistle/hum and all the First Classers instantly sprung awake and stood at the ends of their pods.  As the two highest ranked First Classers, 898 and 4055’s pods were stationed next to one another.  898 angled his large black eyes at 4055 and grimaced.  The other invader did not respond.

Everyone listened as the Superintendent read off numbers listed on his holo-screen, starting with eight-hundred-and-ninety-eight.  After reading off a few dozen numbers, the Superintendent led the selected invaders out of the luxury barracks, with 898 at the head of the line.

898 looked back to see 4055, still in the barracks, standing in line and waiting for work.  But once again there was no expression on his green face.  No matter.  898 felt he was twice the invader 4055 was, no matter what the Imperial rankings said.

Besides, Inpire didn’t know everything.

+++

The Superintendent led the line of First Classers through the pink porcelain byways of Inpire’s homeworld.  Soon they came to a launching pad holding a fleet of spacepods, originally from the video game planet.  An Inperial High Executive stood ready to give out invasions.

When the First Classers were organized in front of the High Executive, he began the employment ritual.  “Invader eight-hundred-and-ninety-eight,” he said in a croaking voice.

898 stepped forward and stood at attention.  He gave a curt whistle/hum to his superior.  “You have executed forty-nine successful invasions,” said the Executive.  “You have never lost Imperial property nor have you deviated from your mission objectives.”

The High Executive was personally complimenting him, a long way from his days as a Lowly Grunt.  898 nearly smiled.  As impulsive and degrading as a smile was, he couldn’t help it.  The Executive didn’t know what he really did on his invasions.  Inpire only cared about the results.

The secret was 898 did what he wanted, and over his forty-nine invasions, his genetically-engineered greed had run an entire gamut of depravity.

It was the green strip of flesh betwixt his legs, which grew and stretched into a fierce trumpet that played a perverse lullaby only for him.  Every other invader had the green strip, and 898 sometimes wondered if they themselves experienced its song.  Perhaps they were capable of resisting their trumpet’s urges.  Perhaps the trumpet was something that could be understood and controlled…

No.

Such theories were useless.  898 knew that if Inpire ever discovered his trumpet, or what he did with it, he’d be declared defective.  He’d have his brain scooped out, his springy metal bones melted down, and his green flesh recycled into genetic biosoup.  That was the reality.

But they’d never find out.  He was too careful.  Too smart.

“By the Invader’s Handbook,” said the Executive, “your fiftieth successful invasion qualifies you for Citizen Invader status.  With this promotion, you will be eligible to apply for employment in twelve of the twenty-one Imperial vocational distinctions.  You will be given a Delta class salary with benefits and permits.  Do you accept these terms?”

Invader 898 bowed his large bulbous head in respect and whistle/hummed in the affirmative.  The Executive excused 898 with a wave of his hand.  An Inperial clerk took over, shepherding 898 into the field of spacepods.

When they came to one of the spacepods, the clerk issued 898 his invasion dossier and a Doomshooter.  They signed the contracts and stamped stamps.  898 felt happy again.  This sort of attention was just a taste of the life of a Citizen Invader.  The dossier in his hand was all that stood between him and his promotion.

The spacepod, like much of Inpire’s possessions, was annexed from another planet.  It was made of smooth digital videomatter and built with perfect ninety-degree angles.  898 climbed into the cockpit, which glowed bright purple.  He settled into the pilot’s seat and punched in the coordinates from the dossier.  The spacepod rose up and blasted away into space.

Inpire’s porcelain pink piggy bank world shrank to nothing as 898 rocketed across the galaxy.  He read and memorized the dossier, though he didn’t understand certain parts.  It was unlike most of his previous invasions.  He was not to kill the planet’s natives, only secure them.

They possessed something that Inpire wanted.

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One Response to “Snufftoons, Ch. 1”

  1. […] the author is posting a sequel to CARNAGELAND called SNUFFTOONS one chapter at a time on his blog so after you buy Carnageland, check it […]

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