Literary Agent Orson: A Broken Handle

“Grod, GROD! Take the probe out and quit looking at that.”

“But it’s malformed. God these aliens are ugly! Look how big it is. Obvious sign of inferiority. And why does it have that thing? That, there?” Grod pointed.

“It’s some kinda handle. Shhh, It’s sleeping. We have only seconds. Read, the report. What’s it say?”

“But it’s poking straight up like that. It wasn’t there before I put the probe in.”

“The report, Grod.”

“We need to kill them all.”

“Grod, you didn’t even look at the report. Read the report first. What’s the report say?”

“Shhh, boss, it’s waking up.”

“Wha, what’s going on here. What are you two pukes doing in my bedroom for chrissakes?! You! Midget, go turn off your car right now!” he pointed. “That light coming through the window’s killing my eyes. God, my ass hurts. So what’s the story? You cretins couldn’t write, so you broke in to harass Orson, the world’s greatest literary agent? You're Republican plants, right? Wanted to make multiple submissions? Want Orson to read some of your God-awful drivel? Waa, waa, waa. You’re all the same. The world owes you a good review. YAWN. Freakin crybabies. Can’t write a query. Oh dear God my eyes, those are the ugliest costumes I’ve ever seen. Avocado green is so seventies. What are ya, circus freaks? Ow, hey what’re you doin? Get your hands off m... OUCH, THAT HURT! Hey, stop, stop that hurts. AAAAAAAAA!!!!”

“Why’s it making that noise, Feldar?”

“It pissed me off, so I broke its handle. You were right, Grod.”

“I was?”

“Yeah, based on this specimen, we need to kill them all. Let’s get back to the ship, quick.” They appeared back on board.

“When we get out a few parsemeters, set the particle beam on ‘no-life’, no, scratch that. Crank it up to ‘evaporate’. I wanna make sure there are none of those pests left in the universe.”