Sore Legs

Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob sat alone in the bar room. As well as being Stroob’s home from home, this also doubled as the nerve centre for the Mexatode Galaxy on the rare occasions when Stroob could get round to the boring bits of his job. Today, however, was not one of those days. In fact, Stroob hadn’t had one of those days for as long as he could remember. His lifestyle had changed since what started off as overlooking a minor task quickly snowballed into ignoring large chunks of ‘urgent’ business, as soon as he realised that at least seventy-five per cent of things sorted themselves out if you didn’t interfere with them. This discovery led to further experiments on ignoring things, until, a century or so ago, Stroob concluded that the most elegant and harmonious style of Government was to do bugger all. So it was that Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob came to develop his own brand of ‘Government By Inaction’.

Over the years, this had become increasingly popular with the Electors in charge of various planets in the Mexatode Galaxy. They knew that for the most part they could continue to do exactly what they wanted, provided whatever it was didn’t disturb Stroob in a way that required any sort of response or action from him. All they had to do was to provide the equivalent of a ‘no significant points’ report every few decades to comply with the system and to make sure no nasty alarm bells rang. Thus today, as most days, Stroob had no matters of State that he felt needed his attention as he sat staring at the screen in anticipation of seeing the Humans.

Popcorn butter dribbled down Stroob’s perfectly pressed checked shirt as he lent forward over the bar. A smooth-skinned neck of the type seen on models in shop windows poked out of the shirt, unblemished by trace of whisker, wrinkle or Adam’s apple. A leather thong circled this perfect neck, holding a hat to Stroob’s back that was large enough to please even the most macho Mexican. On Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob it looked more like a drogue parachute on a returning space shuttle than a piece of practical headgear. His skin-tight designer denims were sharply creased and fell over a pair of golf shoes with spurs attached.

As Stroob stared into the monitor, he couldn’t remember when he had felt more excited. At least not since he had pulled the connections one by one off a seventeenth series video scope to find out the minimum number it needed to function (twelve). Any minute now he would see the Humans! He transmitted a Want Ray and the two scantily clad cowgirls came flouncing into the room.

‘Can we serve you, Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob?’

‘Hell, I wish you’d cut that crap out. Of course you can, that’s why I summoned you. When do I get to get at them?’

‘Sir?’

‘The Human pets of course,’ said Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob, continuing to be bad-tempered.

‘Potential Elector Thrumm is currently familiarising them with their job description, Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob. After which they need to be detoxified, regenerated and installed into their environments, so that they can give you the most pleasure.’

A sickly grin spread across Chancellor Legs Eleven Stroob’s face and he threw the remains of his popcorn across the saloon in the direction of the cowgirls who obligingly melted out of sight.

‘Christ, this place is so goddamn boring! I can’t wait to get my hands on them. Where’s that fool Thrumm?’