Epilogue
Ba•by (n): the most juvenile person in the family—usually Juliet.
One Year Later, New York City, Earth
Juliet Lawrence-Manscape leaned over the adorable form snuggling in a heap of blankets and stuffed animals. “I can’t believe she actually arrived. I never thought it would happen!”
Ragnar Manscape-Lawrence wiggled a plush dragon at their new addition. “They’re cute when they’re little, aren’t they?”
She put her arm around her husband’s waist and leaned her head on his giant shoulder. “Yes. Ragnar, I’m so happy.”
“Me, too, Blondie.”
They watched their bundle of joy squirm around adorably. Juliet took fifty pictures in the space of a minute. Now that she and Ragnar owned such nice, stable homes (one in New York City and one on Alutia), all of their dreams had come true. He traded by day; she’d opened a foundation for victims of the intergalactic sex trade. They spent every night in each other’s arms, and sometimes in a swing.
“Juliet?”
“Yes, Ragnar, my love?”
He cocked his head. “What is this thing called again?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a cat. A feline from Earth. And a vastly superior creature to a giant spider, may it rest in peace.” As if for emphasis, the torti-colored pile of fur meowed plaintively. “I’m going to call her Trampy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Can’t you think of another nam—”
“We are not calling her a weird Alutian name that sounds like a disease, but means ‘orchid’ or something. She’s Trampy, the end.”
Ragnar grumbled a swear word, and muttered a sentiment about Earth English being even weirder. He dropped the dragon, and pulled Juliet’s pelvis against his. “As long as her human mother isn’t trampy, I guess the name is okay with me.”
“You need to be more specific. Does that mean I’m not allowed to be trampy at all, or only trampy with you? Am I still allowed to be a human?”
“Can you change?”
She swiveled and bopped him on the arm. It ended up hurting her, which was only right.
“Don’t be silly. Of course you can be trampy with me. In fact, I encourage it.” He squeezed her breasts from behind.
She wiggled her bottom into his crotch. He issued a happy man-grunt.
“Now that you have a pet…” Ragnar abandoned one of Juliet’s boobs and gave Trampy a pat. The cat snorted and wandered to the opposite side of the bed, disdain oozing from every orifice. “A charming pet, I get to have one, too.”
“But you do already.”
“I’m going to tell Pippy you said that.”
“Don’t!” She’d become very sentimental since the rescue at New Los Angeles; her fondness for Pippy ran true and deep. And she’d learned Gallodican, by eep. “I was just kidding. But no talking pets.”
She could hear his grin. “Of course not. You’re my talking pet. But I do want a companion for me to name.”
Dread crept into Juliet’s heart. “What sort of ‘companion’?”
“You’ll see.”
Dread unpacked its suitcases and plopped itself onto the couch. She shrugged off her beloved and turned to face him square on. “What have you done, Ragnar?”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.” His mouth widened into his patented, shit-eating grin. “The tank arrives this afternoon.”
Juliet gasped and clutched Trampy to her bosom. “This is your fault,” she told the cat. It narrowed its yellow eyes; even animals knew she was full of crap.
Despite the colossal, terrifying “pet” Ragnar had coming to their house, Juliet could not help but consider the final score to be Past Bad Things: 0; Juliet: one million.
The End