“You said that before, Policeman.”
“Not in those words, Captain. Oh, and it’s Colonel Rhytmic from now on.”
“—Initially,” the King interrupts, “you were after Spinostress and—“
“—Not about me,” the old woman comments, “you’re wrong about the law, pal, because there’s only one rule and one law: mine.”
“Utter one more word out of your distorted and despicable mouth, and you’ll never see the light of another day,” the angry Policeman says, his face taking on a shade of grey unseen before.
The old woman sits by the Captain side as he pats the top of her head, some sparks emanating from her tentacles.
“I’m innocent. Besides, although guilt shows in my books,” the Captain continues, “it isn’t part of my genetic make-up.”
“A fucking planet of fucking boxes!” Labaguette comments, “crikey!”
As they approach the lemony green planet, it seems the boxes flying around it in neat lines and in an orderly fashion are used by none others than a multitude of policemen, all standing on their own pedestal, bravely guiding the stands where they must be led, their batons pointing in the right direction.
“You don’t look so lonely,” the Captain says, you have twins, many twins.
“Not twins, replicas. I’m the original version from whom all originated, replicated and multiplied. I reproduced. I am the Chosen One.”
“Gimme a break!” Labaguette insists, “I’ve seen chosen ones before, they all—.”
“—To reproduce,” the King remarks, “you’d have to—“
“—Each and every stand,” the Policeman answers, looking taller and his chest growing somewhat larger, the general fluorescence of his clothing reaching a blind pitch of potent brightness, “is female.”
To be continued…