A Better End of the Universe: A Cosmic Con

By Max Penman and RJ London

Penman and London's rollicking comedy. Twot conpads carrying Schtincci and Jinjr, a pair of exiled conmen from the 37 worlds, crash land on planet earth. The two grifters quickly become enormously wealthy. To their dismay and disappointment their fortune was earned legally. Not satisfied with making money “on the square”, they hit the open road. Along the way they meet a colorful band of desert dwellers, and they use their form- shifting abilities to sidestep the intense security at Area 51, where they discover an alien being named Donkee Oh-Tee, a former 37 worlds war hero who rather than being held captive is actually living large inside the mysterious complex. Schtincci and Jinjr eventually encounter another pair of alien sharpies, who devise a long con, planning to outsmart them and steal their billions. For Schtincci, Jinjr and the Cosmos, this will be the consummate con.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nosepeople Productions
• Release date: Apr 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370344963

Book preview

Chapter 1: Debacle at Darvpool

The sound that filled the forty-two million plus rooms of the Darvpool lunar prison complex was horrific. It sounded as if something very, very large had stepped on a fat and very gaseous jellyfish. Sweet Edibles and High-pitched Hum ended their conversation about preferred Snorgle clubs on Wapesis and turned to their computer screens.

High-pitched Hum speed erased the video game he had been playing for the past thirty-two griggle cycles and began to scan the alert pages looking for something. He had no idea what. Sweet Edibles may have spent more time reading the guidebooks but had no idea what to look for either. The sound was fading when Manager Intors stepped out of his office exclaiming, What in the hell, is that?

He actually said, What in the station where passengers cry and moan because the vehicle to take them home wasn’t coming anymore, is that?

Before it quite faded away, the sound started up again. Perhaps someone should inform the Chief Warden, said Manager Intors just as the Chief Warden stepped into the communication room where Intors, Sweet Edibles and High-pitched Hum were scrambling to find the source of the sound.

What the hell is that?" asked the Chief Warden,

He didn’t actually say hell, he said dark place where everyone feels like bodily waste, but in both cases, the word hell seems to work.

I don’t know, shouted Manager Intors, but I have Sweet Edibles and High-pitched Hum searching it this minute."

Sweet Edibles, High-pitched Hum, thought the Chief Warden, where do these interns get those stupid names?

Well, he shouted, just get them to stop that fergamilic awful noise.

Don’t think it's possible, sir, said Sweet Edibles.

Why? asked the Manager and the Chief Warden together.

I don’t know, shouted Sweet Edibles, but it must mean something. I doubt it will stop until we find out what that something is.

Well, find out, said the Chief Warden, and get it stopped. I was just having a short lunchtime consciousness shutdown (nap) when that fergamilic awful noise flung me back to full awareness.

In fact, this was the first time that sound had been heard in over a millennium. That was back when the complex was a containment unit. Except for the interns, the management crew and the ‘conpad’ launch crew, there was no one else in the complex. In fact, there was no one within several light years. That’s because the complex was on the tiny remote planet Darvpool that for countless millennia had been the high security prison planet for the 37 worlds of the Zigraget and their variant species.

No prisoner had been held there, not even in stasis, for thousands of earth years. Its only real use was symbolic. There was nothing a Zigraget judge loved to say more to the convicted at the end of a trial than, I condemn you to Darvpool.

It was also a useful place for members of the high council to provide holiday and starting out jobs for their less gifted offspring. It should have been long since scrapped, but it was a useful make work project.

That’s why Sweet Edibles and High-pitched Hum were there (by the way you might find it more comfortable to call them Candy and Buzz). That’s even why Manager Intors and the Chief Warden and the conpad launchers, too, were there.

The conpads could have been launched from any of the home worlds, but it was easier to do it from the remote and legendary prison planet, Darvpool. Darvpool was a place no one ever thought about except for the high judges and the interns, officers and launch crew who stayed for a hundred and twenty-three griggle cycles (about three years or so). At which time, if they were ready for integration into the Zigraget workforce, or to go back to school, they would return to their home world and attempt to put their stay in Darvpool out of their conscious thoughts.

Some unhireables such as Manager Intors and the Chief Warden were given full-time positions in the complex.  With this came the privilege of returning to their home worlds during holidays and to attend funerals. While holidays were frequent, funerals were not.  Zigraget peoples were hardy and long-lived.  All but forgotten, the prison planet of Darvpool served its purpose as a site for the launching of the conpads.  The Zigraget, consider themselves to be a very Zigragetarian people. Locking fellow Zigraget up in cells, even in stasis seemed too brutal. They would put the dangerous criminals into conpads programmed to fly them in stasis to the end of the universe.

Remarkable technology allowed the conpads to follow a straight line passing through any object in their way with no effect on the object, or the sleeping convicts on board. In doing this, the Zigraget could proudly say that instead of reducing that incredible lifespan, they in fact added to it. Since no one knew how far the end of the universe was, these convicts, in fact, lived much longer even than the most long-lived Zigraget back on the 37 worlds.

At the time this very Zigragetmane treatment of dangerous convicts was introduced, the Zigraget were happy to learn that technology was installed aboard every conpad that would awaken the convicts from a suspended animation condition as they neared the end of the universe. That would allow them to view and experience the end of the universe and what would happen when they passed that boundary, or whatever else might then occur. The awakening was set to take a grangriggle cycle, which was something akin to 7 earth years. That was the plan ever since the launch of the first conpads several millennia ago. Not that it mattered much because even the earliest launched conpads were eons away from the end of the universe.

Sweet Edibles, and High-pitched hum, sorry, Candy and Buzz, after many nargriggles of searching and being subjected to the horrific noise, were figuring out what that noise was all about. It was a sound not heard for at least a millennium. It turned out, the hideous sound was a prisoner escape warning.

They informed the Manager who informed the Chief Warden. There hasn’t been a prisoner in this complex for over a millennium.  The few being installed in the conpads are all in stasis. How can there be an escape? asked the Warden.

The Manager who had no answer, called back to the Warden as he went out the door, I’ll check with Sweet Edibles and High-pitched Hum again. Perhaps they can answer that.

The Warden looked for something to block his ears. Since there was nothing he could fold up or stick in his ears to reduce the sound of the alarm, he took a wrench-like tool and smashed one of the consoles on his desk. He found several capacitor-like thingees he stuffed into his ears. They didn’t fully block the sound, but the Warden felt he could at least have a brief consciousness shut down while waiting for an answer to his question.

Sometime later, the Manager returned to the Chief Warden’s office where he discovered that there was something more disturbing than the escape alarm. It was the Chief Warden’s snoring. Sir, he shouted, I have the answer. You might want to hear it.

After shouting several times and shaking, he detected a growing awareness on the part of the Warden. Huh, who, wha, where? asked the Warden as he negotiated his way to awareness.

It’s conpads, shouted the Manager.

Conpads? Yawned the Warden.

Apparently, back when they first developed the conpads, they embedded the escape protocol into the system.

The Warden was interested, And?’

And it seems two of our conpads have diverted from their course and the end of the universe protocol has been started.

What the hell (The station of lost transit riders) does that mean, Intors?

I don’t know.

So, what do we do Manager Intors?

Why are you asking me? You’re the Chief Warden.

I only accepted the job because of the nice office. I don’t know what to do.

Let’s ask the interns. Maybe they know.

Good thinking Intors, that’s why I made you manager.

You didn’t make me manager. I was here before you.

I thought I made you manager,

No. My uncle, Councilor Zazosofras did.

Are you sure it wasn’t me?

Positive.

Well, what do you know about that, huh, muttered the Chief Warden to himself, Let's go find those Interns.

Well, said Sweet Edibles (Candy), I guess we call the security chief.

Ok, what did you say your name was? Sweet Edibles? Get to it.

The Warden had difficulty containing himself at the swiftness and decisiveness of his decision.

I don't think that's such a good idea Chief Warden, you see my work time here will be over for about seven griggle cycles by the time we get the return message. I think High Pitched Hum (Buzz) should do it. He has twenty-two more griggle cycles before he leaves.

They sent the message to the security chief. It would take at least six griggle cycles for it to get to him. Then he would have to decide what to do, so Candy’s estimate was about right, fourteen griggle cycles before they would hear back from him. 

They could have used the transvovater to the capitol. Someone could be at headquarters in the time it would take to open a portal and walk the short distance along the wormhole. However, that transvovater and the one to secondary command on Plothos were on their regular downtime for maintenance. No one would do the walk to the transvovater at the far end of the complex.  It would take about the same length 0f time as the interspace communication since no one knew how to drive the transitbots. As for the portal to Bestirdud, no one would dare take that one. The air there smelled like decomposing gortriddles (vile smelling stink bugs nearly the size of a Volkswagen beetle only much, much smellier and even more so when decomposing). Even the natives walked around with their sleeves over their noses

Chapter 2: Greenlight on a Wormhole

What the hell happened here captain? shouted Major Kineson. In this case, hell meant the place where condemned souls were sent to suffer untold agony in flames while being poked, prodded and otherwise mistreated by demons.

Major Kineson was not a happy camper. He had devoted six years of his life to bringing the space-time probe online. Six long years spent on the dreariest place of all, the dark side of the moon, waiting for a machine to be built that would allow space travel by foot. Miners could walk to mineral-rich asteroids; tourists could ride an airtight bus to visit the moons of Jupiter or Saturn. Settlers could be homesteading on Mars in hours rather than years.

The Major didn’t care about that. He just wanted to get back to earth and see his wife and his former secretary. So why didn’t it work? What happened when they started up the machine for its first big test?

What the hell (same as above) was that green flash that the machine had emitted that turned and streaked off on a bias that brought it through the observation platform

and some personnel residences. Why were Lieutenant Harvey’s face and right index finger glowing a fluorescent green? His eyes were especially malevolent looking.

Ok, Lieutenant, we saw the green flash travel up towards you and hit you in the face before passing through the wall and out towards the personnel compound. So why the index finger, were you picking your nose?

Rubbing the corner of my eye, sir.

It doesn’t seem to be a problem, sir, said the doctor. Although there is no sign that the green glow is fading, he seems to be otherwise healthy. As for the index finger, he must have been picking his nose."

Rubbing the corner of my eye, doc."

As he walked through the tunnel to the personnel compound, he met a couple of officers on their way to the science floor for a meeting with the anomaly generator team. "Hey, lieutenant looks like you chose the wrong moment to pick your nose, eh?

Rubbing my eye, sir, said Lieutenant Harvey quietly.

As the two walked away, he heard one say, What a time to pick your nose.

Well, you know, said the other, when your nose is on strike, no matter where you are, you gotta pick it."

I was rubbing my eye, yelled Lieutenant Harvey in frustration.

If they heard him, they didn’t respond, except, for what Lieutenant Harvey was certain was a snicker. To avoid Harvey becoming a laughingstock, he was sent back to earth and given a job rebuilding computers after security crews had damaged them looking for national secrets and linked porn sites. He could work in a darkened office using the light from his face to see what he was doing and wearing gloves to avoid all references to nose picking. As far as the military was concerned, Lieutenant Harvey was the only victim of the surprising and anomalous green flash.

The other less apparent results of the inadvertent flash consisted of a green hamster living between the walls of the personnel compound as well as Captain Harry Williams and Second Lieutenant Sheree Winter. Had anybody taken the time to notice, they might have wondered why Second Lieutenant Winter using a lot of stark red lipstick on duty and why Captain Williams was no longer using the public showers in the officers' gymnasium. They might also have noticed how the two no longer spoke to each other as providing oral sex is not considered to be one of the duties of a Second Lieutenant.

Major Kineson was commandeered to spend an extra year with the project, but he did get a one week furlough on earth. Rather than relieving stress, it made it worse as he was unable to decide between his wife and his former secretary and instead spent his time sitting in the park feeding pigeons.

Chapter 3: Security in Dreamless Sleep

Security Monitor 1 Firoxas stared at the readout uttering something almost under his breath that was the Zigraget equivalent of, Well, well, well… well, well, well.

So what do you think of that, said Security Monitor 1 Glzaxne, two of our conpads have turned off course, and the end of the universe procedure has begun.

Well, replied Security Monitor 1 Firoxas, who really cares? I mean, whoever they are, they are criminals. So, they drift into a stellar object and burn up, or they come awake on some sterile planet and die from an airless or poisonous atmosphere, or they wake up, still journeying to the end of the universe and die of old age. No one is going to miss them.

Security Monitor Firoxas, unfortunately, also realized that the Zigraget peoples did not give death sentences, and this could very well be a death sentence for those two, whoever they were and whenever they were dispatched. But, the fact was, even the worst criminals, including those who spat at the feet of the statue of guligiligasness or ate the forbidden fruit of the Nigelignamish tree would not be put to death. Like every similar criminal, they were banished to the end of the universe. It was not much to look forward to if there even was such a thing. Whoever was on the diverted conpads, they would have to be found and the conpads set to resume their eternal journeys.

Yeah, well who'll do that? No one in the current three squads is capable of spending much time in stasis and still find two missing convicts and their conpad. Let alone put them back to sleep and send them back on course. Most of the squad members are family men, and the rest are completely unproven. So, who’s going to do it, you, Glzaxne?

Don’t be ridiculous, Firoxas, you and I are far too old and out of shape. There’s only one person capable and expendable enough to do that.

If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Glzaxne, you’re mad. He’s a loose cannon, a human derelict. He would sell his mother for a flask of Szhinonet and fry her and serve her to them for dinner if they threw in some Zhovning and an unattached female.

It has to be him. There is no one else, Firoxas.

Sadly I must agree with you.

Pushing the all-members-net-connect on his neck, something he really didn’t need to do. He just had to think it, but he was a traditionalist, find Broxy Xaxbaraxg if you have to check out every Szhinonet joint, Gambling group or brothel on all the 37 worlds, even, the god, guligiligasness help you, on Bestirdud. Protect your lungs accordingly. Security Monitor 1, Firoxas, sepal, nepul, caput, tuppil, out (a variation of 1,2,3,4 or something like that).

Twenty-three dots lit up on his retina. The search for Broxy has already begun. So, all we do is wait, said Firoxas. How about we go get some Szhinonet while we’re waiting. Broxy is a hard one to find, especially if he doesn’t want to be.

I could use a taste, said Security Monitor 1, Glzaxne, getting up.

Actually, it would take several tastes of Szhinonet, a number of very long consciousness shutdowns, more than sixty hands of Single person Smaggeret, not to mention the completion or part completion of any number of Calinxal puzzles before several Security Monitoring agents entered their office carrying a semiconscious Broxy Xaxbaraxg. They dropped him roughly on the floor in front of the two senior Security Monitors. Seeing him in this state prompted Security Monitor 1 Glzaxne to exclaim, Did you have to knock him out!

Hell (a dark place of utter hopelessness), no, said one of the agents, this is the way we found him.

One agent bent over Broxy and squeezed his olfactory sense organ shut while another began pouring szzingitz down his throat. Another injected him with a substance guaranteed by the medical industry, and the many ads usually found in the shadier part of town, as being effective in establishing sober consciousness and eliminating the internal pains resulting from imbibing too much Szhinonet or other debilitating substances. From the look on Broxy’s visage, it may have been less effective than promised.

After several extended visits to the Bodily Eliminations Disposal Unit and guaranteeing that it would not be used by anyone else for at least a misigriggle cycle (a good long time for toilet avoidance), he was back in front of the two senior Security Monitoring Agents, who outlined for him what they wanted him to do.

Paraphrasing his response, he told them that they must be (obscene expletive, obscene expletive, extended, very rare and truly disgusting obscene expletive) out of their minds if they thought he would ever even consider such a thing. Point me to the nearest Szhinonet Joint, he said rising up on his walking parts. Before he