Mister President, Nebraska Is Missing! Episode 7

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Mister President, Nebraska Is Missing!

Episode 7

A collection of characters around a smoking outline of Nebraska.

Since Deus Ex Machina's home office was hard for some members to get to across the vast expanses of space, the board had gotten into the habit of meeting in the members' homes. It was Extraterrestrial Weasel's turn to host the meeting, a task that he was happy to take on, even on such short notice. There was really very little work involved: setting up the conference table and chairs in the front parlor took all of five minutes. Making coffee took another ten. That still left Weasel with half an hour to spare. There was plenty of time to dig into a bowl of fergerquargs, which were Weasel's favorite fruit. True, Weasel's apartment could have used some more cleaning – the florgars in the solarium needed dusting, for instance. But no one would notice the dust anyway, because none of the other board members could get close enough to see the florgars without getting a nose or a finger bitten off. Weasel ate another spoonful of fergerquargs and thanked his/her lucky stars that none of the other board members liked them. Come to thiink of it, fergerquargs could only be found in Alternate Universe #236,985, Dimension #1,720. In other words right here. Home, sweet home!

Weasel suddenly remembered that it would be necessary to adopt a gender while the meeting was in session. Now, this did bother Weasel a bit. Nostradamus couldn't care less whether Weasel was male or female, but the other three board members were from Human Scenario #79, that strange neighborhood of Alternative Universe #521 in which people placed such importance on meeting gender expectations. In some countries, the language was set up to torment new learners if they could not remember whether a pencil was masculine or feminine. After a quick look in the closet, Weasel decided to be a female this time. But which kind, Gamma or Delta? Weasel had already tried alpha and beta, and had been scolded for being too bossy (alpha) or ignored (beta). Still, being female had worked well for Weasel, given that the other board members were male.

B-R-RONG! That was Nostradamus ringing the doorbell, even though he didn't need to use the door at all, being perfectly adept at materializing inside Weasel's apartment. Good old Nosty must be getting old and forgetful. Come to think of it, he was nearly 500 Earth-years old, which would explain a lot.

Nostradamus had a reputation as a shape-shifter, even though he didn't deserve it, at least not usually. It was more accurate to think of him as a master hypnotist who could get inside your mind and persuade you that he was a young, powerful man or a kindly old doctor or any of a number of other things that your mind might want to see. But Nostradamus' real self was not often revealed. Tody he chose to appear as a levitating bowling ball of nondescript coloration. A forgetful levitating bowling ball that got too close to the florgars – SNAP! 'OUCH!' – and suffered a small nick on his otherwise smooth, hard surface. NO great harm done, though, to Nostradamus at least. The florgars, on the other hand, were writhing in pain, which they didn't often do. Weasel drew the curain around the Florgar display so they could be left in peace to lick their wounds and rest.

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