How do you sell a planet?

For me, it’s normally simple: list the planet, receive bids on the listing, pick the highest bid, fill in the forms, and then transfer resources and ownership.

But not this planet.

So I went to see why.

Approaching, the place looked nice but dated. Deep blue oceans, lush green and white land masses, beautiful white clouds, with an ugly, vile class-two civilization. That meant more forms and less commission. Even less if it’s a painless extermination. I wonder which I will decide, depends on how vile, I guess.

At least I knew the forms well, and it wouldn’t take long. A quick shift down to the planet, a couple of samples, then back home before dinner. Or so I thought.

Instead, I drooped in my dead cow-skinned chair, confused about how to proceed. It seems this little class-two civilization has created two potentially cosmically valuable things. Unheard of. Only class six and above create anything worthwhile. There was once a class-five civilization that created that thing, but they were one-hit wonders. A class two civilization, never. And two different things, so improbable that I wished I didn’t know statistics because then I could, in good conscience, buy a galactic lottery ticket.

I sit at a large lacquered tree piece and listen to their vile, dirty music. So wonderfully simplistic and nasty. Truly something worthy of this universe. And they have produced millions of minutes of it and in all different genres: rock, rap, country, and playing now, Mozart.

I look through at the melted remains of little sea creatures at their second great achievement, alcohol. One hand holds a gin and tonic, and the other tequila. So varied. It tastes so wrong. I love it. I truly and completely love it.

“Hey, Asshole!”

Oh great, the common problem in these older worlds.

“Hey, you want to destroy them? You will have to get through me first.”

A War God.

“Ok, that sounds great. I’ll buy you a couple of these drinks while you tell me how you’ll kill me.”

War Gods are loud, uncouth beings that are the same everywhere. They are also very simple beings.

The violent being and I move to a back booth. A depressed and captive plant hangs over our conversation.

Beheading, limb removal, then beheading, a thousand cuts, a million cuts, a billion cuts with beheading. So boring. I allow him to ramble on for far too long but the beer tastes too good. I am in too good of a mood. Maybe I will opt for the more pleasant extermination, resources be damned.

He finally makes his point. He likes this place and the civilization here. He doesn’t want them exterminated. He enjoys sitting on a white sandy beach, listening to the waves crash, baking in the sun’s radiation, and sipping on a margarita concoction, while Boys of the Beach sing. It calms him.

War Gods are all the same. They have two emotions: anger and serenity.

I agree with him. I empathize with him. I suggest he purchase the place.

Sadly, he doesn’t have the resources, and being a War God, he doesn’t have enough friends.

He does spark an idea: maybe I could sell this planet to a local God. That would solve my problem.

I pay for our drinks and leave to call my employer.

“What’s up? What do you want?”

It’s the Son. The being I have been dealing with only him so far. Not a fan.

“Hey, could I please speak with your Father?”

“Na, I don’t want you interrupting him. What do you want? I can relay your message.”

I find the Son so frustrating.

“Just ask him to call me.”

“Right-o, later.”

It’s suspicious how the Son said “I don’t want” instead of “He doesn’t want.” Maybe it’s just a quirk of the local language, but I should dig deeper into this Father and Son.

They only own this one world. They seem like recluses. The Father made his money as an upper-dimensional exporter. That could explain the strange dialect and non-response. Dealing with multiple dimensions can be tricky and confusing. I avoid it.

I check for a miracle, but still no bibs.

Ok, let’s see some other local Gods.

I shift to a place called Copenhagen and into a loud musical bar. The wall coverings are petroleum-based, as are the chairs and tables. Long dead animal sludge. The bones of the building are ancient trees. Even for a class two civilization, the obsession with dead stuff is a little extreme.

Odin was a local legend and a D-list celebrity at one point. He might have the resources, or maybe he knew someone.

I bob my head to the pounding music. A human is thrashing away at an electrical guitar while his buddies scream and pound on their own devices. Not as elegant as Mozart, this MOLD group still retains that simple chord structure and filthy beat. I love it. Listening to them, I hope I don’t have to remove this civilization and their music.

Odin, a dumpy old guy with an eye patch, has great taste in drinks. Akvavit is potent and flavorful.

“Do you want an autograph? Cause, I charge for those.”

“Of course not. You know why I am here. Do you know anyone who has the resources to purchase this place?”

I could sip this drink all day, if you add music, for the rest of time.

I hoped he would say yes so I could do just that.

“No.”

I glare at the little guy. He looks defeated.

A shout loud enough to pierce the music interrupts my enjoyment.

“Where is he?”

Another War God. How many did this little planet have? At least two too many.

“Thor, sit.”

Odin rescues me from having to purchase more alcohol for another trumped-up god.

Thor doesn’t sit so much as he takes over the chair and commands the world to pay attention to him.

I don’t care. This music lifts my mood. Combined with this drink, I tap my fingers and enjoy myself.

“Odin, we must stop him. He’s going to destroy this world.”

“Thor, son, relax, listen. He will not destroy the world. The new owners may, but he’s just a used planet salesbeing.”

I hate being called that. Especially since it’s true. It just sounds so mundane. I like to think of myself as an upcycler who connects well-used planets with beings that will appreciate them. I like to think that I am good at my job and care about each planet. After all, a typical used planet salesbeing wouldn’t have visited as required for civilization elimination. Rather, they would have fudged the form and would be collecting their commission right now. Sometimes doing the right thing just makes your life harder. But I like to think it’s worth it.

Like now, meeting with the locals while enjoying this music and drink.

“So, do you know of anyone?”

“Why do they want to sell? I heard the owner likes this place.”

“I’m not sure. I have only talked with the Son so far.”

“That jerk? I can understand why he wants to sell the planet. He hates this place.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Boring story doesn’t matter. So you haven’t talked with the Father?”

“Do you want me to cut this guy’s head off?”

“No, Thor, shut up and drink your beer.”

“I haven’t, but the Son provided all the required seals and correctly filled out all the forms. Do you think he’s playing loose with the rules?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, you may want to look into that.”

“What if I just cut his limbs off?”

“Thor, shut up!”

“Ok, maybe, but it doesn’t change that this plant’s up for sale.”

I have two more drinks while listening to this wonderful music. I would have stayed longer; I wanted to stay longer, but I have work to do.

I leave the pair and shift to Varanasi. Lakshmi and her significant other, Vishnu, greet me as I arrive. It’s jarring but pleasurable to go from the heavy music to this soft music. These humans sure know what they are doing with music. Lakshmi and Vishnu sit with elegance and grace, sharing the drink Soma, a sweet, thick liqueur to die for. These humans seem to do everything right. Though their fascination with dead things nauseates me. A large fossil of a dead sea creature rests under my clay cup.

“Good evening. Have you come to pay respect to us?”

“You know why I’m here. Do you know of anyone who could buy this place?”

“Why do you care? Why not just remove these humans?”

I sip my drink and smile at the pair. They know why. It is why they are slumming on this planet.

“So no one?”

“Where is he? I will cut off his head!”

Oh great, another War God.

Rather than deal with him, I shift away. I want to be alone and think.

I find a little shack in the middle of Lagos. It’s a three-seat, dirt floor affair with tinny Rock and Roll coming from a decrepit radio. Horrible speakers, yet the music is divine. The nice, smiling human serves me warm vodka, made in his backyard. I can barely believe such perfection came from ground tubers.

“So, are you going to destroy the planet?”

I hang my head. Another War God.

“I’m Ogun, and I would just like to talk.”

That’s new. A War God talking first.

“Hey, so I know what you are going to say. Yes, it’s for sale. No, you cannot change that.”

Why can’t I just listen to this wonderful music and drink this wonderful drink without all these interruptions? Because there is always a price to pay for wonderful things. Here, the price was dealing with War Gods.

“I wouldn’t think of it. I was wondering if you wanted help.”

He’s a different type of War God.