The famous Rikk’s Interstellar Pawn was bustling with activity when Glophous 5 glided through the front doors.
Patrons from all over the quadrant milled around, inspecting the shop’s wares. Opulent jewelry sat alongside various trinkets, antiques, and other odds and ends. The walls bristled with exotic musical instruments and weapons that were illegal on numerous worlds. A ray gun that could only be operated by a seven-armed snarthooi hung above a massive percussion kit, allegedly once owned by the legendary Bin Krimbo of the Krimbo Trio. Kitschy signs, bearing slogans like “No parking except for Commodore Schnarfi and his offspring,” augmented the decor.
Glophous 5 ran his suctions over the glass tube in his exterior fleshpocket. He permitted himself a small smile. He was certain the antique would fetch an exorbitant price, for who would not desire such a rare item? He had viewed Rikk paying ten thousand galaxian credits for the shrunken head of a pygmy eofanan from Laxios II on last week’s broadcast—Glophous’s item had to be worth at least as much.
He sidled toward the main counter, his secondary tentacles squelching as he moved. As he reached the counter, a figure behind it turned to face him, and there he was—Rikk Aron, shop owner and star of the hit visio-series Galactic Pawn.
Every detail of him—his upper lip bristles, his three chins, his piercing eyes, his knowing, sardonic grin—was just as Glophous had seen in the visio-recordings broadcast on his home planet.
Glophous was starstruck. For the first time in his short lifespan, he was in the presence of greatness.
“Hi there,” Rikk intoned. “You looking to sell?”
Glophous stood with both his exterior and interior mouths hanging open for a good moment, until Rikk extended one of his lower arms and waved it in front of Glophus’s face.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
Glophous snapped out of his trance. His outer membrane turned from blue to a deep violet, signaling his embarrassment. Worse, the shop’s omnipresent visio-recorders were now trained on him, adding to his humiliation.
Quickly, Glophous reached into his fleshpocket and brought forth his prize.
“I present to you, Rikk … one extremely rare ‘pickled human,’ in mint condition.”
The pickled human was a curious artifact. It looked like some fantastical creature from a children’s visio-program. Bulging eyes and a snub nose sat beneath a wild mat of green hair. The creature’s tiny hands (only two of them! how exotic!) were balled into fists. Its mouth was curved into an exaggerated frown.
Glophous placed it on the counter, spreading his forward tentacles in reverence.
Rikk took a brief glance at the pickled human. He maintained his trademark haughty expression, but his eyes seemed almost sad.
“Oh, boy,” he said. “Not another one of these.”
Glophous 5’s stomach dropped like a uranium boulder. “You’ve … seen this piece before?”
Rikk sighed. “Oh yeah. They were a collectors’ item about thirty standard years ago. People bought up a ton of them as investments, but it flooded the market with supply so now they’re basically worthless.”
He reached under the counter and produced a similar pickled human. This one had a tuft of orange hair and was smirking, its little white teeth gleaming through the preservative fluid.
Rikk gestured toward Glophous’s human. “Best I can do for it is three hundred galaxian credits.”
Glophous squelched backward. “Rikk—sir—you insult me! Three hundred credits for such a fine piece! Why, just look at it!” He held it next to his face, attempting to arrange his facial muscles to mimic the human’s petulant frown. “It’s irresistible! Surely you can find it in your hearts to part with, say, a thousand credits for such a treasure?”
Rikk spread his four arms. “Look, I know it may seem valuable to you, but consider it from my perspective. It’s probably gonna sit on a shelf for six months, easily, before it sells. Maybe longer, in this economy. Then, even if it does sell, I have to pay my staff, cover operating expenses, et cetera. Even at three hundred, I’ll barely be breaking even as it is.”
“But-”
Rikk put on his practiced “stoic face,” which had won the hearts of so many of the quadrant’s viewers and vaulted Galactic Pawn to number one in the ratings eight years running.
“Three hundred. Take it or leave it.”
***
Still grumbling under his breath, Glophous 5 retreated from the pawn shop’s glittering lights and entered his spaceship. He dropped the measly three hundred credits into his fleshpocket with a clink. As the hatch closed behind him, he turned a forlorn gaze to the rows of pickled humans lining the cargo hold—his sole inheritance from his dear, late uncle.
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do with all these?”
Jon Clendaniel is a writer of speculative fiction from western Pennsylvania. His work also has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Point Science Fiction, foofaraw, and Weird Wide Web. When not writing, he can usually be found watching obscure horror movies or buying way too many used paperbacks.
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