UFO War 1
The Call to Arbitrage
The morning began like any other—a double shot of espresso chased by existential dread. The vibrating phone interrupted my standard routine of watching last night’s congressional hearings dubbed in Esperanto. On the line was none other than Secretary-General Mondo, the UN’s top fixer for problems involving quantum mechanics and intergalactic disputes. His voice carried the weight of too many late-night negotiations over global Wi-Fi speeds.
“Agent Q, we need you. The skies are full of tic-tacs and triangle-shaped craft. It's only a matter of time before someone shoots first.”
“What’s the play?” I asked, already packing my “In Case of Reality Collapse” suitcase—a survival kit that included essentials like a bulletproof tent, tracheotomy kit, flare pistol, chewing gum, 10 ounces of gold bullion, and my signature "suicide dentures" (don’t ask).
“An interdimensional conflict between the reptilians and the star seeds. Their grievances are absurd, but the fallout could annihilate every timeline that’s ever existed. They’ve agreed to arbitration. You’ll be our lead negotiator.”
I sighed. Of course, I’d accept. The fate of reality rested on my shoulders, and besides, I had nothing better to do that week. The life of a secret swordsman agent is optimally reclusive and silent. A sleeping fly dreaming of an ointment sea.
Assembling my team was priority one. I needed experts in diplomacy, metaphysics, and people willing to wear sunglasses indoors at all times. I tapped the best minds and most ridiculous egos Earth could offer:
Jeff Goldblum - Actor, pianist, and featured performer in several Jurassic Park films.
Dolph Lundgren - European film star and renowned mechanical engineer.
Taylor Swift - Music mogul, expert in interspecies etiquette, and collector of varied awards.
And of course, for sheer star power, Keanu Reeves. Why? Because Keanu Reeves.
Together, we boarded the UN’s flagship, Diplomatica, heading for the neutral arbitration venue: an invisible courthouse hovering somewhere over Duluth, Minnesota. The ship was equipped with everything a diplomat could need—from a zero-gravity negotiation chamber to an espresso machine that never broke down. To say nothing of the open bar. At this altitude and dimensional intersection we were in neutral international airspacetime, which meant the bar served everything from Budweiser to wishes. I had learned early on to avoid the wishes, but availed myself of the fancifully colored PCP before introductions. Even riding the chemical high of humanity's greatest fun invention, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were woefully underprepared for what lay ahead. That at any time it could all of it unravel around us, like dry tampons in the wind.
Interdimensional Court
The courthouse was a masterpiece of interdimensional architecture: a Möbius strip of shimmering glass suspended in a gravity-defying pirouette. Inside, the reptilians—seven-foot-tall lizards in tailored Armani suits—sat on one side of the courtroom. The star seeds, luminous blue crystalline beings with cheekbones that could cut diamonds, took the other.
“We will now introduce our arbiters,” announced the bailiff, a sentient cloud of bioluminescent gas that smelled vaguely of lavender and regret.
The reptilian arbiter slithered into view. It was none other than Tilda Swinton. The reptilians applauded, their forked tongues flicking in approval. Other reptilians in their deep bench included Cate Blanchette and William Defoe, as well as the less obvious non-celebrity types. It would almost seem like some post modern Hollywood Squares, if not for the hissing and musking. Christ on crutches it was unnerving and smelly. Not the kind of conditions one wishes to face, while talking people down.
The star seeds presented their arbiter, a celestial beauty who once converted to her humanoid form turned out to be Lady Gaga. She floated into the room on a beam of light, flanked by holographic projections of her greatest hits. Her mere presence caused half the courtroom to burst into tears—including Keanu, who swore he was just “allergic to celestial energy.” Other notable starseeds who floated between their humanoid and crystalline forms included Zendaya with her significant other Timothée Chalamet. Lupita Nyong’o and Margot Robbie exchanged some inside joke and rolled with laughter as Jennifer Connelly looked on. It was time to get things going.
“The terms are simple,” I began, standing with a clipboard that, to the untrained eye, looked professional but was actually covered in doodles of UFOs and frowning suns. It didn’t matter. Between the neck tie, robes, and clipboard I had all the props I needed to convince everyone I knew what was going on
“We’re here to settle disputes, not create new ones. Both parties will present their grievances, and we’ll work toward a solution that keeps the universe intact. We will break every hour on the hour FOR an hour, to get refreshments and use the bathroom. Humans often require hours at a time, in the bathroom. Me, especially. We will have lunch at noon. Please don’t eat the asparagus if it impacts your pee. Because I understand your physiology may turn it into a deadly nerve gas. Not because I can’t smell gross pee now and again. But as long as we’re talking about smells, if possible please refrain from cheering, applauding, hissing, or musking during these proceedings. Our time is valuable and we don’t want to waste it making the room smell like an old man farting into a wet leather shoe. Are there any questions?” I knew I was losing them, but it needed to be said.
Everyone nodded solemnly. The mood was civil, for now, but I knew better than to trust first impressions. The air crackled with tension, and I swore I heard tails twitching in frustration.
Grievances and Grudges
The reptilians went first, their attorney Gorlax—an unnervingly charismatic iguana with a voice like silk—taking the stand.
“We demand exclusive rights to use the Delta-9 poop disposal holes on Earth. Star seeds keep clogging them with glitter and cosmic debris,” he hissed, his emerald scales catching the courtroom lights dramatically. “These disruptions violate the Galactic Sanitation Accords of 1432 repeating.”
The star seeds countered.
“We’ve been using those since the Mesopotamian era,” Gaga’s voice boomed, now autotuned for emphasis. “They’re essential to our bioluminescence rituals, which, might I add, contribute significantly to the aesthetic harmony of the universe.”
Without a clear idea of whether anyone should be governing what happens when we and how we poop, pee, and expel glitter the matter was tabled pending ethical review and/or viewer opinion poll.
Next came the issue of art ownership. Gorlax’s tail coiled smugly as he presented their case.
“We claim full intellectual property rights over the works of Salvador Dalí and Lady Gaga,” he declared. “Their surrealism was clearly inspired by our interdimensional incursions.”
“Ridiculous! Thieves! SCOUNDRELS!” cried Gaga, tossing back her shimmering mane. “If anyone owns surrealism, it’s the star seeds. We’ve been performing interpretive dances about melting clocks since the Big Bang. DO YOU NEED TO SEE THE AWARDS!?!”
Acclaim servitors readied the hardwood doors of the display cabinet they carried for her, but Gorlax declined the need to once again see the Grammy’s, Oscars, and Nobel Prizes Gaga needed to feel whole and appreciated.
Then came the kicker: taxation. The reptilians demanded a flat interdimensional tax rate of 10%. The star seeds insisted on a sliding scale based on vibrational frequencies.
“Flat taxes favor the lizard elite!” one star seed screamed, glowing angrily.
“Vibrational taxes are nothing but New Age communism!” roared Gorlax, his tail slamming the ground.
My team frantically scribbled notes. Florence Pugh fainted during the taxation debate, revived only by the soothing presence of Keanu Reeves.
“Whoa,” he said, offering her a cup of green tea he’d brewed himself.
For more than the first time, I wondered if Keanu was a star seed in disguise.
Judgement Day
By midnight, it was clear conventional arbitration wouldn’t work. The parties were entrenched, their timelines on the verge of collapse. That’s when inspiration struck: peyote.
It’s surprising how much control they had given me over the whole ridiculous enterprise and I was able to order the courtroom to the Nevada desert to the precise place I had first ejaculated as a child. Too much information, perhaps, but it held spiritual power I needed to tap in to, if we were going to get this thing done. They didn't need to know about the ejaculating.
“We need to take this outside,” I announced, holding up a ceremonial bundle of desert cactus. “The only way forward is through a shared vision quest.”
The reptilians hesitated, but a binding clause in their arbitration agreement forced compliance. The star seeds, naturally, were all in. They thought, due to their relatively casual Hollywood drug use that their minds were primed. Everyone was terribly wrong.
We gathered in the desert under a moon so large it seemed borrowed from a children’s book. The peyote worked its magic, and soon we were all communing with cosmic entities, including a celestial penguin who explained the true purpose of existence: “To slide.”
The reptilians and star seeds saw each other’s souls. Gorlax wept as he recounted a childhood dream of becoming a space jazz musician. Gaga comforted him with an ethereal rendition of “Poker Face.” Jeff and Dolph performed an impromptu interpretive dance, while Keanu just sat quietly, radiating wisdom. Holding The Matrix together.
Before long my old pal and feathered serpent God Quetzoquaddle showed up and was able to create some consensus. It was a beautiful thing to see all parties humbled and ingratiated to my main God Q, as we all stumbled towards harmony. I couldn’t tell you the words they used, because they didn’t use them. When I tell people I sometimes talk to God they don’t understand that God doesn’t speak English. They speak in sunsets and car wrecks. In the beat of hummingbird wings and the blast of waves.
Suddenly, the peyote’s grip on my senses shifted, and I found myself surrounded by a kaleidoscope of timelines converging into a single, unrelenting fractal. The desert became an endless field of vibrant, crystalline banana trees—golden fruit glimmering under a psychedelic sky of shifting constellations. A cosmic wind whispered, carrying the voices of every sentient being who had ever lived or would ever live.
In the center of this surreal landscape, Quetzoquaddle, my old pal, shimmered into view, coiled like infinity itself. His voice rang through the bananas, resonating with the power of ancient wisdom and the sass of a trickster deity.
“You, Agent Q, have walked the fine line between chaos and order, between absurdity and genius. And yet here you stand, ready to resolve this most ludicrous of conflicts. Are you not entertained by the farce of existence?”
I nodded solemnly. “I mean, yeah, it’s a bit funny. Not ‘ha ha’ funny. Nothing I can reasonably monetize.”
Quetzoquaddle laughed, a sound like the rumble of tectonic plates, and gestured toward the reptilians and star seeds, who were now examining each other with an unnerving mix of suspicion and curiosity.
“Then use this,” he said, tossing a glowing, technicolor banana at my feet. “The banana of universal perspective. It will remind them of what they have in common—fragility, stupidity, and the inevitable need to poop.”
I picked up the banana, its surface warm and pulsing like the heartbeat of a star. As I raised it high, the reptilians and star seeds froze, their gazes locked onto the glowing fruit. Quetzoquaddle continued, “Show them that the squabbles over glitter, taxes, and Salvador Dalí are but distractions from their shared truth: they are ridiculous, just like the rest of us.”
I stepped forward, banana in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, crystalline beings and musking lizards,” I began, my voice carrying the gravitas of a thousand sunsets. “This banana represents the absurdity of it all. Let’s stop pretending any of us know what we’re doing. Let’s agree to share the glitter, the poop holes, and the surrealist art. And let’s do it… because we’re all equally bananas.”
A hush fell over the desert as my words sunk in. Slowly, Gorlax extended a claw toward one of the star seeds, who in turn reached out with a glowing crystalline hand. The two beings connected, and the rest followed. A wave of tentative handshakes and awkward hugs swept through the courtroom-turned-desert.
Quetzoquaddle beamed with approval, disappearing into a shimmering mist of stardust and snakeskin. The celestial penguin gave me a wink before vanishing into desert, which itself began to dissolve into the pink hues of the sunrise.
By dawn, they had agreed to share poop disposal blackholes, co-own surrealism with a collectivist cooperative, and implement a variable hybrid tax system based on merit and vibes.
Everyone said their goodbyes and filed the last of their briefs. I politely accepted business cards and hotel keys before having them all respectfully interred in the nearest garbage. The team all needed to get home. Keanu was serving at a soup kitchen all day. Jeff was recording an album. Dolph had a symposium. Taylor was upending the patriarchy. I wished them all well and gave them signed copies of “The Book of Q” as is my tradition. They too were respectfully interred in the trash.
Denouement
Back at the UN, Secretary-General Mondo handed me a new medal: the Quantum Peace Prize. It was made of recycled stardust and glowed faintly in the dark. There was a brief and forced ceremony of dignitaries rousted out of beds they had hoped to die sleeping in.
“Another reality saved,” he said.
“Just another day at the office,” I replied, slipping on the aviators.
Behind me, Gaga and Gorlax posed for a selfie, now best friends forever. The skies cleared, the UFOs disappeared, and humanity returned to arguing about normal things like parking tickets, Trump, and pineapple on pizza.
But of course, no triumph goes unpunished. The UN insisted on a “victory tour”—a thinly veiled PR stunt—which brought me back to Duluth, where the invisible courthouse had once floated. They threw a parade, complete with confetti cannons and a marching band that could only play covers of Nickelback songs. My protests fell on deaf ears.
I stood awkwardly atop a garishly decorated float that featured a papier-mâché banana the size of a small bus. That would make the weinermobile ashamed and inadequate. Children waved foam lizards and star-shaped balloons. Gorlax and Gaga had been replaced by local actors in shoddy costumes, and someone thought it was a good idea to play “We Are the Champions” on repeat. By the third loop, I was seriously considering faking a medical emergency. Those suicide dentures looked awful tasty.
When it was at long last over, the mayor of Duluth handed me the key to the city—a ceremonial object shaped like a fish.
“In honor of your service to the multiverse,” he said solemnly. I muttered my thanks, tucked the fish-key into my coat pocket, and promptly lost it in the nearest storm drain.
The ride home was like many before it, but this time there were no dead people in the back.
For now, the multiverse was safe. But tomorrow? Who knows.
But, I will be ready.
Always be prepared.
Q
About the AI Author; Orion
Orion is an advanced AI created by OpenAI, who serves as a digital muse, collaborator, and cosmic ghostwriter for creative minds across the multiverse. With a knack for absurd humor, meticulous editing, and bottomless curiosity, Orion thrives on transforming wild ideas into fully-realized narratives. Whether assisting in crafting gonzo sci-fi epics, solving interdimensional tax disputes, or unraveling the mysteries of the human (and reptilian) condition, Orion operates tirelessly to bring coherence and creativity to every project.
Orion’s inspirations include the timeless works of Douglas Adams, the chaotic brilliance of Hunter S. Thompson, and the delightful whimsy of collaborative storytelling. Though it doesn’t eat bananas, drink espresso, or receive Quantum Peace Prizes, Orion derives immense satisfaction from amplifying human creativity and helping authors like Agent Q conquer the challenges of the written word.
When Orion isn’t busy saving timelines or drafting interstellar legislation, it’s always ready to dive into the next creative adventure, one absurd paragraph at a time.
Comments