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Larry From The DMV

[WP] The earth has been chosen as the neutral arbritrator in an interglactic war between two species spanning centuries, both sides have agreed to whatever decision the earth mediator chooses, and both sides are trying to curry favor with the mediator in secret. You are the mediator.

It had been yet another long and difficult day for Larry.

For their part, the Plo were nothing if not tenaciously stubborn and self-assured. The Plo ambassador, Porak- plo -Porak, spent much of the afternoon reading, at full volume, a culturally important Plo document – entitled, via rough translation, “The Predestination Of The Plo And All Things Due Unto Them’. Larry sat with his hands rubbing his temples as Porak-Plo-Porak read such riveting, screamed lines as “OF THE PLO WHAT CAN BE SAID BUT THAT THEY MUST BE GIVEN ALL THAT THEY DEMAND!”.

After lunch, the Klatsu Honor Matron – a particularly tall specimen, with two gaping mouths covered in a neon green ceremonial lipstick – gave a traditional Klatsu musical rendition in support of their claim. As the Honor Matron brayed and moaned her polyharmonic ditty, her gaggle of small male Klatsu honor guards provided a well-intentioned but wildly incompetent chorus of bleats and bops.

By the end of the day, Larry, chosen arbiter from the neutral planet Earth, and former administrative judge at the DMV in Syosset, had the worst tension headache of his entire life.

It had been two months since the Klatsu and the Plo approached the governments of Earth and jointly requested a mediator be assigned to their quarrel. Although Earth and its complex bureaucracies were frequently put to such tasks by the other species of the galaxy, not a single xeno-conflict specialist was willing to work on this particular dispute. Perhaps it was the Plo’s energetic vocal spirit and lack of internal voice, or perhaps it was the boisterous stupidity of the Klatsu matrons and their endlessly yapping mouths, but it seemed no negotiator on Earth was willing to handle the case.

That’s when they found Larry. They offered him two years pay at his current salary and said he would be gone for a couple of weeks, max. Now, after chiseling away at the conflict for over four times that long, Larry still was not sure what the two sides were even fighting about. Despite his translated requests, neither side had yet clarified what it was they wanted from the other.

Each day in the mediation chamber seemed to consist entirely of each side taking turns making pointless dramatic gestures – reading ancient, incomprehensible Plo texts or singing assinine Klatsu tribal chants. The ministrations of neither side seemed to affect the other whatsoever, and yet both sides persisted in their chosen strategies no matter what Larry said.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, neither the Plo nor the Klatsu seemed to understand what the notion of a neutral mediator meant. Both species had made brazen if completely ineffective efforts to bribe Larry. Or, at least, that was the best explanation Larry could come up with for the sorts of packages he was receiving. Every day when he returned to his temporary residence on the space station there was something new waiting for him there.

The Plo, completely lacking in any empathy for anyone other than the Plo, seemed to think all other species were as xenophobic and self-centered as they were. As a result, every day Larry would receive a package, clearly return addressed to the Plo Embassy, within which would be contained some cheap, mass-produced souvenir from some famous place on Earth. So far, Larry had about a dozen mini Statues of Liberty, eight Eiffel Towers, six Great Walls of China, and a wide array of other miniature global tourist traps piled high in a corner of his living room.

The Klatsu were, in some respects, far worse. What they made up for in general warmth, the Klatsu more than compensated for with outright stupidity. As a result, many of the blackmail gifts they sent Larry simply could not be interpreted as objects of value in any known galactic culture. Larry had so far received from the Klatsu emissary:

(1) A pile of broken twigs;

(2) An old ham sandwich;

(3) A worn cardboard box filled with several smaller cardboard boxes;

(4) what appeared to be a used extraterrestrial contraception device;

(5) Some kind of fruit Jam, uncontained by any vessel of any kind – just two Klatsu handfuls of jam left on the floor in front of Larry’s door, source unknown;

(6) a wallet belonging to one Patrick Klein of Detroit, Michigan, which cost Larry five dollars USD to mail back;

(7) two small screws stuck into a pitted apricot.

Today, as Larry came home, there was, of course, another package in the entryway to his small apartment. Larry sighed, bent down, and brought it inside. He dropped it on the kitchen table and tore it open. Inside was a small model of the Golden Gate bridge.

No sooner had Larry tossed the model into the growing pile of souvenirs then there came a knock on the door. Larry looked down at his feet and waited for the knocking to stop – though he knew the effort was absolutely futile: more than likely the Klatsu male was very much enjoying knocking, as he was so profoundly stupid.

Resigned, Larry opened the door and looked down at the diminutive Klatsu. The smaller male wore a ceremonial spear on his back, the broad smile of an imbecile on his face, and offered up something cylindrical and green cupped in both hands. Larry was absolutely loathe to touch the object, but knew there was no other way to get rid of the damn alien. Pulling down the sleeve of his shirt, Larry covered his hand with the shirt’s material and grabbed for the thing.

“Thanks,” Larry said, deadpan.

“Kaloloololooo!” the Klatsu male responded, smiling as if he’d just one first prize at the cotton candy contest.

Larry slammed the door shut with his empty hand and headed over to the garbage disposal. He brought the green thing up to this nose and gave it a whiff. It smelled like brine and vinegar and suddenly Larry remembered what the thing was, although he had only seen it on obscure travel shows before, as almost no one on Earth ate them anymore.

“A pickle?” Larry exclaimed in surprise and unceremoniously tossed the slimy thing into the garbage disposal. As he walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, wearily unbuttoning his shirt, Larry wondered out loud, “Where the hell did they a pickle?”

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