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A philosopher, a psychologist,
and an extraterrestrial
walk into a chocolate bar …
Jass Richards
[Lacuna]
2018
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Publication information
A philosopher, a psychologist, and an extraterrestrial walk into a chocolate bar … is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, institutions, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published in 2018 by Lacuna in Armidale, New South Wales, Australia
Lacuna is an imprint of Golden Orb Creative
PO Box 428, Armidale, NSW 2350, Australia
© Copyright Jass Richards 2018. www.jassrichards.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievals system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except under the terms of the Australian Copyright Act 1968, or the Copyright Act of Canada, without the permission of the publisher.
All enquiries to the publisher: [email protected]
Cover image © Marcin Janiec | Dreamstime.com (ID 7964961)
Cover design by Golden Orb Creative
Text design and production by Golden Orb Creative
Print book typeset in 11pt Adobe Caslon Pro (text) and Blenny (titles)
Galaxy icon made by Freepik from www.flaticon.com (licensed under Creative Commons licence CC 3.0 BY)
A National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry has been created for this title:
ISBN 9781922198341 (pbk)
ISBN 9781922198358 (ebook)
1
Spike Dubrey walked into the polished, marbled, and be-columned lobby of Manus Industries, Inc. carrying two bright red five-gallon containers. Despite that, she was ignored by Security. Duh. She was wearing grey cotton painter pants and a grey sweat-shirt and she had short spiky hair. Besides which, she had no boobs. And it looked like she forgot to put her make-up on. She probably didn’t even shave her legs. Let alone you know. The one guy shifted his overflapping belly. The other one scratched his armpit.
Once she reached the corporate goldfish pond, she set down the containers, then shrugged off her knapsack. She took out a little fishbowl and a long-handled net, then put the knapsack on a nearby chair. She carefully leaned her phone against the knapsack, set to record. Returning to the goldfish pond, she filled the bowl with its water, then scooped up the five goldfish that were swimming about, transferring them into the bowl. She noted that another seven were not swimming about. It was disturbing, for more than one reason, but convenient. She left them floating belly up.
Next, she up-ended the five-gallon containers, putting into the pond chlorine compounds, dyes, solvents, adhesives, coatings, inks, and oils. She’d spent her week as a temp doing on-site research, watching what went down the drains, comparing existing paperwork with regulations and best practices. Then she’d done the math. Parts per million and all that. Her action was not an exaggeration.
She’d thought about announcing her action—she was particularly fond of bullhorns—but thanks to the out-of-control advertising industry, anything duller than strobing neon and deafening sound, which was pretty much everything that was real and true, failed to make an impression. So, she acted in silence. That might be noticeable.
And indeed, a small crowd had gathered. But probably only because this was the most interesting thing that had happened all day, maybe even all week.
As a result, the two guys lounging at the Security Desk finally paid attention to her, and headed her way.
She left the five still-alive fish in their new, but considerably more constrained, living space perched on the ledge, on the edge, between the emptied containers, each thoughtfully labeled like a granola bar with its Nutrition Facts.
After zooming in for a close-up, she pocketed her phone, grabbed her knapsack, then, seeing the approaching guards, broke into a trot for the door, slaloming, just for the hell of it, between the pedestalled busts of past presidents—odd to call them busts, as surely none of them were women—to make a nicely coordinated exit through the heavy revolving doors. She crossed Bloor Street, moving from the shadow of one Toronto skyscraper into the shadow