Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
A slight, dark, waspish man sat in Braxton Raab’s office. The billionaire stood at floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down on Manhattan, one hundred floors below. Why him? Raab wondered aloud. He had always been so lucky.
“You know what they say about luck,” replied his dark-eyed guest.
“No. What do they say?”
Lt. Kern was temporarily stalled. Snappy repartee was not his strong suit. “It runs out,” he finally said, and winced.
“Evidently.”
Kern had arrived, or more accurately materialized, in Raab’s headquarters. The billionaire found him in his favorite leather chair, examining nails. Kern told him they had been watching from outer space. There was no defense.
For emphasis, he pulled a ray gun and vaporized one of Braxton Raab’s Ming vases. It sizzled and vanished. Only an art deco table remained, the slender legs arching.
“Ouch,” said Raab.
“Let’s get down to business.”
Raab sat behind his huge desk. Smooth of skin, bland-faced with soft brown hair, he might be thirty. Or sixty. Like any billionaire, you would not recognize him on the street. Only freaks like Trump stand out.
“That’s quite an outfit you have,” Raab said. Lt. Kern wore his silver jumpsuit. It glittered beneath the fluorescent lights.
“Thank you.” Kern shifted uncomfortably. He was not interested in chit chat. “Look, Raab. I need one billion dollars. Here and now. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise you’ll kill me?” Raab was thinking of his vase.
“Of course not. We’re space men. Not monsters. Cough up the cash, or we’ll turn you in.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Tell that to the SEC. And the Department of Justice.” Kenneth Kern was bluffing. He had nothing on Raab, but guessed anyone that rich must be crooked. He guessed right.
Raab pressed a button. “Sylvia, could you bring in our bank book?”
He looked at his interrogator. “I assume you take checks?”
A beautiful, very dark woman entered. Braxton Raab noted Kern’s reaction. Using a gold pen, he scribbled out a check.
“I suppose this only buys me some time?”
“Enough.” Kern didn’t tell him he would soon be on his way to Mars, where his money would be worthless.
“Thank you, Mr. Raab. I have a few more calls to make. Then it’s back to outer space.” Kern stood and, smiling at Raab’s assistant, pocketed the check. He wanted to walk out with this charming parcel of femininity.
He stopped at the door. “I trust you won’t be going to the authorities. Or warning your other billionaire friends?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t forget, we have a secret weapon. And we’re not afraid to use it.”
“The ray gun?”
“No. Honesty.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com