The First Mann on Mars - Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine of the hilarious new science fiction novel, The First Mann on Mars by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
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The First Mann on Mars
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
THE STORY SO FAR…
Moronic Billionaut Derek Mann, along with his snarky, silver AI sidekick Barry Wilkinson, have been rescued from an ugly, dangerous spaceship and have now landed on Mars. Back on Earth, things have gone predictably wrong—most of Northern Europe has been obliterated after Derek’s genius friend Noel decided to crank the Large Hadron Collider up to eleven. The rest of the planet is now enjoying the charming chaos of a post-apocalyptic era. Meanwhile, Derek and Barry have discovered that Mars is far from a barren dustbowl…
Chapter Nine: One with the banger, baby!
Derek, Barry, and Doreen—respectively shimmering in shades of red, silver, and a distinctly gammon-esque hue—glided through the sunlit Martian atmosphere in Doreen’s air car, leaving the dusty desolation of Fake Ars behind them. The sleek vehicle hummed along, its propulsion system purring like a well-fed Mercurian cat.
The trio sat in relative silence, the weight of their peculiar situation offset slightly by the surreal beauty of the Martian landscape stretching out before them. Derek, ever the conversational risk-taker, finally broke the quiet.
“So, Doreen,” he ventured, “what’s next on the itinerary? A nice Martian pub, perhaps? Somewhere with crisps and a quiz night?”
Barry sighed, leaning his silver head against the window. “Civilization, Derek. We’re heading back to civilization. Try to act like you’ve seen it before.”
“Civilization is overrated,” Derek muttered. “Fake Mars was simpler. Dust, rocks, smashing expensive robots with hammers... I was having tremendous fun.”
“So, how does it feel?” Barry asked, addressing Nole, who now resided comfortably in their shared auditory consciousness, thanks to the Martian upgrade. Through their implants, Derek and Doreen also caught the conversation.
“Much better!” Nole replied cheerfully, his voice ringing with a confidence typically reserved for lottery winners or toddlers discovering chocolate. “They’ve uploaded some sort of massive galactic database. I now know everything! Well, almost everything. There’s still a surprising gap when it comes to sock disappearances, but otherwise, I’m positively encyclopedic.”
“That’s… impressive?” Barry ventured, unsure how one congratulates a spaceship computer on cosmic omniscience.
“Good news for you too, Derek,” Nole continued, his tone dripping with glee. “I’m now absolutely bursting with pudding recipes. Treacle tart, spotted dick, gelatinous florf-nog from Blorpticon V—you name it!”
Derek brightened instantly. “Oh, I love pudding!”
Doreen’s voice interjected, faintly incredulous. “You just found out your AI now contains the sum total of galactic knowledge, and you’re focused on dessert?”
“Well,” Derek said with a shrug, “pudding’s important, isn’t it? Never know when you’ll need a good crumble in a crisis.”
Glerktergle considered himself an exceptional ambassador. And why wouldn’t he? Being an ambassador was delightfully easy when everything was peaceful and everyone was getting along. Of course, Venus was currently at war with absolutely everyone—including several species who hadn’t yet discovered fire—so technically, his job was a touch more complicated.
Not that it mattered. Glerktergle still got invited to parties, sporting events, and diplomatic soirées where everyone politely pretended not to notice the interplanetary ships exploding in the background. He particularly enjoyed summoning other ambassadors to his office so he could berate them for defending themselves against Venusian aggression. It was a cushy gig.
He’d even written two books on the art of diplomacy. His first, Show Up, Smile, Buy a Few Drinks, and Blame Someone Else, was considered a classic in the field. The follow-up, Always Leave Them Wanting Less, had become a bestseller among politicians, bureaucrats, and anyone who enjoyed the idea of diplomacy without any of the actual work.
Today, Glerktergle was in fine form. He’d just “summoned” his Martian counterpart to scold him for shooting down a Venusian ship that, entirely by coincidence, had been attempting to board and commandeer a vessel carrying Earthling survivors.
“Oh, but Ambassador,” Glerktergle had exclaimed with the kind of wounded innocence usually reserved for toddlers caught with cookie crumbs on their cheeks. “We were simply stabilizing their ship with our tractor beam! Out of pure goodwill, mind you, so we could tow them in and offer repairs. And your fighters brutally attacked us without provocation. This is an OUTRAGE! A PROVOCATION! AN ESCALATION!”
He had shouted, he had banged his fist on the table, and he had managed to look genuinely aggrieved. It was, by his own estimation, a virtuoso performance. The Martian ambassador had nodded politely, murmured something noncommittal about "further discussions," and the whole meeting had wrapped up in time for Glerktergle to judge the Interplanetary Sausage Throwing Contest that afternoon.
He checked his calendar. Yes, the sausage event was at 3 PM, and the Saturnian Cheese and Wine Evening was at 7. He would need to pace himself. Being at war with the galaxy was exhausting, but oh, the social calendar was divine.
“Interplanetary Sausage Throwing Contest?” Derek exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat. “I’m right up for that!”
Doreen, caught between amusement and mild panic, spluttered, “Well, I’m not entirely sure you can enter. We’ve never had an Earthman compete before.”
Barry raised an eyebrow. “It is called the Interplanetary Sausage Throwing Contest, isn’t it? Unless Earth has been downgraded to a mere semi-planet while we weren’t looking, he’s eligible.”
Nole’s voice buzzed cheerfully through their implants. “I’ve checked the official rulebook! Subsection 4.3, paragraph six, footnote two: ‘Any sapient being from a recognized celestial body may participate.’ So, I applied on your behalf. Congratulations, Derek! We’re in!”
Barry sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Is there an off switch for this thing?” he grumbled, referring to Nole’s incessant enthusiasm.
“Oh, yes,” said Doreen, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just stick your finger up your right nostril. There’s a toggle in there.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, all three of them jabbed their fingers up their respective noses.
“Oi!” squawked Nole indignantly. But a series of faint clicks echoed in their heads, followed by blissful silence.
The three visibly relaxed, lowering their hands.
Derek beamed, thoroughly satisfied. “Right then, let’s throw some sausages!”
“How exactly does one throw a banger?” Derek asked, holding the sausage aloft like a caveman trying to invent fire. He rotated it experimentally, squinting as if the sausage might reveal its aerodynamic secrets through sheer intimidation.
Barry, hands clasped behind his back in mock contemplation, ventured, “It’s not something I’m entirely familiar with myself, sir, to be honest. Perhaps we should re-activate Nole. He did say he knows everything.”
“Good idea!” Derek agreed. The two men glanced around self-consciously before slipping their fingers up their noses with the air of seasoned professionals toggling a switch on some highly sophisticated nasal technology.
“Ah, the fine art of sausage throwing!” Nole exclaimed, back in their heads with gusto. “A sport originally devised by Martians but now one of the cornerstone events of the Interplanetary Olympics. This may be a local contest, but if you look over there—see that purple fellow from Neptune? He’s the current galactic champion. Quite a wrist on him, I hear.”
“That’s fascinating and all,” Derek interrupted impatiently, “but how do you do it? Is it like bowling a googly? Or more of a shot-put situation?”
“It certainly isn’t,” Nole replied, his tone adopting the smugness of a lecturer unveiling the secrets of the universe. “Due to the specific atmospheric density here on Mars, combined with what I’ve discerned to be an artificial magnetic field cleverly hidden beneath a planet-wide holographic projection—masking what is actually a verdant, lush, and highly fertile ecosyst—”
“Get on with it!” hissed Derek, nostrils flaring with frustration.
“You chuck it like a dart,” Nole concluded flatly.
Barry raised an eyebrow. “Like a dart, you say? I suppose there’s a certain poetry in that. But wouldn’t the aerodynamics of a sausage… complicate matters?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Nole said in their heads, his voice dripping with digital condescension. “Sausages, you see, are inherently unpredictable. They wobble. They spin. They flop. The true art of sausage throwing lies in embracing the chaos. You must become one with the banger, gentlemen.”
Derek turned the sausage over in his hands, inspecting it like it was a relic from an ancient, sausage-based civilization. “One with the banger,” he murmured. “Got it.”
Barry sighed. “I fear for this contest already.”
The three made their way to the throwing area, where contestants from across the galaxy were warming up. The air was filled with the soft plap of sausages landing on target boards. Derek’s attention was immediately drawn to the purple Neptunian champion, a towering figure with metallic arms, practicing an elaborate throwing motion.
“Look at him!” Derek exclaimed. “How am I supposed to compete with that? He’s got a robot arm! And are those sausages custom weighted?”
“Focus, Derek,” Barry said, arms crossed. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you and… your sausage.”
“Beautifully said, Barry,” Nole added with mock reverence.
Just as Derek was psyching himself up, a familiar, slimy voice echoed through the arena.
“Ah, so these are the Earthlings!”
The group turned to see Glerktergle, the Venusian ambassador, oozing his way toward them, flanked by two intimidating guards. His mollusc-like face twisted into something resembling a grin, though it mostly looked like he was trying not to sneeze.
“Here to lose spectacularly, are we?” Glerktergle sneered. “Venusians, of course, are natural-born sausage throwers. Something about our unparalleled sense of balance and superior—”
“Sliminess?” Barry interjected.
“Poise,” Glerktergle snapped, glaring at him.
“Right,” Derek said, gripping his sausage with newfound determination. “Let’s do this.”
Barry and Derek stood by the throwing platform, the atmosphere buzzing with the energy of interplanetary sausage enthusiasts. Derek fidgeted nervously, clutching his sausage like a life raft.
“Derek,” Barry said, “just remember: you’re representing Earth here. Don’t embarrass us. Well, not more than usual.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, mate,” Derek muttered, rolling his eyes.
Before he could overthink any further, Doreen stepped up beside him, her Martian-red complexion practically glowing in the sunlight. She adjusted Derek’s collar and gave him an encouraging smile.
“Don’t listen to him, Derek. You’ve got this.”
“Do I, though?” Derek asked, holding up the wobbly sausage. “It’s not exactly aerodynamic, is it? I mean, it’s a sausage, Doreen.”
She laughed softly. “You’ll do fine. Just… be yourself.” And before Derek could process what was happening, she leaned in and planted a quick, light peck on his cheek.
Derek blinked, stunned. “Uh, wow. Okay. Yep. Definitely feeling lucky now.”
Barry smirked, leaning in to inspect Derek’s face. “You’re turning the same color as Doreen.”
“Shut it, Barry.” Derek cleared his throat, suddenly standing a little taller.
As the announcer called his name, he stepped onto the platform with a newfound swagger. Doreen waved from the sidelines, her grin equal parts supportive and mischievous. The crowd quieted, except for Glerktergle, who was muttering loudly to his guards about Earthlings’ inherent lack of sophistication.
Derek raised the sausage, squinting at the target ahead. He took a deep breath. “One with the banger,” he whispered. He pulled his arm back, muscles tightening in theatrical slow motion.
“Steady…” Barry encouraged.
“Don’t overthink it,” Nole added.
“And… now!”
With a dramatic flick of his wrist, Derek hurled the sausage forward.
Time seemed to slow as the banger soared through the Martian air, wobbling and spinning unpredictably. It veered sharply left, causing the crowd to gasp, then right, causing the crowd to “aaaaaah”, then corrected itself with an almost supernatural grace and flew straight and true—straight into Glerktergle’s face.
The ambassador froze in shock as the sausage struck with a wet splat, sticking to his slimy visage like a meaty exclamation point. For a moment, the entire arena was silent. Then, from somewhere in the back, came the unmistakable sound of someone snorting uncontrollably. Like a spark igniting dry tinder, the crowd erupted into raucous laughter, hoots, and cheers.
Glerktergle peeled the sausage off his face with an audible schlorp. “This isn’t over, Earthling,” he growled.
Derek grinned in return and held one finger aloft. “One with the banger, baby.”
“Well,” Barry said, clapping Derek on the back, “you certainly gave them a show.”
“You insolent… Earthling!” screamed Glerktergle, shaking his fist at Derek with the theatrical vigor of a soap opera villain. He shook his fist some more then stormed off toward the exit, his entourage scuttling behind him in a cloud of indignation.
“Do you think he’s mad?” Derek whispered to Barry.
Barry smirked, brushing some invisible dust off his shoulder. “Mad? Oh, definitely. But in a way that makes us the winners. Well done, Sausage King.”
The crowd roared with laughter and applause as Glerktergle’s retreating figure disappeared into the shadows. If nothing else, Derek had certainly left an impression—mostly on Glerktergle’s face.
The crowd erupted into a chant—alternating between “Derek” and “Sausage King”—Derek couldn’t help but smile. Sure, he hadn’t exactly stuck the landing, but he’d definitely left his mark.
END OF CHAPTER NINE
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