By John Adams
The first mishap was outside the Martian embassy in Paris. “Oopsy-daisy,” Mr. Burblegurblex said, smashing an errant limousine door into the consul general’s Mercedes with his seventh arm. “Lucky my wife’s the ambassador!”
Guinevere, his Earth escort, grimaced. “No bother, sir. Nothing some polish won’t fix.”
That afternoon, while sightseeing, another mishap. “Oopsy-daisy,” Mr. Burblegurblex said, splattering chocolate ganache across Whistler’s Mother.
Guinevere swallowed. “No bother, sir. The Louvre has sponges.”
Later, in Guinevere’s office, a final mishap. “Oopsy-daisy,” Mr. Burblegurblex said, making slapdash love to Guinevere’s ficus.
Guinevere’s jaw clenched. “No bother, sir. Another cigarette?”
Sometimes, Guinevere despised diplomacy.
John “writes stories about teenage detectives, pelican-people, robo-butlers, cursed cowboys, and bear nuns to amuse himself – and hopefully others, too.”