From the Desk of Evander Marshall

Marshall / Todd and Associates, LLP

November 13th, 2013

Well, it happened again last night. We were abducted by the aliens.

I think it’s fair to refer to our meetings with the Intergalactic Council as 'alien abductions,’ even though we're given some advance notice and we voluntarily drive ourselves to the rendezvous point.

We're still being forced, under duress, to drop everything and have our particles ‘beamed-up’ or whatever-it’s-called to Intergalactic Council Territory just outside of the Andromeda Galaxy.

I don’t think it’s unfair to call that act an ‘abduction.’

We received a message from the aliens late yesterday afternoon in the usual manner, via the strange transmitter chips that have been implanted into our lower molars (and by "our," I mean myself and my partner, Henry Todd).

It was about a quarter to five, nearly the end of the work day, and I was packing my laptop into my bag when I felt the vibrating sensation in the back of my jaw. That was followed by a clicking sound in my ear, like someone had turned on a PA system somewhere just behind my left eyeball.

"ATTENTION, EARTH ATTORNEYS!" A mechanical voice blared into the back of my head. "YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO REPORT TO THE INTERGALACTIC COUNCIL THIS EVENING AT 7 O’CLOCK, PACIFIC TIME. THE COUNCIL THANKS YOU, FRIENDS. HAIL SLATT!"

Followed by another click, this one behind the right eyeball signaling the end of the transmission. I shook my head a few times and re-found my equilibrium before heading into my partner's office.

Henry was already doubled-over his wet-bar, pouring out a scotch. "Sonofabitch," he mumbled as he turned to face me, moving slowly toward his desk like wounded tortoise. Henry slumped into his Aeron chair and began rubbing his temples.

"They need to adjust the volume on my molar-speakerphone thing! My head feels like I spent the night blasting dubstep tracks," he took a measured sip from his drink. "And at five o-clock? On a Friday? This is unacceptable."

My partner was right. If we were operating under US law, this kind of behavior would be grounds for conspiracy, harassment, assault, and a host of other charges. Unfortunately, the laws of the Intergalactic Territories of Slatt are very different from anything I learned at Pepperdine. I didn’t see any other choice but to obey the summons.

"It's petty, Marsh." Henry drained his Macallan and rattled the ice in the glass. "Summoning us last-minute. On a weekend. I mean, who owns this business? Do we work for them, or do we work for us? Cocksuckers."

Sometimes Henry sweats the small things (he once threw an entire salmon sandwich across the length of the office because the restaurant had added sprouts). And sometimes he sweats the large things as well (he recently told me that if our new business doesn’t start making money soon, he’ll “rip my fucking dick off.”)

But the one thing that really gets Henry’s blood boiling is the looming threat of actual work.

"It could be something urgent," I offered. "Maybe this is our chance to save the world."

Henry rolled his eyes and he walked back to the bar to mix himself a second drink. "Well, I'll meet you there but I might be a few minutes late. I have a massage booked," he needlessly pointed a finger at me. "And I'm not rescheduling!"

To make matters worse, the wormhole portal to Council Territory is located in Little Tokyo, which is smack-dab in the center of downtown. So there was traffic to deal with.

And I hate letting the Prius suck up gas like that.

Of course, Henry was right. The last-minute summons was extremely inconvenient. But what could we do? It was like receiving a subpoena from Darth Vader.

The question of 'who works for who' rattled around in my mind as I cranked the AC and braved the bumper-to-bumper on Venice Boulevard. It was a legitimate concern. Marshall / Todd and Associates is, to put it mildly, a specialty firm. We’re very progressive. You see, my partner Henry and I believe that ‘human rights’ don't just apply to humans -- they apply to all intelligent life-forms throughout the galaxy.

The truth is, we do serve at the mercy of the Intergalactic Council and their leader, Lord High Councilman Farkvold of the Territories of Slatt. The Councilman oversees and manages a total of forty-eight planets, from the edge of the Zaprath Belt (excluding the third moon) up to the tip of the Anaximan Galaxies.

So he’s a busy guy (busy alien, whatever). And I get that. And people (aliens) who are busy and powerful expect everyone else to work around their busy schedule.