Liam O'Malley, the octogenarian owner and operator of the Blarney Stone Inn, opens his business at ten o'clock sharp every morning, except Sundays. The Blarney Stone, located at the back of an alley off Spring Street between a wholesale toy store and a furniture liquidator, has been steadily serving locals and fans of hole-in-the-wall Irish pubs for nearly forty years.

Liam is the only bartender and service is slow, but he can still pour a whiskey with a steady hand. He opens early for the 'regulars', a handful of nameless men in their fifties or sixties, professional drinkers, who show up daily before noon and stay until closing. Most nights there's a small crowd for karaoke, a feature that Liam was apprehensive about introducing to his traditional Irish pub. But karaoke became a popular attraction at the Blarney Stone - an odd fit that somehow felt just right. It brought in a fresh crop of young customers and, to Liam's surprise, the bad music and bad singing didn't bother the regulars one bit. They were content to sit silently at the bar, night after night, drinking their drinks and ignoring it all.

The Blarney Stone was the perfect spot, centrally located yet unassuming, for a wormhole portal to the interdimensional neutral plane where the High Council gathers to rule the Territories of Slatt.

The portal is hidden in the corner-stall of the men's room, invisible and useless to those who are unaware of its presence. I'm still not sure exactly how it works, but I think the portal can detect when Henry and I are both in the stall together, then it 'beams' us to Council Territory on the interdimensional plane.

Henry and I agreed to meet at the Blarney Stone at ten on Monday morning, right when Liam was opening up. We wanted to make it to Council Territory early, so we could formally brief Lord Farkvold about the situation with Doug Dobbins.

I called Carmen Perez while I was driving. She told me that Dobbins had an uneventful weekend behind bars, including an evaluation from a staff psychologist, who saw no signs of psychosis or suicide risk. He was scheduled to be released later in the afternoon.

I knew we couldn't keep Dobbins safe forever, but we also couldn't deliver him to certain death before the High Council. Hopefully, Henry and I could clear everything up with Lord Farkvold before Doug's release.

We needed to convince Farkvold and the Council that Doug's involvement in the anise smuggling operation was involuntary - that he was a dedicated solider, acting under the orders of a corrupt Commander. I was worried because the High Council isn't known to be merciful or forgiving. It's tricky arguing a case in front of them – they understand logic, but lack any sense of empathy.

I pulled into the lot next to the Blarney Stone Inn and was surprised to see Henry's gray Jaguar already parked in a spot. Henry was outside the bar with a few of the regulars, watching Liam unlock the padlocks on the front gate.

"Morning, Henry. You look nice," I was being honest, but it sounded sarcastic. Henry was dressed in a herringbone Hugo Bass suit, and a dark tie with small white flecks. I was wearing my Brooks Brothers pinstripe, with a navy tie tied in a half-Windsor knot. We both carried black leather briefcases. We looked good; we looked like lawyers.

"How was the rest of your weekend?" I asked.

"You mean, after the High Council stopped yelling directly into my brain stem? It was fine. I soaked in the jacuzzi and took a fourteen-hour nap."

"That sounds relaxing."

"Well," Henry examined his fingernails. "Six of those fourteen hours, I was actually napping in the jacuzzi. Maybe more like passed out. So, I did get a little pruney."

We helped Liam roll up the front gate, then we followed the regulars inside and ordered club sodas at the bar. "Not that I'm complaining," I said. "But why do you think the molar-messages stopped all of the sudden? I figured we'd be dealing with them all weekend."

"I've been wondering that myself," Henry said. "Not sure. I'm guessing that there was a change of priorities. If Commander Boarvex was running the anise trafficking without Lord Farkvold's knowledge or consent, and he was using the Slatt Guard for his own personal gain…" Henry's voice trailed off.

"It's funny, I never thought of Lord Farkvold as much of a moralist. He's fine with invading, exploiting and murdering whoever he wants. But when we mentioned anise smuggling, he almost seemed…offended. I guess drug-dealing is where he draws the line."

"He's not a moralist, Marsh. He's an idealist." Henry stirred the ice in his glass. "He believes in the glory of the Slatt Territories. I mean, really believes in it. He's not just a power-hungry psychopath. He's a power-hungry psychopath with standards."

"Trafficking anise powder is below his standards?"

"Maybe not his standards," Henry shrugged. "But below the standards of the great Intergalactic Territories of Slatt? Yes. Absolutely."

"What about Commander Boarvex?" I asked. "Do you think he's been executed already?"

"I guess we're about to find out," Henry drank half of his club soda in one sip, then turned to me. "Ready?"

We were about to head off to the bathroom together (something we've done on numerous occasions at the Blarney Stone, and Liam has never once raised an eyebrow), when Henry's cell rang. He looked at the incoming call and frowned.

"Who is it?"

Henry showed me the face of his phone, which was malfunctioning. Actually, it looked like the phone was having a seizure: random colors and characters blinked and flashed across the screen as it vibrated and blared an off-key ringtone. Henry put the phone to his ear and pressed a button.

"Hello?"

"“ATTENTION!" The phone was in Henry's hand, but I heard the voice and recognized it right away as the same one that delivers messages through my molar. Henry and I both cringed.

"ATTORNEYS OF EARTH - PLEASE STAND BY FOR LORD HIGH COUNCILMAN FARKVOLD OF THE ALMIGHTY INTERGALACTIC TERRITORIES OF SLATT. HAIL SLATT!"

"He's calling us?"

"This is new."

The Councilman never called, has never called us, so a conference call was unexpected. It was quiet and private enough in the bar, so I pulled Henry into a corner booth and he placed his phone on the table.

"Earth attorneys," the metallic voice of Lord Farkvold was unmistakable above the crackling static of a poor connection. "This is the Lord High Councilman! Do you hear me?"

"We're here," Henry spoke loudly into the phone.

"This is your preferred method of communication?" Farkvold sounded incredulous. "This pitiful, ancient and antiquated Earth technology? There's isn't even a visual."

"We were just on our way to see you in person, Councilman," I said. "We're about to hop into the portal –"

"Is Agent Dobbins with you?"

"No, Lord Farkvold," Henry said. "He's still in jail, but he'll be released later today."

"Then it is not necessary for you to travel to Council Territory," Farkvold said. "Stay on your planet. Agent Dobbins may return on the next Romay Cruiser. "

"What happens to him then?"

"He will be reassigned. He'll serve the Slatt Guard in a different sector." Lord Farkvold sounded different. His voice was weaker, deflated. "No harm will come to him. We do not find him culpable in this matter."

"So, he won't be forced back into the anise trade?" I asked.

"Commander Boarvex's treasonous anise operation is a shameful scandal, a blemish on the good name of Slatt," Farkvold said. "The operation has been completely shut down. Commander Boarvex has been removed from his position."

"That makes sense," Henry said.

"And soon, we will remove the Commander's head from the rest of his body."

"And… that makes even more sense. I would expect no less from the High Council."

"May I ask," I interrupted. "What is the current situation on the planet Grimox?"

"Planetwide withdrawal," Farkvold snarled. "There is much suffering. Now that the supply of Seed has run low, the Blarf Warlords are having a difficult time controlling the cities. Those weak Grimoxians, and their filthy anise habits… The High Council plans to withdraw all members of the Slatt Guard until the situation stabilizes. It is a major setback, but we cannot allow our Outpost to be associated with illegal anise trade."

"That's unfortunate, your Lordship," I said. "Maybe you could try establishing some kind of, I don't know, democratic republic on the planet? Elected representatives can be helpful when it comes to establishing order. You know, if the Grimoxians could self-govern –"

"Still," Farkvold continued, ignoring me. "I must thank you, Earth attorneys. You identified a malignancy in our ranks; the Commander's corrupt business could have destroyed our credibility throughout the Umbrar Quadrant."

"Glad we could help," Henry said. "I have something to ask in return: can the High Council contact us by phone moving ahead? Er, that's the primitive, pitiful Earth technology that we're using to speak right now, Lordship."

"It's much easier for us than the intermolar broadcast," I added. "Maybe we reserve the molar-messages for emergencies only?"

"And parking tickets are not an emergency," Henry said.

"I will agree to that," Lord Farkvold said after a short pause. "And I have a request as well: do not appear before the High Council of Slatt again dressed in sleepwear."

"It's called a track suit, and it's activewear –"

"Hail Slatt!"

"- It cost three hundred dollars!" Henry shouted into the ether before the line went dead.

We both said nothing for a long time, silently processing the phone call.

"What now?" Henry asked. I looked around for what felt like the first time – we were two overdressed lawyers, sitting in the back of a dive bar during breakfast time, with absolutely nothing to do.

I looked at my watch. "I bet I could convince Carmen to release Doug Dobbins a few hours early."

We settled our tab, and picked up a round for the regulars at the bar. Then we set off for the police precinct, to give some good news to an argon gas.

THE END