Ryan stood in the center of the Pinnacles Sector High Tribunal, sweating under the glare of three hundred floating judicial eyes.
Across the aisle, a gelatinous customer named Gloop-9 was weeping through sixteen different orifices. Ryan was being sued for emotional distress and lack of signage after Gloop-9 tripped over a Wet Floor sign in the mall’s Vacuum-Grip Atrium.
“Your Honors,” Ryan said, adjusting his baggy security shirt. “There wasn’t even a floor. It is a zero-gravity zone. He tripped over the concept of a warning.”
Mr. Meankinder near the defense table. Mr. Mean screamed for Ryan’s execution,
Mr. Kind offered the jury freshly baked space-cookies.
And Mr. Er stared blankly at a legal pad, trying to remember if he was the lawyer or the bailiff.
“The plaintiff demands forty billion Mall-Credits and your left pinky toe!” Mr. Mean shrieked, slamming two of his heads together.
“But look at his cute little uniform,” Mr. Kind whispered, patting Ryan’s shoulder.
Suddenly, Dover the sentient escalator rumbled into the courtroom. He had compressed his railing-appendages to look like a leather briefcase. “Objection!” Dover blared, his voice echoing with metallic depression. “According to the fine print on the back of every Mall of the Multiverse receipt, by entering the Pinnacles Sector, the customer waives their right to exist in three dimensions.”
The lead judge blinked all three hundred eyes. “He is right. Gloop-9, you are now legally two-dimensional.”
With a soft pop, the gelatinous alien flattened into a thin, purple puddle on the courtroom floor.
“Case dismissed,” the judge ruled. “Bailiff, please roll up the plaintiff and use him to mop up the coffee spill in the lobby.”
Ryan sighed. “This is why I prefer the night shift.”
(This story created by a California earthquake on August 11, 2026. Magnitude of: 3.94. 6 km NW of Pinnacles, CA. URL: https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nc75415717)
For an animated scene from this story on Instagram, click here.