Page 232 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Alexandra
Secret Agent
Theshot-glass-sizedcupbarelywarms my hands, but what it holds is pure chocolatey gold—a rich, decadent mocha. I groan aloud as the creamy sweetness floods my insides, igniting a warmth I thought long lost. Bliss. Utter, caffeinated bliss.
Ah.
I’ve got to hand it to the Nibs—they know how to make a drink. Marshmallows, dustings, the whole deal. Who knew Smurfs were such great cooks? Probably the murder-orbs doing the actual work, let’s be honest. But I choose to ignore that detail—thinking about murder chefs kind of ruins the magic. And I’ve waited too long—suffered too much—to miss out on this pant-busting extravaganza.
I sink back into the squishy seat, which molds itself around my rapidly expanding butt like it’s personally invested in supporting my descent into gluttony. Hardly surprising, considering I’ve been speed-running the Nibs’ entire Earth-inspired menu like I’m on death row. Every dish, from gooey fries to caramel-loaded waffles, crafted to sinful perfection.
Now, I’m building a shrine to excess—a leaning tower of dirty, multicolored plates stacked like a toddler’s tea party gone rogue. Nib-sized plates, mind you. Tiny. Practically decorative—which means the calories don’t count. I’m just waiting for the moment one arrives with a sticker and a prize inside.
My stomach groans dramatically, like a man being crushed under a falling cheesecake. I ignore it. Who knows when I’ll get Earth food again? This could be my last French toast ever. Let me suffer in syrupy peace.
Honestly, I kind of love it here—on theImperator’s Gloveor whatever they’re calling this floating five-star space brunch. Except for the Nibs themselves.Ugh.Those smug blueberry heads strut like giant Dracoths, their noses so high you’d think I’d just tramped stinky Todd poop on their precious floors. I mean, who does that? Rude.
Still, once this unfortunate bone-through-the-nose business is finally sorted, I do hope Dracoth will do the right thing—squish the blueberries. I mean, my birthday is coming up soon... I think—Ah, the exact date doesn’t matter. After all, it’s the thought that counts. So, let’s say, this ship—and who knows, perhaps the entire Smurf kingdom—would make such a lovely gift.
Ah. Mushroom risotto.
Todd croaks loudly, interrupting my yummy plotting. He rests on my shoulder belching with what sounds suspiciously like a burp, having just devoured the last of my Jelly Sticks—a treat for his divine plumpness.
Watching his wee clackers clack, a wave of adoration swells in my chest. My little cherub of joy—so squishy, so divine, truly blessed by Goddess Aenarael. I giggle, remembering the way his rune flared and melted the smug off Bitch Brick’s face.
Hmm. Her tears? Aged like a fine wine. I’d drink them by the bottle.
Todd’s gleaming black eye blinks lazily at me. Then down at my French toast. Then back to me. And once more at the syrup-soaked bread.
Uh-oh.
“Don’t even think about it, mister,” I warn, eyes narrowing.
He bolts—well, as much as a chubby glow-bug can bolt.
I lunge, fingers brushing rubbery black-red skin, but he wriggles free with surprising strength. Launches himself like a lead balloon on a mission.
“Traitor!” I shout, flopping back in my seat. “Fine. Whatever. I’m stuffed anyway.” I exhale, patting my full belly.
Todd crashes onto the tiny plate with all the grace of a cannonball dripped in lard. Spindly legs twitch, mandibles blur, croaks belch, bread flies, syrup drips. Terrifying. Impressive. Fat.
Then—he stops. Despite two French toasts still begging for mercy, Todd freezes mid-gluttony.
“Todd?” I lean closer, inspecting the bug-statue of greed. “Is His Royal Plumpness... okay?”
His giant eye wobbles toward me, crumb-stuffed mandibles twitching like a drunk trying to parallel park.
“Chug Bug?” I whisper, a flicker of concern rising.
He keels over, rolling onto his side in a dramatic reenactment of the Titanic.
“Don’t die, I need you!” I shriek, diving for his exposed, squishy belly.
Burp!
“Eww!” I recoil like I’ve been slapped by a jellyfish, wiping my hand on my robes.
Todd wiggles, legs fluttering weakly, his croaks sounding suspiciously like me trying to haul myself out of a beanbag chair.
