The Killing Shop

 The Killing Shop rang true in its beginnings. But perhaps it would be telling to know that this particular shop was not a place to earn the sweetest satisfaction of actually killing someone (unfortunately), but considering the planet the shop existed on it might as well be some sort of living death trap.

    With its concaving rooftop withdrawn from age, antiqued stain-glassed windows built well beyond any human’s years, the shop was modestly perched on the edge of a rather unearthly sloped cliff by a long forgotten Earth Colony, against the even more extraordinarily starry backdrop known as Our Universe. 

    And like most colonies started by these primitive ape descendants, it was susceptible—and most definitely not an exception—to all the joys of living in the wonderfulness of the Gamma X-7589 Galaxy (the Milky Way). Which even more unfortunately, joys that included “alien” abduction and being poked and probed and prodded to perfection in Kronyan experimental labs. Also included (though not limited to) the bliss of encountering the heavenly barbaric tribe of Shalans Peoples; exposed to even more highly unusual plagues which caused tongues to purple and spot with saccharine urine yellow; being involved in ghastly wars over whose land was theirs (or better yet, over nothing at all); which all ultimately led to homelessness, pain, wars, dying (and oh, there was lots of dying), and the possibility of being laser-beamed to death (apropos to dying), etc., etc.

    Point being, there were a lot of ways to die in space, just the lack of oxygen made it all the more inconvenient for this shop.

    And basking in the shop’s heinous aroma of incense escaping through its time-old chimneys, The Hero was found waiting with eyes nearly as wide and gleaming as the disarray of stars which surrounded him. His name was Parker, which was a pretty unassuming name for a human—a hero, no less. In one hand he held a worn down copy of Mr. Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe whereas in the other, he held a map. His favorite Limited Edition Johnny D. Traveler backpack was slung on his shoulder full of oddities only a mere human would find fascinating, and to top it all off, he proudly donned a Universal Expo! souvenir cap on his head. Again, to leave an air of forewarning, he was an unassuming hero.

It started when he found the shop.

    A hesitant Parker looked down to his map and then looked up to the worn down thing before him, his nose crinkled up with disgust, lips pursed with annoyance.

    So, this was it?

    Perhaps it was a mistake—obviously this had to be a mistake.

    He turned the map upside down, rightside up, raised it above his head (as if that would make any difference), tossed the map to the ground and was even so desperate enough to lay on the slick excrement of the surface to get a better gaze at it, holding the map still raised above his head which was still just as perplexing, if not not more than before.

    What a stupid map. A stupid, stupid map full of baffling improbabilities, an assortment of twists and turns, full of black hole warnings, and silly post-war attractions. All in all, a thing somehow positively stupid enough to end him up here.

    Where was here anyways?