How do you sell an unsaleble planet that you don’t want to sell?

How do you sell this planet? Seriously, I need to know.

For me, it’s normally simple: list the planet, receive bids on the listing, pick the highest bid, fill in the forms, and then transfer resources and ownership.

But not this planet.

So I went to see why.

Approaching, the place looked nice but dated. Deep blue oceans, lush green and white land masses, beautiful white clouds, with an ugly, vile class-two civilization. That meant more forms and less commission. Even less if it’s a painless extermination. I wonder which I will decide, depends on how vile, I guess.

At least I knew the forms well, and it wouldn’t take long. A quick shift down to the planet, a couple of samples, then back home before dinner. Or so I thought.

Instead, I drooped in the dead cow-skinned chair, confused about how to proceed. It seems this little class-two civilization has created two potentially cosmically valuable things. Unheard of.

Only class six and above create anything worthwhile. There was once a class-five civilization that created that thing, but they were one-hit wonders. A class two civilization, never. And two different things, so improbable that I wished I didn’t know statistics because then I could, in good conscience, buy a galactic lottery ticket.

I rested my elbows on the lacquered tree piece and listened to their vile, dirty music. So wonderfully simplistic and nasty. Truly something worthy of this universe. And they have produced millions of minutes of it, and in all different genres: rock, rap, country, and playing now, Mozart. Wonderful, worth the trip to listen to this. But listening doesn’t make me money. In fact, it’s costing me money.

I look through the melted remains of little sea creatures at their second great achievement, alcohol. One hand holds a gin and tonic, and the other tequila. So varied. It tastes so wrong. I love it. I truly and completely love it.

Both from a class two. Astronomical.

“Hey, Asshole!”

Oh, great, the common problem on these older worlds.

“Hey, you want to destroy them? You will have to get through me first.”

A War God.

“Ok, that sounds great. I’ll buy you a couple of these drinks while you tell me how you’ll kill me.”

War Gods are loud, uncouth beings that are the same everywhere. They are also very simple beings. This one had oversized muscles, oversized facial hair, and an oversized axe to match his oversized stupidity.

The violent being and I move to a back booth. A depressed and captive plant hung over our conversation.

Beheading, limb removal, then beheading, a thousand cuts, a million cuts, a billion cuts with beheading. So boring. I allow him to ramble on for far too long, but the beer tastes too good, maybe too good, because his ramble took up more of my time. And time means money. And well, money means everything.

I am in too good a mood. Maybe I will opt for the more pleasant extermination, music and alcohol be damned.

He finally makes his point. He likes this place and the civilization here. He doesn’t want them exterminated. He enjoys sitting on a white sandy beach, listening to the waves crash, baking in the sun’s radiation, and sipping on a margarita concoction, while Boys of the Beach sing. It calms him.

War Gods are all the same. They have two emotions: anger and serenity.

I agree with him. I empathize with him. I suggest he purchase the place.

Sadly, he doesn’t have the resources, and being a War God, he doesn’t have enough friends.

He does spark an idea: maybe I could sell this planet to a local God. That would solve my problem.

I pay for our drinks and leave to call my employer.

“What’s up? What do you want?” It’s the Son of the current owner. The being I have been dealing with. Only him so far. Not a fan.

“Hey, could I please speak with your Father?”

“Na, I don’t want you interrupting him. What do you want? I can relay your message.”

I find the Son so frustrating. Like, all stupid middle beings the universe over, they add value, justify their existence by slowing things down, creating friction. In other words, costing me money.

“Just ask him to call me.”

“Right-o, later.”

It’s suspicious how the Son said “I don’t want” instead of “He doesn’t want.” Maybe it’s just a quirk of the local language, but I should dig deeper into this Father and Son.

They only own this one world. They seem like recluses. The Father made his money as an upper-dimensional exporter. That could explain the strange dialect and non-response. Dealing with multiple dimensions can be tricky and confusing. I avoid it.

I check for a miracle, but still no bids.

Ok, let’s see some other local Gods.

I shift to a place called Copenhagen and into a loud musical bar. The wall coverings are petroleum-based, as are the chairs and tables. Long dead animal sludge. The bones of the building are ancient trees. Even for a class two civilization, the obsession with dead stuff is a little extreme.