A business should have more than one client. That was the problem with Marshall / Todd and Associates, our firm more-or-less exclusively served the legal needs of the Intergalactic Council.

And when your business serves a single client, it sometimes feels like you’re no longer a business owner. You're just a de-facto employee, serving the whims of your only source of income. I was afraid that Henry and I were falling into that trap, but it’s not as if we could ignore the High Councilman’s intra-molar summons. Farkvold could be in a bad mood, and the Council enjoyed an occasional sporadic execution.

Like I said, it was essentially an alien abduction. All things considered.

It was almost 7 o’clock by the time I parked, paid for parking, walked the two blocks and down into the alley that led to the Blarney Stone Inn. I sat at the bar for another fifteen minutes, nursing a weak gin and tonic and listening to a group of rowdy middle-aged businessmen as they butchered karaoke covers of Britney Spears songs.

Finally, Henry strolled through the door wearing a light blue track suit, the kind with the soft, velour-type of fabric. Plush, I think.

“We’re late,” I said as I rushed up to him. “Where’s your suit? Come on, you can get dressed in the bathroom.”

“I dropped it off,” Henry said. “Dry cleaners. This is fine,” and he gestured down to his plushy, sweat-stained spa-gear.

"Seriously?"

“Let’s just get this over with.”

I turned on heel and marched into the bathroom with Henry following all the way into the back-left stall. Once the stall door was closed, I turned to him and my frustration boiled over. “Look, Henry,” I started. “When you enter a courtroom, you’re representing us. You and me. Our firm. You know?”

“Are you really that worried about the track suit?” Henry leaned against the wall of the stall and rested his foot on the edge of the toilet. It felt like the energy portal was taking forever to activate. “Marsh, you need to relax. They’re aliens. They don’t know the difference between casualwear and business attire.”

“Maybe. But I do.”

“We could be wearing loincloths or body paint and the Council wouldn’t think anything of it. They’re not impressed by your Bill Blass suit --”

And just as I was about to say that it’s a goddam Ermengildo Zegna suit and he knows it, the blue glow of the wormhole portal filled the stall, followed by a familiar electrical burning smell. I closed my eyes as every molecule in my body collapsed and broke down, then accelerated through time/space into inter-dimensional Council Territory.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Can we drop the whole suit thing?" Henry said to me after we re-materialized and got our bearings.

"Yes," I said.

"Good. I don't want to argue in front of the clients. It's unprofessional."

"Well, it's also unprofessional to appear in court dressed like you came from a spin class."

"Where are we, anyway?"

My vision was still slowly coming into focus. We had materialized in some sort of an ante-room. I noticed two Council Guards by the doorway, ready to escort us into the Chamber once our molecular structures fully stabilized.

The Council Guards are a scary-looking bunch. Most are Latakian, a race from one of the Oam moons. Latakians have wide bodies, short tempers, and an extra set of arms. Which is handy, because it allows them to hold three different types of weapons at the same time and still be able to open and close doors.

Of course, some Latakians are very nice. There’s one guard (whose name is unpronounceable in English, but it's close sounding like 'BLARGCK,' with an emphasis on the second syllable) who likes to talk to me about his marital problems. He's fascinated by the idea of ‘divorce’ in our legal system. Dissolution of marriage for Latakians is a messy process that ends in a legally-sanctioned murder-suicide ritual. It’s not often practiced, and since the Latakians are so miserable by nature they never really expect happiness from their partnerships. I suppose in that sense, Latakian marriages are much more successful than American ones.

Once Henry and I were completely stabilized, he started complaining again.

“I still can’t believe I’m doing this shit on a Friday night -”

“What kind of massage was it? Swedish, or shiatsu?” I wanted to change the subject before we got into the Council Chamber. The last thing I needed was a death sentence from Farkvold just because Henry was sore about Friday night traffic.

“Deep-tissue,” Henry said. “And a seaweed wrap.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was. What did you tell Denise? Working late?”

“I told her we had an important brief to prepare for tomorrow,” I said. “A high-profile misdemeanor.”

Henry snorted. “What does that even mean?”

It’s true, I haven’t exactly been honest with my wife about the nature of our work at the new firm. I’ve been trying to think a way to gently tell Denise about the aliens. To bring it up casually in a way that wouldn't worry her. I know she’s still confused about why I left my job at the District Attorney’s office. And even more confused about why I would go into business with Henry Todd.

The door to the ante-room opened with an electronic hiss. Commander Boarvex, a slim alien with almost-translucent porcelain skin who serves as Director of Interplanetary Security marched inside. Boarvex stopped a few inches in front of us and slammed the hilt of his oversized laser/battle axe thingy onto the ground.

“Hail Slatt!” he said in a full-throated voice.

At least, it sounded full-throated. The transmitters that were surgically implanted into our molars allow inter-cranial translations to take place, so Henry and I can understand different alien languages instantly. It’s pretty amazing technology. Kind of like those translator headsets they wear at the UN, except it's permanently lodged in a tooth cavity and sending messages through a nerve ending directly into our cerebral cortex

Henry and I responded to the Hail by nodding politely. We have already explained to Boarvex (and other aliens, in the past) that Americans don’t “Hail” anyone.