He was the first to set foot on this new planet. Who'd have thunk it? Him, Clark Shmeigel of 23 Cricket Street, Bumblesburg, Illinois.
“Hey,” said the planet. “The fuck do you think you're doing?”
“Excuse me?” said Clark.
“You just put your foot on my face.”
“I'm sorry,” mumbled Clark, unsure of where the voice was coming from.
“But where are you?”
“Right here, you idiot,” said the planet. “Just think – 200 million years, and I got by just fine. No interruptions. Not so much as a peep. A lot of time for reflection, you know? Know how it is?”
“I guess...” said Clark.
“Then you come along with your big, stinkin', clunky feet, and walk all over me. Unacceptable. And don't even think about planting that flag in my face.”
“What flag?” said Clark, concealing a large stars-and-stripes flag behind his back.
“Don't be coy with me. Dumb fuck. I know you have it.”
“Oh, this old thing?” said Clark. He forced a laugh, then proceeded to wave the flag around as if it were all some big joke.
“Yeah, that old thing. Now, you take your flag, get back on in that little 'spaceship' of yours, and get out of my face.”
“Yes, sir,” said Clark. He hopped into the landing module, pushed a few buttons, and the little ship took off, rising up again, back off into the stars.
“And don't come back!” yelled the planet.
Clark's spacecraft grew smaller and smaller in the sky. He became a tiny dot, then disappeared.
“Good riddance,” said the planet to himself. Though he'd never admit it, he was feeling lonelier by the second.
Clark was 300 light-years away before he realised what he'd left behind. But it was too late to go back. NASA had only given him fuel enough for one return journey.
Back there, on the planet's face – lying on its side, not planted upright – was the flag. Intergalactic litter. A rag on a pole, lying on someone's dusty cheek.
“Idiot,” said the planet. “What in the heck am I supposed to do with this?” But after a while, he kind of grew to like the flag. It became his most prized possession.