[h2]Video Star, Offices of the Lord of Bloodsport[/h2]
"...I understand that, but- look, it was supposed to hit the ocean. Well is it my fucking fault the dumbasses really DIDN'T correct for gravity? ...I can't 'let your guys at them.' Well, because it's against company policy. Look, I'll leave them in the deep fryer for a couple of hours, that work?"

A grey knocked nervously at the door, adjusting its headset and taking Spandez's empty thermos of cofee.

"Mr. Spandez, there's a man here to see you. Says he's the rightful owner of the planet."

Facepalming, Spandez took the box of cigars from inside his desk and placed it next to his nameplate.

"Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. Send him in. I- Yes, they have a pretty face, but- Yeah. Yeah, we've got some meathooks. It'll be taken care of, Saejima, don't you worry. I forgot an honorific? What the flying fuck is an honorific?" 

Doing his best to maintain his composure, he stretched and put on his trademark smile as Super Cosmos was shown in.

"Look, I'll have some Newdurs down there in a flash, they do set building for the show all the time. Yeah. No, no charge, this is our way of trying to make amends. What're your culture's funerary traditions? ...Yeah. Yeah, we'll foot the cost. This is the least we can do to make up for those colossal fuckups. Talk to you later."

Hanging up the pink cell phone pterrordactyl had stolen from one of the children, Spandez motioned to the soft leather chair on the opposite side.

"Please, come in! You'll have to excuse me, I was trying to calm down the natives. They think we're invading in force. Ah, they wish, it might liven the place up a bit. Oh, and help yourself to some of those fine Rigelian cigars. What can I help you with today?"