Manuel Munoz grew lemons, just like his father and his grandfather did. I mean, just like. Inconsistency causes chaotic flux, as any good lemon farmer will tell you. Manny lived with his wife, Frida, on a small farm near Coquimbo, Chile, where his lemons thrived like liquid sunshine.
Frida thought he was crazy, but offered him a steady supply of hope, coffee, and poetry. But Manny was in love with his lemons. “Not just any lemons”, he said to himself daily.
He had no grand ambitions beyond the steady rhythm of his life: wake up, tend to the trees, harvest the lemons, sell them at the market, repeat. It wasn't glamorous, but it was his. He took pride in his lemons—big, bright yellow, and bursting with acidic perfection. Little did he know, on a calm Tuesday afternoon, he’d be plucked from this comfortable cycle and hurled into the strangest day of his life.
It started when the sky turned purple. Not an ominous purple, but a soft, pastel kind of hue, like the beginning of an evening after a long, hot day. Manny had just finished loading the last crate of lemons into his rusty old pickup truck when he felt a strange tingling sensation behind his ears. He rubbed the spot absentmindedly, muttering about mosquitos, and was about to climb into the driver’s seat when the sky split open.
It wasn't thunder. It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t anything he had ever seen before. One moment the sky was purple, and the next, a giant metallic saucer hovered above his farm, like some oversized pancake with bad intentions. Suddenly a bright beam of light engulfed him, and he was sucked up into the air like a lemon seed through a straw.
When he awoke, he was aboard a spaceship. It was sterile—too clean, like a hospital that had never seen a patient. The walls gleamed, and the air smelled like lemons, strangely enough. He could hear a faint humming sound, which he assumed was the spaceship’s engine or perhaps the sound of the universe laughing at him. He checked his limbs: all intact. His clothes: still his usual work pants and flannel shirt. His mind: moderately freaked out.
"Well, this is new," Manuel muttered, glancing around.
The door slid open with a smooth hiss, and in walked the most bizarre creature Manuel had ever seen. She was tall—too tall to be human—with skin that shimmered like polished chrome. Her eyes were large, almond-shaped, and a deep violet color. Her hair, if it was hair, cascaded down in translucent waves, changing colors every few seconds: blue to pink to green. She was wearing some sort of high-fashion space gown, the kind Manuel imagined supermodels wore, if supermodels ever walked on distant moons.
"Hola," said Manuel, because that was the only word he could manage at the moment.
"Good afternoon, Manuel” she replied. Her voice had a synthetic quality, like someone speaking through an old radio. Nice of you to drop by.
Manny took a deep breath, regained his composure. “Who are you? What is happening?”
"I am Eloditious Xorloxia Ann Clymestria Telekinen. But they call me Exact, for short. I am a hybrid of Earthling and Xypharian genetics, designed to navigate many worlds."
Manny blinked. "an alien supermodel!"
"Not exactly," Exact replied, glancing down at her iridescent gown. "I am a tool. I am designed to bridge your world and mine."
Manuel scratched his head. This was not how he thought his day would go. "Why am I here?"
"Because of your lemons," she said matter-of-factly. "Or more accurately, what’s inside them."
"My lemons?" Manuel asked, thoroughly confused. "What could possibly be in my lemons that aliens care about?"
“Yes. The lemons. It’s always about the lemons.” Exact sighed, as though intergalactic lemon abductions were just another boring task on her cosmic to-do list.
Exact stepped closer, her eyes glimmering like stars. "your lemons power our ships."
Manuel stared. "Lemons can power spaceships?"
"Not all lemons," Exact clarified. "Just yours.
Manuel’s lemons weren’t just any lemons. Not that he knew that. He thought they were just very sour, very yellow fruit—good for zesting, lemonade, maybe a truffle. What he didn’t realize was that every time he plucked one from a tree, he was triggering a cosmic event that reverberated through multiple dimensions.
His lemons existed in several realities at once, which was impressive, considering they were still just lemons. In one universe, the same lemon he picked was picked by an alternate-universe Manuel who sold it to a space traveler. In another universe, it became a nuclear power source for a dimension run by very small, very angry squirrels. Not just any lemons.
You could say it was important work, but Manuel didn’t know that. He just knew he grew lemons that hummed softly when the wind blew through his grove—like a choir of tiny angels.
“It’s just the wind,” Manuel told himself whenever he heard the song.
But the truth was far weirder. The lemons were singing. The sound they made vibrated on a frequency that could fix wormholes, power space stations, and bring peace to warring alien factions. The Intergalactic Council had discovered this by accident after a spaceship crashed in his lemon grove, which was the sort of thing that should raise questions. But in Chile, on Manuel’s quiet little farm, no one asked questions. Spaceships, strange songs, quantum fruits—Manuel didn’t give them much thought. He was just a lemon farmer.
Until the abduction.
Exact had eyes so large and violet that they looked like they could beam high-definition cable TV directly into your brain. Her hair flowed like fiber optics, shimmering through an array of colors—blue, green, pink, red—like a broken traffic light. She was wearing something that looked suspiciously like a cocktail dress designed by a collaboration between NASA and a Paris fashion house.
“The compound” she explained, “ developed by accident on your farm. A specific cross-pollination of factors, the soil, your particular farming techniques... It's a one-in-a-billion chance, but the result is a fruit that holds the energy of a small sun."
Manuel looked down at his calloused hands. "I just water them and pick them when they’re ripe."
"Exactly," Exact said, flashing something that might have been a smile. "The problem is, the Galactic Council doesn't believe a mere farmer is capable of this. They think you’ve been hiding the secret of your lemons deliberately."
Manuel sighed. "Great. So I’m an accidental energy magnate now?"
"Not quite," Exact replied, a strange glint in her violet eyes. "That's why I’m here. I’m... your advocate, so to speak. The Council wanted to arrest you, dissect your brain, and take your lemons. I convinced them there might be a more diplomatic solution."
"Dissect my brain?" Manuel repeated, horrified.
Exact shrugged. "It’s standard procedure. But don’t worry—I suggested they make a deal with you instead."
"A deal?"
Manuel blinked, half-expecting to wake up in his lemon grove. He didn’t.
Instead, Exact sat down, crossing her impossibly long legs. "You, Manuel Muñoz, possess the most potent lemons in the known universe."
“Potent?” Manuel asked, looking down at his hands. They were calloused from decades of picking lemons, but they still just looked like lemons to him. “They mostly make savory drinks and flavor sea bass.”
Exact rolled her eyes—or at least she would have if her construction had included nor,nor, eyeballs. “Your lemons generate pure, concentrated cosmic energy. They’re an untapped power source. We’ve been studying Earth for eons, waiting for someone like you. Do you know what your lemons are worth?”
Manuel shrugged. “A peso per kilo?”
She stared at him as if he were a particularly slow child. “In Earth terms, your lemons could power entire cities. In space terms, they could fuel interstellar travel.”
Manuel let this sink in. It did not sink in. Instead, it bobbed on the surface of his mind like an inflatable pool toy. “How does that make sense?”
“Nothing makes sense, Manuel. The universe is just a poorly designed machine, and we’re all broken cogs trying to spin, but in the wrong direction. But here’s the thing: your lemons? They spin in the right direction.”
“Not just any lemons,” Manuel repeated. It felt profound, but that was probably because he was now in space. Things always felt more profound in space.
Exact stood up, flicking her hair, which had now turned a shade of mauve. “We need you to come with us. The Council of Zarbok-9 requires your lemons to stabilize our galaxy’s failing warp grids.”
“The what now?”
“The warp grids. They’re collapsing. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say without your lemons, everything falls apart. Everything.”
Manuel nodded slowly. "So, without my lemons, the universe goes kaput?"
“Exactly.” Exact’s violet eyes sparkled with what might have been mild interest. “And as a reward for your cooperation, we’ll make sure you’re the richest lemon farmer in the galaxy. Not that money means anything in the grand scheme of things, but it’s a nice incentive.”
Manuel thought about this for a long time. “Will I be home for dinner?”
She blinked. "Do you really think it works like that up here?"
“No, I suppose not.”
“So, well, welcome to the Council.”
Exact was a kind of being that made no sense to Manuel. She was tall—about seven feet—with a body that was half-model, half-alien nightmare. Long limbs, shimmering skin, hair like liquid metal. She was, in many ways, the most beautiful thing Manuel had ever seen, and also the most terrifying.
“Council?” Manuel asked, squinting.
“The Intergalactic Council,” Exact replied, waving her hand around the room. “We govern the galaxy. And you, my friend, are our newest member.”
Manuel looked around, trying to figure out if this was some kind of prank. But there were no hidden cameras, no trick mirrors. Just Exact, a couple aliens, and his lemons.
“How many Councils are there? There must be a mistake,” Manuel said. “I’m just a lemon farmer.”
Exact smiled. “Not just any lemons.”
She picked one up from the crate beside her, holding it like it was some kind of sacred object.
“Your lemons exist in multiple dimensions at once,” she explained. “Each time you pick one, it’s harvested across several realities. The quantum properties of your grove make them indispensable to the stability of the universe.”
Manuel blinked. “You’re telling me my lemons are… magical?”
Exact sighed. “Not magical. Quantum. They have a unique vibration, too. A song, if you will. This hum is the exact frequency needed to repair warp grids and prevent dimensional collapse. You are a very important man, Mr. Muñoz.”
Manuel scratched his head. “I thought it was just the wind.”
Manuel thought about the thousands of crates of lemons he’d sold over the years for a few pesos a kilo. "You're telling me the galaxy wants my lemons?"
"Precisely."
"Why didn't you just ask?"
Exact tilted her head. "It’s more fun this way. Besides, the Galactic Council has a thing for dramatic abductions. Builds suspense."
Manuel sat down on the floor. "I grow lemons. That’s it. I don’t know anything about space or fashion or… whatever this is."
"Don’t worry," Exact said, walking over and crouching down next to him, her violet eyes unblinking. "We don’t need you to know. Just keep growing your lemons. We’ll take care of the rest. We’ll even pay you in cosmic credits."
Manuel had no idea what cosmic credits were, but they sounded more valuable than pesos.
"And… what happens now?" Manuel asked, looking at her strange, shimmering face.
Exact stood up, her gown glowing a little brighter. "Now, you get to enjoy a tour of the spaceship. We have a state-of-the-art runway, if you’re interested."
"I’m more of a farmer than a model."
"That can be fixed," she said, tapping a button on her wrist. A beam of light shot out, and suddenly, Manuel’s flannel shirt and worn-out pants were replaced with a sleek, metallic suit. His reflection in the shiny wall made him look like some kind of intergalactic farmer from a distant future.
"Okay," Manuel sighed. "I’ll bite. Show me the runway."
Exact led him through the spaceship, explaining how various alien species had come together to create the galaxy’s finest fashion line, blending Earth’s rustic charm with alien high-tech materials. As they passed a window, Manuel caught a glimpse of Earth far below—a small, spinning blue marble in the void of space.
By the time he walked down the spaceship’s runway in his new silver suit, Manuel Munoz had made peace with the fact that his lemons had somehow made him part of an intergalactic trade deal. It wasn’t the life he had planned, but then again, who really knew what life had planned for them?
Manuel’s induction into the Council was as bureaucratic as it was absurd. The Intergalactic Council was like any other governing body—lots of paperwork, bickering over policy, and pointless meetings. The only difference was that they governed entire galaxies instead of nations.
Manny filled out all the forms, went through the necessary introductions, sat through a committee meeting on collecting cosmic dust. The meeting went on for weeks.
Just as he was settling in, he heard a large sucking sound, and he was suddenly sitting at his kitchen table with Frida and a hot cup of coffee, in his farming clothes, 7 minutes after he was abducted by the shimmering alien supermodel.
He was still picking lemons, of course. That was his job. Except now he realized he was picking lemons for the survival of the cosmos.
The Council had given him a warp relay disguised as a shed. Every time there was a galactic emergency—a collapsing star, a malfunctioning space station—they’d send a memo to Manuel’s shed asking for lemons. Manuel would fill the order without thinking too much about it.
But Manuel Muñoz was now legendary throughout the universe, his name whispered among stars and nebulae as the humble farmer who was saving the place. Everybody knew his name, except nobody on Earth. Well, except Boris.
“This lemon business is getting strange,” he said to his dog, Boris, one day.
Boris, wagged his tail.
“Maybe I’m overthinking it,” Manuel muttered.
Boris knew the truth, but dogs don’t spill secrets. Not even ones that save galaxies.
“You’re always around, aren’t you?” Manuel said, crouching to scratch Boris behind the ears. Boris thumped his tail in approval. This guy has no clue, Boris thought.
Boris, you see, was a Council member too, a telepathic one. The truth was, the dogs had been protecting Manuel from the full chaos of his intergalactic duties all along. They had taken it upon themselves to manage the influx of warp grid emergencies and galactic collapses by redirecting messages to other Council members. Manuel’s only real task, as far as the dogs were concerned, was to keep growing his lemons.
Dogs, you see, are naturally telepathic and far more intelligent than they let on. They’ve been involved in galactic politics for millennia. One of them—Boris, a seemingly ordinary golden retriever—was a long-standing Council member. He had been keeping tabs on Manuel ever since the Council realized what his lemons could do. Boris, like all dogs, had mastered the art of pretending to be dumb.
“He’s got no idea,” Boris barked one evening to a pack of neighborhood dogs as they gathered under the stars. “Thinks he’s just a lemon farmer. Poor guy. He’s been running the galaxy for months now and doesn’t even know it.”
The other dogs barked in agreement.
Meanwhile, Manuel sat in his kitchen, sipping Frida’s coffee. The warp relay in his barn would on occasion blast an urgent intergalactic memo, always disguised as junk mail. Things like: URGENT: The Bloxian Empire is collapsing; please squeeze more lemons.
“Not just any lemons,” he muttered to himself as he read one such memo. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the local dogs were watching him more closely than usual. They always seemed to be hanging around the grove, tails wagging, tongues lolling.
Manuel didn’t think much of it. He had enough on his plate, what with running the galaxy and all.
As long as the lemons kept flowing, the universe would stay in balance.
Manuel stood up, looking around at the grove. “You ever wonder, Boris,” he said, “what it all means? You know, life, the universe… lemons?”
Boris stared up at him, his eyes full of ancient, unspoken knowledge. He barked once—a simple bark that meant everything and nothing at all. But to Manuel, it sounded like agreement.
“Yeah,” Manuel sighed. “Me too.”
Boris had been keeping a close eye on Manuel ever since the day of his abduction. The Council’s plan had been simple: abduct the lemon farmer, extract the lemon-based cosmic energy, dissect his brain.. But no,, Exact had to get involved.
Exact, for reasons known only to herself, had taken a liking to Manuel. She’d appointed him to the Council, bypassing the usual procedures. It was all very irregular. Of course, Boris had raised objections. But what was a dog to do? Bureaucracy was a mess, even in space.
“He’s a good farmer,” Exact had said. “He’s got a certain… charm.”
Boris had rolled his eyes (inwardly, of course—outwardly, he was still just a golden retriever). He knew better than to argue. Exact always got what she wanted. That’s how Manuel Muñoz, lemon farmer from goofy earth, had landed on the most powerful governing body in the galaxy.
Manuel, for his part, remained blissfully unaware of the full scope of his cosmic responsibilities. As far as he was concerned, he was just a guy who happened to grow lemons that could save galaxies.
Things were going well for a while. Manuel dutifully picked his quantum lemons. The Council kept the universe from imploding, and Boris, the ancient telepathic dog, lounged happily by Manuel’s side.
But then, one morning, disaster struck.
Manuel stood in his grove, staring at the trees.
No lemons.
Not one. The branches were bare, the leaves trembling in the wind, as if to say: We quit.
"What the—" Manuel mumbled, scratching his head.
He walked up to the nearest tree, gave it a nudge. Nothing. He checked another tree. Same thing. He even tried whispering to them in ancient Sanskrit, like Exact had once told him to do in case of emergencies.
Still nothing.
“I knew this would happen one day,” Boris said.
Manuel turned to the dog. “Are you talking? What are you talking about?”
“The lemons are sentient, Manuel. You didn’t think fruit with cosmic power would just do your bidding forever, did you? They've unionized.”
“Unionized?” Manuel rubbed his eyes. “Lemons can’t unionize. They’re lemons.”
“They’re interdimensional,” Boris reminded him. “They’ve seen the state of the universe and decided they need better working conditions. They’re demanding paid time off.”
Manuel stood there, mouth open. His lemons had gone on strike.
Back on the spaceship, Exact was not pleased. The entire galaxy was on the verge of collapse, black holes expanding, wormholes misfiring, and all because of lemons.
“Get me Manuel Muñoz!” she shrieked at her assistants, her long limbs pacing in frustration.
Manuel arrived via the warp relay in a flannel shirt and gumboots, his usual farming gear. He was not in the mood for a galactic scolding.
“The lemons won’t grow,” he explained, looking up at Exact. “Apparently, they want paid vacation.”
Exact closed her silver eyes and exhaled deeply. “This is catastrophic. Do you understand that if the lemons stop, the entire multiverse could collapse into a giant, vibrating grapefruit of doom? We are standing on the precipice of a sour apocalypse, Manuel!”
Manuel shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. The lemons have minds of their own now.”
“Then we need to negotiate with them,” Exact said. “And quickly.”
Back on the farm, Boris had opened negotiations with the lemon contingent. The lemons elected Boris as the lemon union’s representative, and he barked out the lemons’ demands:
- Paid vacations to any dimension of their choosing.
- Universal health care, particularly for the lemons prone to mold.
- Shorter growing seasons to ensure better work-life balance.
- Their own lemon-themed holiday celebrated across the galaxy.
Exact was flabbergasted. “This is outrageous. We can’t give fruit universal healthcare!”
Manuel, tired of all this cosmic bureaucracy, stepped in. “Look, you give them a holiday, maybe an extra week off every now and then, and I bet they’ll get back to work.”
The lemons, glowing with interdimensional energy, hummed in agreement.
It was only when Manuel, on the verge of giving up entirely, remembered the sacred Sanskrit phrase Exact had whispered to him during his council training: “Auntie Grizelda, Auntie Grizelda, grizzle da”, He didn't understand it then, and he still didn’t now, but apparently, it had the power to bring the lemons back to order.
Standing in the middle of the grove, Manuel took a deep breath and spoke the ancient words passed down from the time of The Monkees, an interdimensional rock band that had disguised themselves as a cheesy sixties pop act but were, in truth, the original guardians of cosmic fruit.
“Auntie Grizelda, Auntie Grizelda, grizzle da” Manuel shouted, his voice echoing across the lemon fields.
And, as if by magic, the lemon trees trembled. Slowly, lemons reappeared, glowing slightly, each one humming the unmistakable tune of I’m a Believer.
Boris nodded sagely. “It’s always The Monkees.”
“There’s a pattern, Manuel,” Exact said, her eyes glowing with ancient knowledge. “Every crisis we’ve ever had in this galaxy—every moment when the fabric of space-time seemed ready to unravel—it’s always been tied to The Monkees.”
Manuel blinked. “The Monkees? The band?”
“Yes,” she replied slyly. “They were much more than a band. The Monkees are interdimensional beings. Their music is a code that holds the universe together—every riff, every chorus, every goofy dance move. Without them, the lemons would fall into chaos.”
Manuel had always liked The Monkees. He’d never admitted it to anyone—DW Washburn always stuck in his head at the weirdest times—but he had no idea how deep their influence went. Until now.
Exact, gazing out over the lemon grove, had that far-off look in her eyes—the kind that came with remembering a truth older than time itself. She was recalling the moment when The Monkees first saved the universe.
“It was 1966 on Earth when they emerged,” she said. “Humans thought they were just another manufactured pop band. Little did they know, the fate of the cosmos hinged on Last Train to Clarksville.”
Manuel wasn’t sure if she was joking, but then again, nothing seemed too strange these days. “What do The Monkees have to do with the lemons?”
Exact gave him a small smile, the kind that only beings who’ve seen too much can give. “The Monkees, Manuel, are the original lemonizers. Their music is the reason your lemons grow with that special cosmic zing. They encoded their songs with interdimensional frequencies—the kind that can stabilize black holes, close wormholes, and, most importantly, keep the lemons in check.”
Manuel’s jaw dropped. “Wait, so every time I’ve picked a lemon—”
“—You’ve been working under their influence,” Boris the dog interrupted. “That’s why you hear DW Washburn in your head at the weirdest times. The Monkees planted it there.”
“Unbelievable,” Manuel muttered. But as he thought about it, it made perfect sense. The lemons did hum slightly whenever I’m a Believer came on the radio. He always thought that was just a coincidence.
“No coincidence,” Exact said, reading his thoughts. “The Monkees are eternal. They traverse dimensions, slipping in and out of time to keep the cosmic fruit flowing.”
And it wasn’t just the lemons.
There were rumors—quiet whispers in the Intergalactic Council—that the Monkees had been responsible for all kinds of interstellar events. Every time a rogue asteroid narrowly missed a planet, every time a starship’s engine mysteriously restarted after failure, you could be sure that somewhere, in the distance, someone was playing Pleasant Valley Sunday.
“They saved Exact’s homeworld from collapsing into a black hole,” Boris continued, clearly enjoying this revelation. “That was in ’68. They threw an impromptu concert in the fourth dimension—right on the event horizon. Peter Tork’s bass solo reversed the gravitational pull. It’s all in the archives.”
Manuel was stunned. “But… they’re just a band. Aren’t they?”
“Not just a band,” Exact corrected. “They’re interdimensional custodians of chaos. They’ve been slipping messages into their songs for decades, keeping the universe from tipping into absurdity. You think Daydream Believer was about romance? It’s about keeping galaxies from colliding.”
The realization hit Manuel hard: the lemons’ strike wasn’t just a crisis on his farm—it was an emergency for The Monkees.
“If the lemons don’t get back to work, their frequencies will fall out of sync,” Exact warned. “Without them, The Monkees can’t keep the cosmic balance. The last time this happened was… well, let’s just say it’s the reason why Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.”
Manuel felt the weight of responsibility pressing on him. “So, what do we do? How do we get the lemons to grow again?”
“There’s only one way,” Boris said. “We need to summon The Monkees themselves. They’re the only ones who can restore order.”
The Summoning
In the quiet of the grove, Manuel, Exact, and Boris gathered in a circle. A dusty old record player sat in the center, an ancient relic left behind by some forgotten dimension-hopper. On it, a 45 of Daydream Believer spun, the needle crackling as it dropped into place.
As the opening chords played, Manuel felt the ground vibrate. The lemons on the trees shimmered faintly, glowing with an otherworldly light. Then, as if by magic, they began to hum along with the music.
Boris grinned. “It’s working.”
The music grew louder, and suddenly, the sky above them tore open. Four familiar figures descended from the clouds—Micky, Davy, Mike, and Peter, guitars slung across their backs, dressed in glittering interdimensional robes.
The Monkees had arrived.
“Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees. Can’t say we monkey around!” Micky Dolenz waved as they floated down. “We hear there’s a bit of lemon trouble?”
Manuel was speechless.
Davy Jones winked. “Don’t worry, mate. We’ve handled tougher gigs than this. Just let the music do its thing.”
As The Monkees began to play, the lemons sprang back to life. One by one, they relaxed on the trees, their cosmic energy restored. The strike was over—the lemons, charmed by the music, had returned to work, their demands forgotten in the haze of interdimensional grooves.
Manuel watched in awe as the strike came to an end. The lemons, now fully energized by the sacred nonsense, dropped willingly from the trees, ready to be picked.
When the last note of Pleasant Valley Sunday faded into the ether, the lemons were back to normal, the strike a distant memory.
Micky winked. “Remember, Manuel—it’s always The Monkees.”
Manuel watched in awe as the universe righted itself, all thanks to a band he’d never expected to be at the center of it all.
“Call us if you need us,” Peter said with a smile.
And just like that, they were gone.
The lemons were back to their radiant selves, their skins gleaming like tiny yellow suns. Manuel, still standing in the middle of the grove, was stunned. His lemons—his life’s work—had been saved by a 60s pop band and some intergalactic shenanigans. Who would’ve thought?
Exact floated over, her silver heels now firmly planted on the earth. “Well, Manuel,” she said, her voice lilting like a space-aged goddess, “I think that about settles your cosmic duties for the day.”
Manuel, still in shock, nodded. “What happens now?”
Exact smiled. “Now? Now, you go back to your lemons, of course. The universe is in balance, thanks to you—and The Monkees.”
Manuel scratched his head. “So that’s it? No intergalactic fame? No council of space beings? Just back to the lemons?”
Exact shrugged. “The council works in mysterious ways. Besides, you’re already a member. You didn’t think you were just growing ordinary lemons, did you?”
Manuel blinked. “Not just any lemons.”
“And don’t worry,” Exact added with a wink, “I’ll be around if you need me. You’ve got friends in high places now.”
With that, she blew him a kiss, winked out of existence, and was gone.
Boris trotted up beside Manuel, yawning as if nothing had happened. “So, boss, what’s next?”
Manuel looked down at his old dog, realizing for the first time that Boris had been part of this intergalactic scheme all along. “You knew, didn’t you?” Manuel asked. “You’ve known all along.”
Boris gave a casual shrug. “I may have picked up a few things here and there. You’re not the only council member on Earth, you know.”
Manuel crouched down and scratched Boris behind the ears. “What about you, then? Are you a space dog or something?”
Boris grinned, showing his teeth. “Let’s just say I’ve got a good retirement plan. Plus, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”
Life returned to normal, if you could call it that. Manuel went back to picking his lemons, only now he understood their true power. He whispered “Auntie Grizelda, Auntie Grizelda, grizzle da”, to them every morning, just in case, and the lemons thrived. Word of Manuel’s extraordinary lemons spread far and wide, though no one could quite figure out why they tasted so...cosmic.
Exact? She made occasional visits, usually to flirt and check in on Manuel, though she was always off on some grand adventure. And as for Boris, he continued to nap in the sun, acting as the interdimensional watchdog of Manuel’s lemon empire, while also maintaining his role as the only creature who really understood what was going on.
Every once in a while, Manuel would hear a Monkees song on the radio, and he’d smile, remembering how the universe had nearly unraveled because of a lemon strike. And in those moments, he felt oddly at peace, knowing that when things went wrong—when the lemons rebelled or the cosmos tilted—there was always The Monkees.
Manuel Munoz called out to Boris, “time to go to the house, big guy.” A hot bowl of soup was waiting. A hot bowl of soup and a shave.