Free Invasion from Uranus by Nick Pollotta

fumes of meaty stews and fancy French soufflés and zesty sauces.
    Lean and grim, Wallace MacLane ignored the mountains of food and roamed the festivities like a panther, fresh pistols tucked into every pocket and boot, wooden knives hidden in his sleeves, a silver crucifix about his neck. There would be no mistakes this time. Hopefully.
    Everywhere around the Runner, squealing mudlarks happily dug in the ground seeking dropped coins, while rouged whores lifted their skirts for patrons behind every bush, and scarred pugilists pounded each other in glorious drunken stupor.
    Lounging about in false casualness, all six of the attending Bow Street Runners, including the right honorable Sir Fielding himself, did nothing to stop any of it, even though prize fighting had been illegal since 1750. The imperial lawmen merely sipped their blackjacks of hot gin and nutmeg, kept a close eye on their gold watches and ready hands on their loaded Collier and Manton pistols. Soon now, very soon.
    During the daylight hours, dozens, hundreds, then literally thousands of people from London, Paris, Italy, Germany, and even distant America had responded to the invitation and swarmed into the tiny highland village, adding to and augmenting the tantalizing cloud of cooking aromas with their own culinary contributions. By twilight, a boisterous party was in full swing with four different bands playing, scores of dancers twirling, and a hundred whole oxen roasting in huge pits full of crackling logs, the juicy meat spewing endless volumes of tangy smoke towards the distant twinkling stars. The staggering array of beef personally donated to the endeavor by good Queen Caroline and Prince William. A very old King George had temporarily gone potty again, and currently believed himself to be an Etruscan vase full of live mice.
    The feasting and festivities went on far into the night. The only disruption to the happy revelry occurring at exactly midnight when the dance music was momentarily interrupted by a small explosion from the direction of the old abandoned coal mine in the foothills, closely followed by a loud squeak of inhuman horror. Grinning widely, the Bow Street Runners raised their drinks and drank in victory.
    Seconds later, a barely noticed handful of dry ash blew across the joyous folk celebrating the first international Royal Garlic Festival.

-THE END-

"A little addendum here," Nick said, taking a deep breath. "Established in 1749, during their short span of existence there were never more than six Bow Street Runners total to protect all of suburban London, a city with over a million inhabitants. More than mere law enforcement personnel, they each carried a baton bearing the Great Seal of England, which gave them the authority to go anywhere, question or arrest anybody with impunity, even to command the military."
    There came a canned burst of 'ooh's and 'ah's.
    "All of the Runners, with the sole exception of their founder, Sir Henry Fielding, were former master criminals themselves, caught and given the choice of death, or becoming a Runner and capturing other criminals. From this came the expression, 'set a thief to catch a thief'," Nick explained. "In 1829 they were replaced by Robert (bobbies) Peel's (peelers) organization of uniformed police officers whose jackets sported giant copper buttons used to easily identify each other at night, and in the fog. This unique decoration quickly gave them, and eventually all police, the permanent nickname of 'coppers'."
    More canned laughter.
    Slightly annoyed, Nick scowled at that, but kept going. "And while exceptionally efficient, the stalwart constables of the present day London Metropolitan Police Force and Scotland Yard have never quite managed to generate the excitement or the romance of... the incredible Bow Street Runners."
    Canned applause.
    "Okay, now its time to confess," Nick said, glancing around the studio. There seemed to be movements in the shadows below the craft table, but he