Jeeves

Bueford stepped off the covered exit ramp of his L-class Spaceplane and was smacked in the face by the pungent air of Riceworld.

"Jeeves," said Bueford, turning to his companion and servant, whose name, of course, was not Jeeves.

"What is that terrible smell?"

"You said that you wanted to visit the planet where Uncle Ben's Instant Rice, your sixth favorite food, was made... here we are." answered the servant.

"Well, it stinks here," answered the insufferably rich Bueford, "let's leave."

"Are you sure? You've already made an appointment with Abraham Forrester, the manager of the plant. Do you want me to cancel on him?"

"Yes, of course. I can't be bothered with this stench for another minute!" answered Bueford.

Together, they went back up the ramp into the Spaceplace, and got ready for takeoff. Bueford lounged in his giant, vibrating lazy boy, sipping on a coconut margarita. The servant went to up to the kitchen area, waiting for Bueford to make a demand.

A voice buzzed over the intercom. "This is your pilot speaking. We are unable to takeoff just yet, as we need to refuel the plane."
Bueford groaned. He was rich; he didn't have to put up with this nonsense. His family had made quintillions in their business after the Great War by developing the machines that could print the new type of currency. It was impossible to forge, and it was used in all 25 million worlds of the Imperial-controlled galaxy. It was a family joke that they had made all their money by merely printing it. With his money, Bueford had purchased his own planet, and spent all his time traveling to other places.

After about an hour of waiting Bueford called, "Jeeves...Tell the pilot to hurry up, would you? I'm terribly bored sitting here." The servant went up to the control room to talk to the pilot.

"There's no chance of hurrying it up, is there?" he asked. "None at all," answered the pilot. "In fact, we're going to be here for a long time. We have a problem with engine coil. It snapped completely. We have to get a replacement shipped in because it's made out of titanium-polymuriel alloy that impossible to make here."

"So how long could that take to fix."

"Anywhere from six to eight weeks."

Damn, the servant thought to himself. Six to eight weeks on this cramped plane, where he did not so much as have his own room, would be torture. Especially with the rich imbecile calling demands every five minutes.

The servant returned to Bueford to tell him the bad news, making a brief stopover in the kitchen.

"Well," asked Bueford, "What seems to be the problem, Jeeves?"

The servant gave a strained smile, and then took out the butcher's knife he was hiding behind his back. Bueford gave out a small 'ouf' before the servant plunged the knife down into his chest.

"My name is Charles, jackass."