Bertrand and the Lunar Audit
A tale of cosmic paperwork, scandalous constellation misconduct, and the owl who was forced to fix it all. Again.
Long ago, when the cosmos were young and still using rotary star charts, the Celestial Council realized one horrifying truth:
The Moon had no management.
Thus was born the Department of Lunar Oversight and Shine Efficiency, affectionately known as D-LOSE (because that’s what happens when you ignore their memos). And at the very top of this department, feared by stars, respected by gods, and loathed by everyone who ever misplaced a moonbeam, was a very small, very furious owl named:
Bertrand.
---
It was the 1000th Full Moon Audit, and Bertrand was already over it.
He flapped into orbit with a sigh so profound it changed the tide patterns in three minor dimensions.
His monocle gleamed ominously.
His clipboard thrummed with fresh violations.
And his voice, like velvet soaked in disappointment, declared:
“Let us begin the shame.”
---
The Moon, glowing smugly as ever, tried to look innocent.
Bertrand didn’t even glance at it.
Instead, he inspected the Lunar Glyph Alignment Grid and promptly shrieked:
“WHO REARRANGED THESE RUNES TO SPELL ‘MOON BUTT’ IN ANCIENT CELESTIAL?”
A nearby comet giggled.
Bertrand whipped around and vaporized it with a stamp labeled “UNSANCTIONED HUMOR: CLASS 4 INFRACTION.”
---
Constellation spirits began panicking.
Orion’s belt had slipped entirely off and was now tangled in a nebula.
Pisces was swimming in opposite directions and having an identity crisis.
Scorpio claimed it had “never even met Mercury in retrograde,” and would be consulting legal counsel.
Meanwhile, the North Star was in the corner trying to light a cigarette made of stardust, muttering, “I didn’t ask for this life.”
---
Bertrand, now fully puffed and vibrating with bureaucratic rage, unleashed his sacred scroll of complaints. It unraveled across three galaxies, knocking over Saturn’s rings like dinner plates.
“Improper moonbeam angles.”
“Reflections causing unwanted prophetic dreams in dolphins.”
“Glitter overload during the last eclipse.”
“Unauthorized winking.”
And worst of all…
“Excessive lunar cheekiness without clearance from the Supreme Lightning Lord.”
There was a gasp.
Somewhere, the stars whispered in awe:
“Oh no. He’s invoking the Sparkling Tush.”
Bertrand slammed a talon down.
“I swear by Fin’s Sparkling Tush™, this will NOT happen again!”
Somewhere, far above and slightly sideways in the fabric of reality, the mysterious masters, The Supreme Lightning Lord and the Shimmering Weaver of Flames, raised their brows and sipped celestial tea in mild amusement.
---
The Moon, finally beginning to regret all its sass, attempted a peace offering.
It shifted to a softer glow, floated over a bouquet of comets, and whispered,
“...What if I glowed extra pretty this month?”
Bertrand squinted.
Stamped a form.
“MAYBE.”
---
Hours passed. Or weeks. Or three beats of an ancient phoenix’s heart.
When the audit was finally complete, Bertrand signed his final report in moon ink, folded it into a paper crane, and yeeted it into the abyss.
“Assessment complete,” he announced.
“Conclusion:
The Moon is an underperforming diva with passive-aggressive lighting and questionable rune humor.”
And then, puffed with pride and paperwork, he turned his back on the heavens and muttered,
“The Supreme Lightning Lord will hear about this... and I am not cleaning up another eclipse tantrum.”
---
He vanished in a puff of judgment.
And the Moon, shame-glowing ever so slightly pink, turned obediently round for its next cycle.
It would behave.
For now.
Until the next audit.
The Moon had no management.
Thus was born the Department of Lunar Oversight and Shine Efficiency, affectionately known as D-LOSE (because that’s what happens when you ignore their memos). And at the very top of this department, feared by stars, respected by gods, and loathed by everyone who ever misplaced a moonbeam, was a very small, very furious owl named:
Bertrand.
---
It was the 1000th Full Moon Audit, and Bertrand was already over it.
He flapped into orbit with a sigh so profound it changed the tide patterns in three minor dimensions.
His monocle gleamed ominously.
His clipboard thrummed with fresh violations.
And his voice, like velvet soaked in disappointment, declared:
“Let us begin the shame.”
---
The Moon, glowing smugly as ever, tried to look innocent.
Bertrand didn’t even glance at it.
Instead, he inspected the Lunar Glyph Alignment Grid and promptly shrieked:
“WHO REARRANGED THESE RUNES TO SPELL ‘MOON BUTT’ IN ANCIENT CELESTIAL?”
A nearby comet giggled.
Bertrand whipped around and vaporized it with a stamp labeled “UNSANCTIONED HUMOR: CLASS 4 INFRACTION.”
---
Constellation spirits began panicking.
Orion’s belt had slipped entirely off and was now tangled in a nebula.
Pisces was swimming in opposite directions and having an identity crisis.
Scorpio claimed it had “never even met Mercury in retrograde,” and would be consulting legal counsel.
Meanwhile, the North Star was in the corner trying to light a cigarette made of stardust, muttering, “I didn’t ask for this life.”
---
Bertrand, now fully puffed and vibrating with bureaucratic rage, unleashed his sacred scroll of complaints. It unraveled across three galaxies, knocking over Saturn’s rings like dinner plates.
“Improper moonbeam angles.”
“Reflections causing unwanted prophetic dreams in dolphins.”
“Glitter overload during the last eclipse.”
“Unauthorized winking.”
And worst of all…
“Excessive lunar cheekiness without clearance from the Supreme Lightning Lord.”
There was a gasp.
Somewhere, the stars whispered in awe:
“Oh no. He’s invoking the Sparkling Tush.”
Bertrand slammed a talon down.
“I swear by Fin’s Sparkling Tush™, this will NOT happen again!”
Somewhere, far above and slightly sideways in the fabric of reality, the mysterious masters, The Supreme Lightning Lord and the Shimmering Weaver of Flames, raised their brows and sipped celestial tea in mild amusement.
---
The Moon, finally beginning to regret all its sass, attempted a peace offering.
It shifted to a softer glow, floated over a bouquet of comets, and whispered,
“...What if I glowed extra pretty this month?”
Bertrand squinted.
Stamped a form.
“MAYBE.”
---
Hours passed. Or weeks. Or three beats of an ancient phoenix’s heart.
When the audit was finally complete, Bertrand signed his final report in moon ink, folded it into a paper crane, and yeeted it into the abyss.
“Assessment complete,” he announced.
“Conclusion:
The Moon is an underperforming diva with passive-aggressive lighting and questionable rune humor.”
And then, puffed with pride and paperwork, he turned his back on the heavens and muttered,
“The Supreme Lightning Lord will hear about this... and I am not cleaning up another eclipse tantrum.”
---
He vanished in a puff of judgment.
And the Moon, shame-glowing ever so slightly pink, turned obediently round for its next cycle.
It would behave.
For now.
Until the next audit.
