From a distance, the planet Lamouria was a wash of pink: nauseatingly feminine, and reminiscent of the liquid antacid medication the Watchdog medics prescribed in the ship's sick bay. Up close, it was worse.

As Peepers descended the ship's massive tongue, he stared at the pink apartment buildings, and the pink bushes pruned to look like hearts, and the pink clouds that seemed to serve as omens of cotton candy rather than thunderstorms.

So this was hell.

He stepped down onto the freakish hybridized pink grass, and felt a small part of himself shrivel and die.

Lord Hater followed him, equally appalled. "I thought the king of this planet was supposed to be evil."

"He is," said Peepers. "I suspect the planet's zoning laws are a means of demoralizing his subjects. No one can hold on to hope when exposed to this much pink."

Peepers checked his pocket communicator. According to the device's galactic positioning system, they were going to have to walk several blocks to their destination. Several blocks of pink. That wasn't so bad. He'd endured worse.

Peepers marched out into the intersection, ignoring the insolent cars that dared to think they had the right of way over The Greatest and his trusted advisor.

"Slow down, Peepers." Hater trudged after him at the speed of disgruntled dirt. "I'm pacing myself after my intense macho workout this morning."

Intense, meaning that he had struggled with the barbells in the ship's gym for approximately thirty seconds, done a bit of cool-down stretching, and then sat in front of the big-screen television in his bedroom, drinking a milkshake and watching himself lift weights.

Peepers stopped in the center of the intersection to wait for his boss. Around him, cars screeched on the pavement, and drivers shouted foreign curse words at each other. The familiar and soothing presence of hostility made the oppressive pink-ness almost bearable.

Peepers lifted his foot and—very, verrry slowly—took a step toward the far sidewalk.

"Is this a workable pace, sir, or should I start walking backward?"

Hater stomped past him, firing green lightning at an automobile as he did so.

"Very funny, Peepers."

"Finally. A building on this planet that isn't pink." Peepers wanted to cry tears of joy, but squelched the sentiment, taking it as additional confirmation that he needed to get off this planet as quickly as possible.

A sign hung from the rain gutter of the dilapidated brick building. Faded grey lettering proclaimed the shop's name:

The Verdant Haberdashery

Peepers could have sworn he heard a dissonant banjo chord somewhere in the distance. He cringed, and scoped out the area for any sign of Wander. Seeing nothing, he returned his attention to the sorry little shop in front of him.

"This doesn't look like a castle," said Hater.

"It's not," said Peepers. "It's a hat store."

"Oh." Hater didn't move his eyes from the sign. "Is the castle... behind the hat store?"

"We're not going to the castle!"

"What do you mean, we're not going to the castle?" Hater's voice dissolved into a hoarse whine. "That was the only reason I agreed to come on this stupid trip in the first place!" His eyes glowed green, and his knuckles flickered with diabolical energy. "All these pink bushes, and glittery crosswalks, and happy, cheery people make me want to BLOW THIS PLANET TO KINGDOM COME!"

Peepers laughed loudly and edged away from his boss, on the off chance that Hater would decide to make Peepers an early target of the promised destruction.

"On the contrary, sir!" Peepers straightened up, forcing his voice into a cheery, pleasant range. "We'll be visiting King Loig—in his castle, just as I told you during the briefing! But first, I thought it would be sensible to select an appropriate castle-warming gift."

Hater blinked. The fiery green rage vanished from his eyes. "A what now?"

"A token of our appreciation for his hospitality. Something practical, but not tacky—he's royalty, so a certain level of taste is required..." Peepers trailed off. Hater was staring at the Verdant Haberdashery sign again. "Sir!"

"Huh? Right, right, token of practicality. So why are we at this dumb hat store?"

Peepers exhaled sharply. His retina ached. "We're going to buy the king a present so he'll be more inclined to negotiate with us."

"Oh. Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?"

The inside of the Verdant Haberdashery was more bleak and grey than anything resembling "verdant," but Peepers wasn't complaining. The absence of bright pink as a prominent decorative theme was sufficient. While Hater lingered next to the postcard rack at the front of the store, Peepers stomped up to the front counter and slammed the "ring for service" bell with his fist.

A fat woman with two noses bustled through the door to the stockroom, and stared down at Peepers. "Welcome to Sjogren's, little fella! I'm Sjogren Filk. What can I get for ya?"

"I need a hat," said Peepers.

The woman stared at him for a full five seconds, then burst out in a high-pitched wail as she stormed back into the stock room.

"Boss, it's a paying customer!" A red-and-gold bird flapped its wings, hopping up off its wire perch on the other end of the counter. "I'm sure he didn't mean —"

"I don't care, Krako!" the woman screeched. "If he won't leave willingly, then peck his eyeballs out!"

Krako the bird cleared his throat. "I'd be happy to," he crowed, angling his beak toward the back of the store, "but he's only got the one, and I have a policy about biologically-disadvantaged creatures."

"Biologically-disadvantaged?" sputtered Peepers. "I'll show you biologically-disadvantaged, you birdbrain —"

"Hey, hey, relax." Krako dropped his voice to an imitation whisper. He turned to Peepers and cocked his head to the side, offering something of a sympathetic expression. "Don't take it personally. I gotta keep up appearances, you know? Sjogren thinks that just because she's in charge of this place, everyone ought to make it their all-around mission in life to appease her every whim."

Peepers glared at Krako. "Well, now I'm in charge. Or, rather, Lord Hater is in charge—and I speak for Lord Hater, so quit lounging around and retrieve some hats for official evaluation by the Hater Empire!"

Krako shrugged. "Sorry, mate. We don't have any."

Peepers felt the blood drain from his eye. His hands shook. He reached for his blaster and clasped it tight. He didn't have a clue what fried alien-fowl would taste like, but he had a sudden urge to find out.

"You... don't have any hats?" he stammered, choking on horror and a sudden swell of rage. "B-b-but —"

"Sjogren won't sell 'em. She hates hats."

"That's preposterous! Your store is named 'The Verdant Haberdashery!' We could take you to the galactic court for deceptive advertising."

"Yeeeeah." Krako chirped irritably. "You saw the sign out front, right? Figures. I think there actually used to be a hat store here. I keep telling Sjogren she oughta replace the sign, but she thinks it'd be too much hassle."

Peepers counted to three, then exhaled. "I see."

"If you're that desperate for something to put on your head, we could probably improvise. We've got spaghetti strainers, a couple of lampshades —"

"Probably not." Peepers returned his blaster to its holster. "We're shopping for a king, not a college fraternity."

"King? You mean, the king?"

"If by 'the king,' you are referring to King Loig the Third, then yes. This gift is for the king. And I have it on good authority that he appreciates a well-made hat."

Krako whistled through an octave of screechy notes. "Grok and gallafraz. I can't exactly conjure a hat out of thin air, but if you need something to impress King Loig, then I might be able to rustle up something interesting."

He leapt from his perch and flapped across the room, pitching upward and downward like a poorly-piloted remote-control spaceship. He landed on top of a tall, pentagonal box labeled "miscellaneous." Laboriously, methodologically, he pecked through the pile of assorted scraps and knick-knacks.

Peepers sighed. "It's a good thing I scheduled a gap hour for unforeseen inconveniences," he muttered. Granted, "unforeseen inconveniences" was code for "Wander and Sylvia," but Peepers was cautiously optimistic that maybe diplomatic negotiations with a foreign ruler wouldn't be quite evil enough to attract the attention of the two nomadic do-gooders.

"Hey, Peepers!" Hater roared. "I need coins for this frubble-fizz gumball machine!"

Peepers dug into his pocket and retrieved a few fourteen-cent pieces. Hopefully the gumball machine wasn't picky about currency.

"I'll be right there, sir!"

The gumball machine was a coin-eater. Peepers had gone through all the spare change in his pockets and his wallet, and the machine had yet to dispense a single gumball. Hater, convinced that this was Peepers' fault for failing to feed the coins into the slot correctly, had grabbed Peepers' last fourteen-cent piece and jammed it into the coin slot.

The machine rattled. It shuddered. Somewhere inside, its machinery squeaked and cranked. And then it did absolutely nothing.

"Peepers! Go make change at the front counter!"

Peepers checked his watch. They had forty-five minutes until they were scheduled to meet with the king. If they walked quickly, they could probably make it to the castle in twenty minutes. Reserving ten minutes of buffer for additional "unforeseen inconveniences," that left fifteen minutes for gift selection and payment.

"Sir, I'm sure they'll have food at the castle —"

"I don't care! I want one of these stupid gumballs, and I want it now!"

Peepers channeled inner serenity, cultivated from years of meditation and nightly de-stress tapes. The effort left him slightly nauseous.

"I'll be right back, sir."

"Well?" Krako pecked at a tin of birdseed on the counter. "See anything you like?"

"Do you have anything that isn't a heart?" Peepers asked. "I mean, it's sweet and all, but love goes against everything we stand for."

"Get used to it," said Krako. "Most of the souvenirs around here are heart-shaped. It's patriotic, I guess. 'Cause the planet is... you know."

"Right." Peepers flicked a pink, heart-shaped cookie tin with his finger. "Groffing unnatural topography."

Krako settled back on his perch and preened his feathers. "This is the best of the haul, right here. Not sure if any of it is fit for a king, but you're welcome to whatever you like." He squawked. "At eight smackers apiece, of course."

"Of course." Peepers sifted through the mountain of shiny junk Krako had dumped onto the counter. "What is this thing—an unmarked ruler?" He bent the fluorescent-orange strip (painted with tiny pink hearts—blech) to test its flexibility, then recoiled as it jerked from his hands, curling up into itself like a snake.

"It's a snap bracelet," said Krako. "They were very popular when we first got them in. Couldn't keep them in stock."

"I can't imagine why." Peepers returned to the stack. He uncovered chipped mugs, ugly candles, and abhorrent soda-can art—all either shaped like hearts or decorated with them. "Ugh. I should have just ordered something online."

Furious bellowing from the front of the store interrupted Peepers' gift hunt: "YOU STUPID THING! I'LL TEACH YOU TO STAND BETWEEN THE GREATEST IN THE GALAXY AND HIS GUMBALLS!"

A crackle of electricity buzzed in the air, and then a horrendous crash shook the store. Peepers decided not to look—at least then he could maintain plausible deniability.

Krako narrowed his eyes at Peepers. "Is that guy with you?"

Peepers picked up a "World's Greatest Grandma" mug and polished it with his sleeve. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Look, pal, I may hate Sjogren with every fiber of my being, but nobody trashes her store and gets away with it. Either get your buddy under control, or clear out."

"No, you look, pal." Peepers leapt up onto the counter and jabbed his pointer finger into the bird's beak. "I need a suitable gift for the king of your pathetic pink planet, and I need it within the next fifteen minutes. So bring me something nicer than these overpriced nostalgia items, or my buddy will burn your store to a crisp—inaccurate haberdashery sign included!"

"All right, all right, already." Krako hopped from one clawed foot to the other, then took off, flapping wildly. "You don't have to be so disagreeable about it."

Peepers stood up a little straighter, and folded his arms over his chest. "I'm the commander of the most-feared villainous army in this quadrant. 'Disagreeable' is a minimum job requirement."

Krako disappeared through the entrance to the stock room. About ten seconds later, he reemerged, with a pair of gleaming metal objects in his beak. He landed on the cash register and spat the objects onto the counter.

"These are worth at least thirty-five," he said. "Solid gold. Real classy."

He had brought Peepers a pair of necklaces, each featuring a pendant shaped like half a heart. Peepers picked up the pendants and turned them over in his hands. The two halves fit together like puzzle pieces, forming the phrase "BEST BUDS."

Peepers rubbed the surface of the right pendant with his thumb. "This is imitation bronze."

"Bronze, gold, stainless steel, it's all the same," said Krako. "It looks good from a distance and it reflects sunlight; what more do you want?"

Peepers set down the pendants and snapped open his wallet. "I'll give you ten for the set."

Krako screeched at him, brandishing not-very-threatening blunted claws. "Ten? I told you, they're worth thirty-five."

"They're tarnished." Peepers picked up the left side of the heart. "This half looks like it's been through a trash compactor."

"Fine. Because I like you, I'll give you the set for thirty."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty-seven."

"Eighteen. No higher."

"Friend, if I let every aspiring dictator swindle me out of valuable merchandise, Sjogren and I would be out on the streets."

"It's not worth twenty-seven."

"Well then, Mr. Snob, you can keep your money and find another souvenir shop."

Peepers considered this. He considered the principles of ethical negotiation. He considered the importance of making a good impression on King Loig.

Then he drew his blaster and fired it at the bird.

"Why—you!" The blaster had charred Krako's feathers and left him looking more than a little dazed.

"My apologies," said Peepers, "but we really are in a rush. Thank you for your kindly hospitality."

He swiped the necklaces, leapt down from the counter, and headed for the front of the store.

"Sir, we're leaving!"

"But I didn't get any gumbaaaalls!"

They stole the gumball machine too, for good measure. Hater was still wrestling with the glass globe when they arrived at the front gate of the castle.

"Sir, do you mind leaving the candy dispenser outside while we meet with the king?"

Hater rolled his eyes. "Do I have to?"

"It's a matter of simple etiquette. Besides, I need you to hold the gift."

"The huh?"

Peepers handed the small red box to Hater. "I took the liberty of wrapping it for you. When we enter the throne room, you will present this token to the king."

"What do I have to do that for? I'm the one doing him the honor of visiting this stupid planet; he should be giving me a gift."

"You want to make a good impression. Give him every assurance that you are his friend, and that you have no intentions of stabbing him in the back the second he ceases to be useful."

Hater took the box and ran a skeletal finger over the wrapping-paper seam. "I don't know. This sounds too much like something a good guy would do." He tossed the box into the air. Peepers snatched it before it could land on the unforgiving pink concrete.

"But, sir —"

"I'm Lord Hater!" said Lord Hater. His dark aura overwhelmed their pink surroundings, withering a patch of nearby carnigolds. "I'm the evilest villain this galaxy has ever seen! I don't give my future underlings presents. I walk into the room and take what I want!"

"Certainly!" Peepers dusted off the gift, then punched a little yellow button on the panel mounted to the gate. "I didn't say that you had to mean any of it. We just need him to think that you're going to be his friend."

The speaker above the button panel buzzed with static. "Please state your name and business," a scratchy voice demanded.

Peepers held down the red button marked "talk," then cleared his throat. "I, Commander Peepers, am here as second-in-command to the all-powerful and awe-inspiring Lord Hater. We have an appointment with his majesty, King Loig."

"Mm-hmm." More static. "Lord... Nader, did you say?"

"Lord HATER." Peepers glared at the speaker. "Hotel, alpha, tango, echo, Romeo."

"Yeah," said Lord Hater, posturing in front of the speaker like it was a paparazzi camera. "Because once the king's daughter sees my sweet pecs, she's totally gonna wanna swear her love to me from an elevated holodeck and then fake her own death so we can be together forever."

Peepers blinked at his boss, not sure whether to be annoyed that Hater apparently didn't know the intergalactic phonetic alphabet, or impressed that he'd made a coherent literary reference.

"Er. Yes." Peepers refocused his attention on the speaker. "So open the gate, you bureaucratic peon! Lord Hater demands an immediate audience with the king!"

Static. Then, silence. Then:

CRRREEEEEEEEAAAK...

The massive metal gate swung inward. Peepers and Hater cautiously edged out onto the pink walkway leading to the castle's front door.

"Remember," said Peepers. "Polite. Proper. Witty. Charming."

"Ri-ight." Hater adjusted his tie, glowering at Peepers out of the corner of his eye. "Because that worked so well last time."

Man, I miss this show.

I know Frank Angones gave his own explanation on Tumblr for why Peepers and Hater have "Best Buds" necklaces, but I saw the opportunity to do a tie-in with "The Date" and jumped on it. This story serves as a sort of prequel/in-between-quel to both "The Date" and "The Buddies.