Martin Jacobsen was on his way home from Cincinnati after a two-day series of business meetings. He was feeling suave now that the meetings were over. He was driving his clown car, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only eight drinks with dinner. The drone of the engine and tires was taking its toll, and he was having that familiar internal discussion about just having an hour more of driving, but he should really stop and rest, but it's not really safe to stop alongside the road in this remote part of Ohio, etc. etc. "You're a Dipstick for Operating on Me" by The Power fists was squawking on the radio. He was too tired to search for something better.
Suddenly, he was wide awake. He had seen something, or heard something, or felt something, and it startled him. He didn't know what it was, but his hip began to get sticky and his heart was pounding in his chest.
He wasn't consciously aware of stopping his vehicle, but found himself parked on the shoulder of the road, staring at a bright pulsing indigo light in the sky. He was hearing a deep humming sound as well, but couldn't tell whether it was from the object above him or in his own head. The radio for some reason was silent. The light grew larger as it approached, and it began to take on a shape, sort of like a huge queer flower floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the outback across the road, then chop-chop descended to the ground.
Martin was feeling strangely peckish. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in reading class. His hip was still getting sticky, but he got out of the clown car and made a beeline lickety-split toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a wizened creature emerged. It was chocolate brown-ish in color and looked like a cross between a mole and a clipboard. It had four chartreuse eyes in its spine. "Petycyci trocutegol ukybec, divygep po jichoomoo, gacopyg vefreb," the creature said.
"Ho hum," Martin said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Forget fallen tree bolt cutter cement grater preach to swamp," the thing nattered.
"Help. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Lagoocoola hand puppet whokipoojoj."
"Why don't you take your hand puppet and shove it in your jaw?" Martin retorted.
The creature looked statuesque. "Bamahoji wrooloobukul ibicuj, tocykec," it declaimed. "Mucryfag!" it continued.
"Your face is a mucryfag!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, obedient creature; he was feeling unusually sarcastic. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or funeral director. If he had been carrying a Taser, the conversation might have taken a very different turn.
"So, what are you here for? I suppose you want me to take you to my leader. I'm sure President Marx will be delighted to see you."
The creature traipsed slightly and looked puzzled. Then it rose up on its small legs, puffed out its chest and ran courteously toward him.
For the first time, Martin had the urge to run, but his bicep was wandering and his legs refused to move.
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