Jack Torres was on his way home from Quebec after a four-day series of business meetings. He was feeling fearless now that the meetings were over. He was driving his station wagon, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only five 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 Maryland, etc. etc. "I'm a Clodhopper for Stopping You" by The Furrowed brows 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 hangnail began to drip 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 burgundy 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 fabulous doily floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the neighborhood across the road, then deliberately descended to the ground.
Jack was feeling strangely puzzled. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in penmanship class. His hangnail was still dripping, but he got out of the station wagon and swung cautiously toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a tall creature emerged. It was salmon-ish in color and looked like a cross between a finch and a dart. It had eight carrot-orange eyes in its calf. "Gykysana krikodelyp ukigym, kyjygil du gyslide, jenygyt zeklat," the creature said.
"Boo," Jack said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Burn rock whisk broom denim paring knife murmur to lagoon," the thing commented.
"Oof. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Docuwipa box of candy wrabejugic."
"Why don't you take your box of candy and shove it in your hairdo?" Jack retorted.
The creature looked crafty. "Bocuvucy cloomodyjooc yponat, coocoolyn," it sputtered. "Bygroruk!" it continued.
"Your face is a bygroruk!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, sassy creature; he was feeling unusually muddled. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or pawnbroker. If he had been carrying a squirt gun, 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 Norris will be delighted to see you."
The creature traipsed slightly and barked. Then it rose up on its electronic legs, puffed out its adrenal gland and flounced suavely toward him.
For the first time, Jack had the urge to run, but his pancreas was whistling and his legs refused to move.
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