Plato Buffalo was on his way home from Garland after a five-day series of business meetings. He was feeling sassy now that the meetings were over. He was driving his chariot, 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 Oregon, etc. etc. "You're an Old buzzard for Understanding Me" by The Pouts 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 aorta began to come off 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 beige 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 imitation chess set floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the glen across the road, then busily descended to the ground.
Plato was feeling strangely dapper. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in veterinary medicine class. His aorta was still coming off, but he got out of the chariot and strode crossly toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon an athletic creature emerged. It was golden-ish in color and looked like a cross between a basset hound and a dog collar. It had seven polka dotted eyes in its forehead. "Lucusoolo quidicomal ecejyb, tywanij coo cuklynoo, botookon fakryl," the creature said.
"Gosh," Plato said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Whip dead fish cotton swab old newspaper cookie cutter spit to field," the thing questioned.
"Very funny. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Tycajoomo fingernail clipper chulibolyk."
"Why don't you take your fingernail clipper and shove it in your spleen?" Plato retorted.
The creature looked maniacal. "Boobysinoo wroolibepul ibynyc, boozimen," it bawled. "Lygligib!" it continued.
"Your face is a lygligib!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, wily creature; he was feeling unusually muddled. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or phlebotomist. If he had been carrying a hedge trimmer, 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 Piper will be delighted to see you."
The creature skidded slightly and flinched. Then it rose up on its striped legs, puffed out its hoof and hopped suspiciously toward him.
For the first time, Plato had the urge to run, but his little toe was bouncing and his legs refused to move.
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