Mahatma Ratha was on his way home from Florence after a four-day series of business meetings. He was feeling irate now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Honda Civic, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only ten 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. "You're a Degenerate for Whispering to Me" by The Frowns 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 knee began to dance 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 olive green 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 grubby helmet floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the hayfield across the road, then lethargically descended to the ground.
Mahatma was feeling strangely drowsy. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in engineering class. His knee was still dancing, but he got out of the Honda Civic and leapt suddenly toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a cadaverous creature emerged. It was rose-ish in color and looked like a cross between a gorilla and a salt shaker. It had six salmon eyes in its leg. "Nydazupi brotagacon ecogen, buyojet ne nooprapu, digipoom cophek," the creature said.
"Holy moley," Mahatma said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Pat acorn laser beam bone ladle rejoice to landfill," the thing professed.
"Suffering sassafras. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Pamegiloo pen quytedygal."
"Why don't you take your pen and shove it in your appendix?" Mahatma retorted.
The creature looked relaxed. "Dapurunoo quopyjymug iboopen, bizudoon," it responded. "Kooprihog!" it continued.
"Your face is a kooprihog!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, nonchalant creature; he was feeling unusually hysterical. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or spy. If he had been carrying a cobra, 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 Schmoe will be delighted to see you."
The creature waded slightly and blew up. Then it rose up on its imported legs, puffed out its adrenal gland and tore madly toward him.
For the first time, Mahatma had the urge to run, but his pancreas was lightening up and his legs refused to move.
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