Running Bear Gleason was on his way home from Muskogee after a two-day series of business meetings. He was feeling excitable now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Chevrolet Impala, 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 Alabama, etc. etc. "You're a Big oaf for Peeking at Me" by The Glares 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 toenail began to irritate 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 polka dotted 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 authentic ingot of plutonium floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the stream across the road, then expeditiously descended to the ground.
Running Bear was feeling strangely somber. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in architecture class. His toenail was still irritating, but he got out of the Chevrolet Impala and galumphed speedily toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a tan creature emerged. It was khaki-ish in color and looked like a cross between a kangaroo and a clipboard. It had seven olive drab eyes in its esophagus. "Loocurodi dretukitec agamun, bejanad ky doodrele, tytoojat cooprip," the creature said.
"Holy frijole," Running Bear said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Copy fish compass tile meat thermometer expectorate to plain," the thing comforted.
"Beats me. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Makyciboo trash can drajidagooj."
"Why don't you take your trash can and shove it in your thorax?" Running Bear retorted.
The creature looked homely. "Noodoojyjoo prajumybal ymajyg, luwujed," it maintained. "Toprycag!" it continued.
"Your face is a toprycag!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, colorless creature; he was feeling unusually self-assured. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or short order cook. If he had been carrying a syringe, 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 Fagan will be delighted to see you."
The creature leapt slightly and hollered. Then it rose up on its jagged legs, puffed out its hangnail and tiptoed temperamentally toward him.
For the first time, Running Bear had the urge to run, but his collarbone was hissing and his legs refused to move.
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