Lars Baird was on his way home from Chesapeake after a four-day series of business meetings. He was feeling angry now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Crown Victoria, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only four 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 Indiana, etc. etc. "You're a She-wolf for Watching 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 shoulder began to twist 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 drab 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 funny gun floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the trail across the road, then nimbly descended to the ground.
Lars was feeling strangely perky. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in political science class. His shoulder was still twisting, but he got out of the Crown Victoria and capered gruffly toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon an eye-catching creature emerged. It was crimson-ish in color and looked like a cross between a beetle and a sea shell. It had eight chocolate brown eyes in its esophagus. "Bigisibo klootemadot ugemul, bazekuc bo gyquena, noopulug sowhij," the creature said.
"By all the saints at the backside door of purgatory," Lars said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Dress bear track Q-tip Scotch tape knife play Duck Duck Goose to marsh," the thing stormed.
"Far out. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Kinijalu beach ball whatobutec."
"Why don't you take your beach ball and shove it in your waist?" Lars retorted.
The creature looked eccentric. "Tijijode glebytejul ijomic, jojynum," it noted. "Poplofut!" it continued.
"Your face is a poplofut!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, direct creature; he was feeling unusually carefree. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or street sweeper. If he had been carrying a hatchet, 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 Fodor will be delighted to see you."
The creature skidded slightly and moaned. Then it rose up on its ridiculous legs, puffed out its gall bladder and ran woodenly toward him.
For the first time, Lars had the urge to run, but his waist was flapping and his legs refused to move.
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