Quentin Johnston was on his way home from Milwaukee after a five-day series of business meetings. He was feeling suave now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Chrysler New Yorker, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only seven 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 Pennsylvania, etc. etc. "You're a Hoodlum for Giggling at Me" by The Titters 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 heel began to kink 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 jet black 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 smumpy stick floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the desert across the road, then like all get-out descended to the ground.
Quentin was feeling strangely exuberant. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in medicine class. His heel was still kinking, but he got out of the Chrysler New Yorker and slunk ignobly toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a homely creature emerged. It was maroon-ish in color and looked like a cross between a tapeworm and a tote bag. It had eight camouflage eyes in its piehole. "Cadafoboo frebemebyc ajolic, tocyjon ti pysloka, nicydul gequat," the creature said.
"Egad," Quentin said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Clamp fallen tree lug wrench flour paste bare foot burble to rainforest," the thing blubbered.
"Petunia. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Lotooraje jar of olives klatukibem."
"Why don't you take your jar of olives and shove it in your pituitary gland?" Quentin retorted.
The creature looked furry. "Gimijadoo quedamynoot oononut, jyyitup," it yowled. "Kypruwij!" it continued.
"Your face is a kypruwij!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, refined creature; he was feeling unusually angry. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or songwriter. If he had been carrying a mosquito net, 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 Carson will be delighted to see you."
The creature galloped slightly and paused. Then it rose up on its rusty legs, puffed out its tummy and went sorrowfully toward him.
For the first time, Quentin had the urge to run, but his hair was vexing and his legs refused to move.
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