The Alien Candidate

Inspired by this Reddit prompt (my username is goat_therandy):

 

“Sir, we’ve touched down in what’s known here as the Appalachian Mountains,” Blorg said the leader of the Fridnar team, aka the Scalpels. They stood on the edge of a cliff, and twinkling lights dotted the warm, green valley below them. “This is one of the more beautiful places we’ve been, eh sir?”

“Stop calling me sir,” Captain Rogorg said, turning to look at his friend of over three Earth centuries. “Seriously, what the hell is that about? We’re a team, not a bunch a of filthy savages. Tell me, does everyone have their skin on?”

“Yes, except Lorg, she’s still getting ready. Man, I don’t know how humans where this stuff.”

“It’s just how they hold their guts in. Anyway, you really need to do more to remind your wife of the urgency here. The Yakonians have already infilitrated the Cuban government.”

“They’re playing a short game, then.”

They both fell silent and enjoyed the sight of the stars. It reminded Blorg of when he first asked Lorg to marry him, after they had been dating for months (although it had seemed like many wonderful years already) on Fridnar’s third moon. It reminded Rogorg of their win against the Hyperions in the Hindristic Nebula games.

No team had managed to infiltrate a major power here yet, and Rogorg wanted to know why.


“You mean to tell me that I have to get people’s signatures in order to run for office?” Captain Rogorg was telling the party official. “How many?”

“Well, sir, it depends on the state … ” Mary, or whatever her name was, tapped a few keys on her keyboard, and the Fridnarian knew it was a delaying tactic ” … but in total…about 900,000 in order to get on the ballot in each state.”

“What the hell are you talking about? In my home country, anyone can run for office! A child can, of course he won’t be elected, but he can do it!”

“That’s very cute, sir.”

Rogorg grunted and left the building. He called Blorg with his cell phone. Human currency was easy enough to print for themselves, at least. “Any luck getting a job with the agency?”

“Ro, they want to do background checks! They want my family, my friends, all of them to testify against me just to get a job!”

“What kind of untrusting people are these? This is going to be harder than I thought. Damn, I heard the Yakonians are working with Venezuela now.”

“And the Klepers are already moving on from Ghana to Gambia.”


Rogorg knew it was unethical, although not technically cheating, to assume the bodies of whoever they were invading. He didn’t see another way, however, and a win was a win. He sat in the Oval Office, sure that in this position of power the Scalpels would win within a week, or perhaps a day or two.

Blorg stood in the corner, continually scratching himself. “It’s this skin, how can they wear it?” he’d say when Rogorg or Lorg, who sat in a chair staring at a tablet, would complain about it.

“What do you mean you can’t get the votes?” Rogorg said angrily into the phone. “I’ve literally developed an engine that can go faster than the speed of light, and still you can’t get enough votes to approve a Martian colony?”

The gift of technology was something else that was traditionally forbidden in the Invasion Games, but technically not considered cheating. Rogorg had had enough.

“I know…I know…ethical concerns, taking care of Earth infrastructure first, all that, of course. But an off-world colony is the first step to any unified world government. What do you mean New World Order? Actually yes, that’s a good description of– What are you talking about? Why shouldn’t I talk this way? Just get the votes!”

“Easy, captain,” Blorg said after Rogorg slammed the phone down on its receiver. “We’ll find a way, just got to keep trying.”


“Peace is what brings us together, not war! Peace is what makes a man a man and a woman a woman, not war! Peace is what we must have, for one world must have one government!”

All the political representatives cheered Rogorg’s speech in the joint session of congress. He was sure that people all over the country, and even the world, were ready now to become one. Then the Scalpels would declare victory for the third time in as many centuries, a record that few could match.

A senator, whose name the captain didn’t know, spoke in his ear, “Sir, it still has to go through both houses.”

“Whose houses?” Rogorg said above the ongoing cheers.

“I just want you to know, there are still those of us who oppose you in the Senate. We’ll filibuster this if you try it without negotiating first.”

“Filibuster?” the Fridnarian had heard of that term, and he knew what it meant. “No…” he shook his head as the cheers quieted “…no…” he writhed around, dense internal hands pushing against the flimsy skin “…no…” Blorg tried to stop him, but it was too late.

A twenty foot tall tentacle monster stood before the Congress. Its orange skin rippled like oil in a breeze, and its dozens of eyes stared everywhere at once. Talons popped out of its tentacles and began whipping at everything in the room.

“I’M INVADING YOUR PLANET, YOU SHITHEADS!!!”

Blorg looked at Lorg among the ripped and gored carcusses of those who so recently had been clapping for their killer, and said, “Well…I guess this means we lost.”

Jimmy the ice cream man

Jimmy was a hump back with dental issues. The bores on his back broke the skin, pushing puss from pores. Hair stringy and grease-covered slacked down a fat left shoulder. An exhale exhumed a bit of spittle that landed on the hot sidewalk. “Can I get…can I get some ice cream?” he asked the ice cream man, his sad eyes drilling holes in souls.

“I…um…” the ice cream man hesitated, wondering what the way was with this wary fellow. “I don’t really have any ice cream? This is, uh…it’s a front…for like, drugs?”

“I….I….I…….” Jimmy was hard of breathing. His chest tightened thick with the tension of the ticking time. “Got any…popped corn?”

“NO!” The ice cream man jumped out of his truck with a bat, swinging it this way and that. “GO!”

Jimmy tried to run, but his legs could only be pushed so much.

Only real data

I only use real words in my writing because I think it sounds better when things are real. Like, you can’t have a meal out of plastic food. There has to be actual food there for you to eat. Frankly, if it’s not real, like rally real, then how can you tell if something even exists?

It’s like…come on, it’s just so frustrating having to describe these simple concepts that are like, so totally ingrained in our nature. I mean, if poverty really exists, then why am I not impoverished, you know? So that’s not real data that I can use for my writing.

Another word that’s real that I like is “pizza.” It’s a real word that means food that’s in a circle with some cheese on top of bread on top of sauce, in that order. It’s very good, but I don’t like to eat too much because I have to watch my waistline. A waistline is something you get when you’re older and your legs have sprouted. Yeah, my legs didn’t sprout until I was seven, a little later than most, but oh well.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is to repeat things that mean stuff to me. If it doesn’t mean something, then I’ll like only say it once, but sometimes I’ll say it two times because of my bad memory. But anyone who knows me knows I have a bad memory, so if I say something three or four times, they know it’s really important.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is repeat things that are important to me. Cause then I’m able to remember it more and like where I left off, I can start again. Like a cycle of rebirth, drifting ever outward from the center of my creation, always molding and changing like the Atlantic Ocean during hurricane season.

Sometimes people tell me that my ideas aren’t good and stuff, but I tell them just look at Mark, and his ideas, and then they do that and come back to me and say what good ideas I have. Yeah, totally. Mark is like second rate, and I’m maybe like…not like first rate, but close to first rate. I think that’s why Mark gets jealous sometimes.

I also like to use opinions sometimes, like other people’s opinions from the newspaper. The newspaper doesn’t really use real facts all the time, so sometimes I have to get it from magazines. Tabloids are generally good cause I like the feel of them and the crust of the paper. It’s like a texture that my fingers like when they start thinking for me.

 

“Every Night”

“H-hello,” he muttered, under his breath. Salivation dripped from his lip corners. “I’m h-here for the job application.”

“Hokey dokey,” the innkeeper said. Hands twitched rhythmically before his blood-stained apron. “Sign here, welcome to my inn. It’s called Meat Palace.”

“You serve a lot of meat h-here?” the applicant whispered beneath spit-stained whiskers. “I like to eat meat.”

The innkeeper nodded, kicked back a chair, and begged the man have a seat. “Won’t you tell me about yourself? I do like to hear of people. You know, on the outside.”

“The outside? What do you mean?”

“Well, I haven’t left the Meat Palace in twenty some years.” The innkeeper leaned forward, grinned, and twisted the point of a knife into the wooden table. “I don’t like to leave.”

“Why not? It’s actually quite nice in most places. H-hector’s square is cool place. There’s a statue and a fountain.”

The innkeeper slid his chair back and frowned. He stood and coughed into his bloody, meaty fist. The fist slammed on the table and a shout of, “WANT TO EAT SOME DINNER?!” rang out.

“I like dinner.”

“You’ll have to fetch things for me. Feed my horses, and those of my guests. Your room and board are of course covered by me, and you’ll receive ten silvers a month.”

“Okay.”

The innkeeper sat down and gradually thought over his plans. “The basement will have to be cleaned.” His eyes became dark and bored holes into the rotted wooden table. “Every night.” The blade slipped off its tip and split a line. “Every night.”

Jenkins! Get in Here!

Jenkins sat in his cube, staring at the clock staring into his eyes, wondering what happened with the time once it was spent up and used. It was probably thrown out for another universe or version of him to do with it what all entities will do: Waste it.

“Jenkins!” his boss shouted. Jenkins couldn’t see his boss with his eye, but saw him with his mind, with his read face and sweaty forehead. “Is that report ready, yet?!”

“No,” Jenkins replied, staring at the clock and twiddling a pen between his fingers. “I, uh, still have a couple changes to make.”

“What?! What fucking changes?!” His boss pounded on the cube wall, but still failed to present himself visually. “My ass is on the line here! That means….that YOUR ass is…” Time passed, and his boss seemed to become unsure of himself. The normally booming voice now sputtered and hesitated. “…on the line, too. Okay? Got that?”

“Okay, but. I think, like, we could work together. On like, the report? Maybe.”

“May…maybe! May is…that’s, uh, that’s okay. Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.”

I don’t know….

He was a furry dressed in a lion suit with blood on his claws.

“Hey,” Tom said to him. “What’s that blood from?”

“Oh, uh…” Mike starts to say, but interrupts himself with a long scratch of his balls. Blood smears across the crotch of his pants. “That’s, uh…from when I killed a man earlier.” He yawned and sipped a sip of his ale. “I ate him.”

“Oh, cool,” Tom said. He was dressed in a seal suit. A seal whose face was bruised and skin was the color of stone. “I like to eat fish, though.”