Saturday, August 29, 2009

Scenes 17 & 18

Myron is driving again. Blinky has dug back into the pile of stuff in the backseat and gotten a second book out. It’s a non-fictional volume, that describes evidence of cosmic colonization. The publisher--extremely obscure, and located at somebody’s dining room table in California--provides some terrifying liner notes about Alien adventures in the American Middle West. On the basis of this, Blinky buys the book.

Apparently, the visitors in question are able to assume humanoid form until they become angry or aroused, or simply impatient. Then there’s a cephalo-morph thing that occurs, which reveals their true, above-the-neck form. They have octopus heads. Or things that resemble octopi, at any rate, very moist, with tentacles and googly, gelatinous eyeballs.

The author, who claims to have interviewed some survivors of telepathic encounters with the Octos, reports that many incidents have occurred at convenience stores and laundromats. The survivors, naturally, are cowed into silence by a contemptuous and disbelieving public, which totally plays into the hands of the Aliens. Speculation on the causes for their arrival center on insect-like social organizational models. Why octopi, much less bipedal ones, are speculated to have anything to do, sociobiologically speaking, with honeybees is anybody’s guess.

But the author, who’s name is Darryl, contends that the evidence does in fact point to a connection. There is some argument concerning the relationship between six and eight, the numbers of legs and tentacles that insects and octopi possess, respectively; likewise there is some consideration of enzyme signatures in the erotic secretions of same; finally Darryl cites a special feeling that the disquilibrium in our world affects these two sets of species in much the same way.

Where all this goes is tied up in a galactic nesting thing. Potential mass death, captive homo sapiens, forced labor, etc. Blinky is entertained, even thrilled by the dynamic possibilities of such dislocation. “What,” he’s wondering, “would that be like?”



Little Turtle and Mad Anthony Wayne walk into a Ford Dealership. A salesman named Trent walks up, looks them over and says, “And how can I help you gentlemen.” Trent has about five pounds of gel in his hair. Wayne is very direct. He offers some livestock, four rifles, and several shiny pieces of metal for an F-150. The salesman looks at them. “Guys,” says Trent in an oily voice. “This is an unusal offer. I’m gonna need to talk to my manager.” He walks back to an office. Laughter erupts from the rear.

Before Trent gets back they’re gone with a truck.

They zip over to the local historical society and break in. Soon they’re driving down the road with an 18th Century cannon and a rack of twelve pound balls in the back. Little Turtle is smoking a cigarette. Wayne says, “I’ve always wanted to drive one of these.” LT takes a drag and says, “In certain respects, it beats a horse, doesn’t it?

Wayne is bouncing up and down on his rear end. “More give in the seat.”

The pickup drives past a row of homes. There’s a guy outside washing his driveway. Around the side of the house, some neighbor kid is crimping the hose, just to annoy him. The guy is looking back toward the spigot. All of which is normal. Except the guy’s got an octopus for a head.

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