Bud Webster - The Three Labors of Bubba

“Fourth: upon consideration of the foregoing, and in light of the pain and suffering caused the Accused by these events, we award him damages in the amount of… (Mike whistled. “That’s a lot of money!”)

“This council stands adjourned.” The other Governors stood and filed out, followed by the rest of the council.

Bubba felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around. Hoss was leaking, or as close to it as a Thunt could come.

“C’mon, ya big baby. You’re gonna have me doin’ it.”

“Bubba… I want you to know…” Hoss couldn’t continue.

“I know, son. It’s OK.”

Hoss’s Progenitors were gathering around them, embracing Hoss in turn and calling him by his Thuntic name: V’rinn, son of Bish, son of Prath, and so on. Only Leens seemed reluctant to do so, but her own Primes were standing grimly by.

“Bubba, my friend.”

Bubba looked around to see K’tine and Rinn standing behind him. “Well, K’tine, you got your boy back. Rinn, you looked like you were bustin’ a gut when I dropped that bomb on the council.”

“You are one cocky sonofabitch,” she replied, grinning, through Mike. “I thought my Four-Daughter was going to lose her water.” She laughed out loud.

“Well, it was my pleasure. Say, I gotta see about catchin’ a ride home. There a bus stop around here?”

“Stay a moment,” K’tine said. “Progenitors and Progeny! I call you to gather here and now.” Quickly Bubba found himself surrounded by Thunts. Mike said, “Uh-oh.”

“Allen Poe Hudgins Pritchert, son of Edna, daughter of Howard, son of Clarence. Here and now, I offer you Family. I offer you Identity. I offer you the most of what we are, and all that we have.” He took Bubba by the shoulders. “Here and now, I offer you the honor of being Side-Father to my son, V’rinn.”

The others repeated quietly, “Here and now.”

Bubba looked around in bewilderment. The faces around him were open, expectant; Rinn was nodding in approval. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“May… may I sit down? Please?” A chair was brought, and he dropped gratefully into it. “Don’t that beat all? Talk to me, Mike. I don’t know what to do, here.”

“The status is like that of Godfather. It’s honorary, but it has never, to my knowledge, been offered to a non-Thunt. They think very highly of you, it would seem. Not that I blame them.”

“Thanks.” He pulled out the rag he carried in his pocket, and wiped his eyes. After a moment, he stood to face K’tine. In a steady voice he said, “Your honor to me does you honor. If you’ll have me, I accept.”

Hoss grabbed him by both arms and lifted him off the ground, and he felt other hands holding him aloft. As they carried him towards the double doors, he thought wildly to himself, “Boy, I hope those things are high enough!”

The party that night broke records.

Finally, it was time to go. The cook presented him with a bottle of rishth (Bubba made a note to have it analyzed when he got back, and to see if Kirby could negotiate a trade license for those native herbs). K’tine took him aside and said, “Bubba, you are part of a large and wealthy family. If there is something of a material nature you want, it will be provided; we— I —owe you much more than can be said.”

“K’tine, ol’ buddy, there’s really only one tiling I’ve ever wanted since I was nine that I haven’t been able to provide m’self with.”

“Name it.”

Bubba looked at him speculatively, then shook his head. “Naw. It’s too late and I’m too damn old. C’mon, Mike. If we hurry, we can just miss the Jetsons.” As Hoss left with him, he gave his father a knowing wink.

“Honestly, Bubba,” Mike said one night not quite two weeks later. “How can you, even as a joke, listen to this nonsense? Authentic Music From Another Planet, indeed.”

“Hey, I figured it had to have some validity, considering your reluctance to talk about the guy who recorded it.”

“Howard Menger? My reluctance to talk about him has little to do with whether or not this mindless dweedling on a piano in the middle of an enormous echo chamber is gas music from Jupiter.”

“Oh, it’s harmless. It’s not like I’m askin’ you to add it to the database, after all.”

“Just a second.” Mike said suddenly. “I’m detecting a magnetic anomaly headed this way.”

“Again!?” Bubba cried.

“I suggest you open the garage doors quickly; it doesn’t seem to be slowing. Wait!” he added quickly, as Bubba lunged to his feet. “Take me with you!”

“Shit!” Bubba grabbed him, raced into the garage and hit the switch that opened the big double doors. As they slid apart, he rushed out into the evening air, scanning the sky overhead. A light seemed to be growing brighter and larger as he stared at it.

With a nearly inaudible whoosh of displaced air, the flying saucer dipped to a level about three feet off the ground, and without pausing skimmed neatly through the open doors and into the garage, where it settled to the ground. Bubba, eyes wide and mouth gaping, stood unsteadily to the side, unsure of whether to shit or wind his watch. He’d seen this saucer somewhere before-many, many times, in fact, although only in fuzzy photographs.

Somewhat bell-shaped, it had a domed top with portholes around the base, a flanged and fluted body, and a trio of large spheres underneath. A certain cafe worker, amateur astronomer and supposed contactee would have recognized it instantly, if a bit shamefacedly.

Noiselessly, a hatch opened in the body, and Hoss gingerly stepped out.

“Side-Father, I greet you and bring you a gift from my Progenitors—and myself.”

“Uh…” Bubba replied.

“You should probably shut the doors, Bubba,” Hoss said with a twinkle. “Somebody might see it.”

“Uh…”

Hoss reached out and pressed the switch, and the garage doors ground shut again.

“It’s a 1953 Adamski Scoutship. The only one in the known Universe like it, according to Mike.”

“Actually,” Mike said, “it’s just a standard Thuntic scout with a little extra body work. We all thought you deserved it.”

Bubba stepped closer to the ship and gingerly raised a hand to touch it.

“My own… flying saucer?”

“Yep,” Mike said.

“But, wait a minute, how do I fly this thing? I don’t have the slightest idea…”

“If you can drive a car, you can fly this,” Mike said. “It conforms to FAA regs covering ultralights, and it won’t let you crash. It even has running lights.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say, boys,” Bubba said softly.

“How about, ‘Well, dip me in dog shit!’ ” Mike answered.

Two weeks later, after much nocturnal practice, Bubba took it out through the big garage doors and up into the sky. It was noiseless, and, like Hoss’s scout-ship, radar transparent. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed a number.

“That you, Bubba?” said a familiar voice.

“Yep. Get your ya-ya’s on, Kermit, we goin’ for a ride. ”

“Great. Another road trip to Frog Level, I suppose. I guess you’ll want me to kick in for gas this time?”

“I don’t believe,” Bubba replied, “that that will be necessary, Mr. daFrog. See you in ten.”

“You know,” he said aloud to himself, “Water-Rat was right. There really is nothing—absolutely nothing— half so much worth doing as simply messing about in a flying saucer.” Cackling, he headed west into the setting Sun.

And just for the hell of it, he buzzed Clint Miller’s cows.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story is a sequel to “Bubba Pritchert and the Space Aliens,” in our July 1994 issue.