Peter Cawdron - Alien Space Tentacle Porn

She pauses, and the weight of what she’s describing seems to bear down upon her.

“Your literature describes hell as a place of fire and brimstone, but there’s no hell imagined that’s as bitter as war… And I fear we failed you.”

“You failed us?” I ask. “We failed ourselves.”

Speaking softly, she says, “War is the failure of reason. It is a return to barbaric times, the last resort of civilization. Suddenly, culture is meaningless. War is to society what amputation is to the body—an act of desperation to ensure survival.”

She sighs.

“We did what we could. We petitioned governments, helped catalyze the nation. Mark worked on the Manhattan Project. I served in Churchill’s office, and made sure Alan Turing’s efforts with the Enigma machine made it to the right people. We ensured you discovered radar before the Germans. We did what we could, but we couldn’t intervene. As much as we hated to, we had to stand on the sidelines despite the appalling loss of life.”

“Why?” I ask. It’s a question that’s been burning in my mind for a while. “I mean, even now. Why not send a spaceship to the White House? You know, land on the East Lawn in a flying saucer. I come in peace. And all that stuff?”

“Why not play kindergarten cop?” she asks in reply. “Because it wouldn’t work. Oh, it would get everyone’s attention, but in entirely the wrong way.

“Look at your recent history. Terrorists fly airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon in broad daylight. They even admit to it, and still large swathes of the population are convinced it was the U.S. Government attacking its own citizens. No amount of evidence will persuade some people. Disinformation is more dangerous than dynamite. What do you think they’ll make of us arriving in our silver spaceships?”

I hate to admit it, but she’s right.

She takes my hand, holding my fingers as though I were a child.

“You’ve got religious leaders in the Middle East convinced your planet is flat. I mean. Wh—What? After all your rocket launches, your satellites, and space stations, your missions to the Moon, to Mars, and Jupiter, and Saturn and beyond, still they’re convinced otherwise. What do you think they’d make of us?

“We would be demons in their eyes. We would be hell bent on destroying life on Earth as far as they were concerned. Everything we do would have some sinister undertone designed to deceive and mislead people. But they—they would be the vanguards of truth, the grand protectors of life. Too many people would look up to them and follow their lead.”

I wish she was wrong, but I know she’s not.

“We’ve run the numbers,” she says. “We’re continually scouring your social media, sucking up every Facebook post, tweet and Instagram pic on the planet, and the analysis is always the same. Factions will form. Blood will be shed. Hundreds of millions will die.”

Despite the cold, I have my hands out, holding hers as she speaks.

“As well meaning as we may be, if we came down here, we’d take a volatile species and set it alight.”

I nod, saying, “You’re protecting us from ourselves.”

“We’re trying,” she says. “Some days, we do better than others.”

“So what’s the answer?” I say, “What’s the solution? How do we grow up?”

Sharon doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to. No sooner have those words left my lips, than I know. A single word slips from my cold lips.

“Equality.”

Sharon smiles.

“It’s a quiet revolution,” she says. “It may not mean much to you, but a husband scrubs the toilet, and we rejoice.”

“Because, why the hell not?” I say.

“Exactly,” she says, squeezing my fingers.

“Well, I’ve got to say. This isn’t what I expected. I mean, too many movies, I guess, but I thought you guys would be all ray guns and alien space tentacles.”

Sharon laughs, punching me playfully on my arm.

“Pleasantly surprised?”

“Pleasantly.”

Fuck, it’s cold.

I can’t feel my feet.

I try to hide the chatter of my teeth.

“We should get going,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, although I don’t want our conversation to end. I want Sharon to tell me about her world, about outer space, about the other planets she’s visited. I want to revel in the mysteries of the cosmos.

We get to our feet and Sharon stops abruptly.

Two black sedans come sliding to a halt, skidding on the ice. I recognize the cars. I’ve seen them before, a few days ago when Mark was shot.

“Run,” I say, pushing her behind me and shielding her from sight.

“But—”

Already, soldiers are spilling out of the vehicles. They’re carrying machine guns.

“Go,” I cry, “I’ll hold them off.”

Hold them off with what, lover boy? Harsh language?

Sharon runs.

I grab one of the wrought iron gates, swinging it closed. Soldiers run in hard toward me, shouting and screaming. “On the ground. Get down on the fucking ground.”

A black-clad assault trooper darts through the far side of the gate, sprinting down the narrow alley after Sharon. I throw myself into him, body checking him into the brick wall like a hockey player in the final minutes of the Stanley Cup. He crashes to the footpath, sprawling out across the snow.

Several other soldiers come running in behind him. They ignore me. Sharon’s the prize. I grab the park bench with both hands, surprising myself with the surge of strength pulsating through my body. I’m high on adrenaline. I wrench the seat off the frozen ground, spinning it around as though I was a highlander tossing a telegraph pole, and send the seat careering through the air into three soldiers.

Someone crash tackles me from behind, connecting with my ribcage and knocking the wind out of my lungs. Several more soldiers pile on top of me as though they’ve sacked the quarterback.

The cemetery is a dead end. The aging brick walls are easily ten feet high, forming a vast courtyard, but I catch a glimpse of Sharon springing off the ground in the far corner, bouncing from one wall to another, scaling the brickwork like a cat. And with that, she’s gone.

—RIP OFF YOUR GODDAMN HEAD.

—YOU FUCKING HEARD ME, THAT’S WHAT I SAID.

What the hell?

I open my eyes but there’s nothing beyond the darkness.

—HATE IS LOVE.

—HURT IS PEACE.

—WHAT YOU THINK IS RIGHT STINKS

—AND YOU’RE DEAD

My arms are strapped to a wooden chair, locked in place from my elbows down to my wrists. A pair of headphones have been clamped over my head along with some kind of blindfold.

Heavy metal music blares in my ears. The guitar is thrashing a single chord, madly tearing at the strings and sending out a wall of noise. Drums boom around me, exploding like the crash of thunder. I swear, a bunch of chimpanzees are beating on a snare drum, a top hat, and a bunch of tom-toms in some bizarre syncopation that jars the mind. I can hear the chimps screeching and squealing, wailing in the background. All I can think is they’re determined to puncture the drum skins, not to mention my ears.

—LOOK AT ME WRONG AND I’LL GUT YOU LIKE A FISH

— I’LL SERVE UP YOUR HEART ON A RUSTING METAL DISH

Words scream in my ears.

The noise is so loud, it hurts.

I can’t think.

Through the haze of pain, I somehow grasp that this is the point. I’m being tortured. It would have been nice if they’d introduced themselves first, but no, all I get is:

—CRUEL TO BE KIND.

—KIND TO BE CRUEL.

—THIS IS MY WORLD.