Peter Cawdron - Alien Space Tentacle Porn

Damn, it feels as though someone’s jabbed an ice pick behind my right eye.

Slowly, my eyes flicker open.

I’m in a hospital. The walls are an indifferent shade of green. There are bars on the windows and a bathroom to one side. Worn linoleum curls up from the floor, making a backsplash reaching almost a foot in height.

I feel naked, even though I’m dressed in a thin cotton hospital gown. The bed I’m on smells old and musty. My feet rest on a scratchy wool blanket lying at the foot of the bed. The heavily bleached cotton sheets make me itchy. This shithole looks like something out of a 1950’s B-Grade movie.

A nurse says, “Try not to move,” doing nothing to dispel the notion that I’ve been sucked into a time warp. Her blond hair has been meticulously clipped back with bobby pins and pulled behind a dainty half-cap that looks as though it was made from folded paper. Her cap has the classic red cross symbol on a stark white background. I thought those had gone out of fashion long ago. She holds a wooden clipboard and has the traditional upside-down watch hanging from her shirt pocket so she can glance down and catch the time.

I half expect Rock Hudson or Dean Martin to come walking in to play the role of doctor. With perfect teeth, charismatic smiles, and hair slicked back under half a pound of lard, either of them would fit right in.

“Where the hell am I?”

“Brooklyn Psychiatric.”

“A mental hospital?”

I try to sit up, but I move too fast and my head feels like it’s about to explode. The room around me spins. I’m not sure if I’m going to faint or throw up.

“No sudden movements,” the nurse says.

“You’re not kidding,” I reply, bringing my hand to my head as I sit up. I turn to face her, wanting to get out of bed. I’m not sure why, but I feel as though I need to stand, if only to reassure myself of reality. I’m lightheaded and woozy. I know it’s not a good idea, but I want to feel the ground set firmly under my feet.

“Relax,” the nurse says, reaching out and grabbing my shoulder to steady me. “Not so fast. What’s the rush?”

My feet dangle over the edge of the bed a few inches above the floor. She’s right. I feel drained. If I stood up now, I’d collapse.

The light coming in through the window is blinding. There must be spotlights outside as a brilliant white light shines through to the far wall. The sky beyond is pitch black. There’s no moon, no clouds, no stars. The inky darkness looks unnatural in contrast to the bright lights.

“Could you pull the curtains?” I ask, but the nurse ignores me, checking something off on her chart.

A doctor walks into the room. Well, I assume he’s a doctor, as he’s wearing a classic white coat. He’s not quite Rock Hudson, but he’s pretty darn close. Doctor Not-Rock-Hudson smiles.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he says, taking a chair and turning it around in front of me. He sits down and leans into the chair.

“What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

I shake my head. That’s a mistake. My inner ear swirls. It’s only then I notice the two officers standing behind the doctor. One Army. One Navy. Like the nurse, they could have been whipped out of a 1950’s movie. They’re wearing old-fashioned uniforms—plain shirts, heavily starched, flawlessly pressed trousers, black polished shoes. The Army guy even has a folded cap slipped under his right shoulder board.

“Where’s Rock?” I ask. It’s a private joke. None of them get it, of course, and it doesn’t seem to help my predicament. The two officers don’t show any emotion.

“Do you remember being arrested?” the doctor asks.

I’m not going to shake my head again. I offer a polite, “No.”

“Central Park? Do you remember running naked through the park?”

I can’t help but laugh at the idea. “Hell no!” Although that burst of emotion leaves me feeling dizzy. I’m careful not to fall off the bed.

“What about the aliens in Central Park? You were yelling something about space tentacles when they found you.”

“Aliens?” I ask, thinking this is more than a little ridiculous. “Tentacles? You’re kidding, right?”

What the hell am I supposed to know about aliens in Central Park? This is a psychiatric hospital. I can’t imagine the doctor believes in extraterrestrials any more than I believe there are pink elephants floating through the sky. Any serious discussion about the existence of aliens drawing crop circles in Central Park is likely to end with me being certified insane. I feel as though the doctor is toying with me. The scowl on his face says denial isn’t helping. I’m damned either way.

“Sorry, Doc. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I really don’t, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me.

“You need to be honest,” the doctor says. His eyes dart to one side, gesturing at the Army officer behind him. His voice softens as he says, “I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”

Ah, good cop, bad cop. He’s siding with me, wanting me to open up to him, only I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. And to me, that’s the real problem. No one is ever sure of anything. I could be lying about this whole episode and he’d never know it, because he’s not me. I could be telling the truth, but that wouldn’t matter either because it doesn’t matter what I say. What matters is what he believes I’m saying. Him, me, the nurse, the officers. The only person that ever really knows the truth is the one living it, and sometimes even they’re fooled.

I’m not lying.

I really don’t know anything about running naked through Central Park yelling something crazy about alien space tentacles. What the hell is all this about? Was I messed up on drugs? It sounds like I was caught up in a low-budget porno. As my head clears, I start to get a pretty good idea how something like this might have happened.

The nurse angles the bed so I can sit up. I close my eyes, ignoring the doctor as he continues talking. I need to piece together what happened from my fragmented memory.

Sharon is a babe.

She lives in the ground floor apartment directly below mine. We bump into each other in the laundry from time to time. And by bump, I mean she has a full bust and we’ve skimmed past each other awkwardly in the long, cramped, narrow basement laundromat. She’s asked me for soap a few times, and once I bummed a quarter from her to keep the dryer running a little longer. We’ve talked about politics, the economy, science, and sometimes, just before we part, there’s an awkward silence that seems to say more than words.

Sharon is easy on the eyes, even though she dresses conservatively, with a blouse buttoned up to her throat, or a turtleneck sweater.

I’ve always liked her, and not just in the damn-she’s-hot sense. Sharon always has a kind word to say. There’s chemistry between us, but more than that, she radiates both enthusiasm and intelligence.

I think she likes me too, as she’s always happy to see me. But she lives with her brother, Mark.

Mark has a perpetual scowl. He’s one of these guys that’s bald on top so he shaves his head to look hip. Most days you can see a little stubble on the sides, just above his ears. It’s the Bruce Willis look, only I don’t think it does Mark any favors.

Mark is a sourpuss. I’ve never seen the man laugh or smile. Nothing is ever good enough for him. I remember stopping to chat with Mark and Sharon one morning, noting that the sun was out and it was going to be a glorious day. Mark sneered, saying storms were on the way. He was wrong, and that seemed to make him even grumpier that afternoon. Summer eventually gave way to autumn, and then winter, and Mark finally got his storms, but not on that day.