David Larson - The Myth of the Anal Probe

The little earthling that lived inside Mike’s head knew the insincerity of quite a lot that was coming out of Mike’s mouth. He knew that he already was trying to conceive ways of manipulating this situation so he could stay here forever. He also knew that the very things he was thinking were wrong on so many levels it could have been its own Escher drawing. But his Earth conscience was already justifying the need for subterfuge. He didn’t want to go back to that big blue nut house near the sun… ever. He liked it here and knew that he would like it here for the rest of his life.

Serilda raised one eyebrow, “The plan is to start easing you into society in the next few days Mike. We understand that to sell it you must live it. Of course, we’ll have to have you accompanied at all times when you’re in public, and the first hint we get that you’re trying to get over on the people, or manipulate things, or lose your temper all bets are off and you get a one way ticket straight back home.”

“Of course,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Bob said, “don’t make us turn this car around sonny.”

“I’m certain that you have more questions than you can even begin to ask right now,” Serilda said. “But you can’t learn and entire new alien life style just by sitting here and talking to me. I have some ideas for people that I will put in contact with you and we’ll get his party started.”

Serilda stood indicating that the visit was over. Mike and Bob stood as well, and Mike extended his hand toward Serilda.

“It’s a real pleasure,” Mike said congenially.

Serilda just looked at his hand. “We have nothing that equates to that custom here,” she said. “We never had to prove we weren’t trying to kill each other. You should probably not do that anymore.”

She smiled and directed them out through the office.

Mike pulled down his extended hand and wiped it on his pants unconsciously.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No need for an apology,” Serilda said as she smiled. “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. I think that was the Chinese Philosopher Laozi. I understand he asked to come back here as well.”

Bob and Mike were standing inside another white, cornerless, edgeless, room with a silver spike in the middle of it.

“How do you like your new digs?” Bob asked.

“They seem to be a little spartan but I’m getting used to that,” Mike answered.

“You mean a three-foot-tall guy with a spear and helmet?” Bob said.

“What?” Mike asked.

“Never mind,” Bob said as he moved toward the door. “You make yourself comfortable here and I’ll be back in a few hours to take you out to dinner. I think you’re going to like it. While you’re at it, if you want music just think it, and it plays through your ceiling, same thing with the TV.”

“My TV plays through the ceiling?” Mike asked. “Why would it do that?”

Bob just looked at him for a few minutes. “No, numb nuts. The screen is just like the ones on the transporters. You can’t see it till it comes on.”

“Where is it in the room? Mike asked turning around a few times. “I don’t see anything.”

“Man, I just said you can’t see it when it’s off. Think it on and you can’t miss it. It will be the window looking thing with moving pictures on it. Don’t freak out, people talk to you on it too.”

Bob turned to walk out the door. “Peace out earthman. See you in a few parsecs.”

Mike could hear Bob laughing to himself as he walked away, “Parsecs… oh man… I kill myself.”

Bob cocked his head and looked at the ceiling. Lindsey Buckingham started the snapping dual note lead-in to Rhiannon as John McVie backed him up. Mick Fleetwood rolled in the cymbal and Stevie Nicks started that low smokie moan she was famous for, like smooth Kentucky bourbon flowing sweetly over gravel. Mike’s head began to bounce in time with Fleetwood’s beat.

He sank into an overstuffed, well-worn chair that was conveniently right where his butt dropped. Mike looked directly across from him and a floor to ceiling copy of Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy appeared on the wall. Instantly the floor was covered with a beautiful Brazilian Cherry Hardwood that was in turn covered with an exquisite Turkish silk rug. The pattern was red on gold, elephants carried British hunters in pith helmets as they kept a warry eye out for tigers around the periphery of the rug. As soon as Mike thought how cool it would be, the elephants began to actually move around the edge of the rug.

Mike smiled. “Of course,” he said to himself.

The central statue of the arm in the center of the holocaust memorial in Miami erected itself in the center of the room covering the spike. A beautiful vine began to crawl around the walls next to The Blue Boy, then they continued to spread around the rest of the room. The Blue Boy was replaced with a ballerina by Leonid Afremov.

“That’s better,” Mike said out loud.

Above him Stevie drifted into passive silence and an acoustic guitar soulfully pinged into existence. The bass line rolled in soft, low, and sexy. Then Dobie Gray’s voice blended with the rhythmic beating of a metronome.

Day after day I’m more confused, yet I look for the light through the pouring rain…”

“ Not me Dobie,” Mike thought to himself “not any more. The light is right here, buddy. I just need to hold on to it.”

Mike snapped his eyes open. The room that he had been decorating slowly firmed itself into existence. The TV was on and a picture of Jerry Garcia was sticking his tongue out at Mike.

“Open the Damn door,” Bob said to Mike.

Mike thought about it and the door swooshed opened.

“OK ramblers, let’s get rambling,” Bob said.

“How much time did you spend watching movies when you were supposed to be working on Earth?” Mike asked.

“A lot,” Bob said, “get it?”

Mike shrugged.

“Wow,” Bob said, “how many dicks is that?”

Bob raised his eye brows waiting for Mike to answer.

“A Lot,” Bob said, then he paused for recognition. “Nothing? OK, let’s make like a tree and hit the road.”

“Where are we going?” Mike asked.

“Dinner dopey,” Bob said “Man you got a memory as long as your… Never mind. Let’s make like a sheep herder and leave.”

Mike and Bob walked out of the room into the fading light of the absolutely most beautiful evening Mike had ever seen. The sun was surrendering the approach of night by swimming in a flaming lightshow that took Mike’s breath away. Stars were beginning to explore the possibility of dazzling the night sky on the opposite horizon. The red moon was gone, and the ringed moon was barely visible as it acquiesced to the approaching darkness just above the ring of infinity that was the horizon. Another moon was rising next to it. This one was the deepest of deep black. It looked like a hole in space that was threatening to suck everything out of existence. Surrounding the outer edge of the circle of that moon was a flaming ring of silver that diffused into a soft shimmering glow.

Mike’s soul ached.

“Right this way,” Bob said, breaking Mikes’ reverie.

The two walked in silence down a beautiful garden path that was backlit by an unseen row of soft, ground-level lights. A small stream danced, and gurgled a laughing, playful sound as it rolled its way past them. On the other bank of the stream were two glowing rabbits quietly eating leaves. They had antlers.

“Jackalopes,” Mike said absently “Radioactive jackalopes.”

“What was that buddy?” Bob asked.

Mike just drifted down the path in stunned silence and said nothing.