The starship Glass was in an unusual state of fervor.
“Hey Draxor!” yelled Argon from the back. “How long ago was it when this guy got DSL?”
“I’d say about three months from when we got here,” Draxor said. “Hey, you’re not that far back in the logs, are you?” Draxor was watching Ringworm combat the earthling law enforcement on the big screen. Ringworm rammed one of the cop cars so hard it almost flipped over.
“Um, ‘course not,” Argon yelled back. “How fast are they moving?”
“The yellow agent is carrying the subject at a pretty fast pace towards the procurement point,” Draxor said. “But the orange agent is having his way with some earthling soldiers. They’ll have to wait up for him.”
“Great,” Argon yelled. “I’ve got probably two hours to make up an entire year of earthling activity.”
“You only have that much left?” Draxor asked. “You’ve got plenty of time. Come up here and watch this guy take out these earthlings.”
A policeman had crawled out of the first, crumpled car and was trying to run away. Ringworm saw him, with whatever vision those types of aliens have, and bore down on him.
“Okay, I’m coming up,” Argon announced as he did just that. He came just in time to see the policeman get plastered onto the asphalt.
“Owned!” yelled Draxor, pumping his fist in the air. Argon gave him a high-five.
“Who is this guy anyway?” asked Argon.
“Name’s Ringworm, I think.”
“Hey, the earthlings named a bacteria after him,” said Argon.
“Just wait until you hear the other one’s name,” Draxor said, grinning.
“What?” Argon said, watching Ringo finally manage to flip the second car over onto its top.
“Canada.”
“What’s so great about that?” Argon asked. “I have like three friends named Canada.”
“The earthlings have an entire country named after your friends,” Draxor said as he watched Ringo give the cop cars a couple final barrages of furniture brawn.
“Earth is so weird,” Argon said. “Naming things Canada and Ringworm. What are the chances of that?”
“Yeah,” Draxor said, “but you better get back there and work some more on those logs. It looks like old Ringworm’s done with these guys.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Argon conceded. “Did you ever finish downloading that Green Day CD, by the way?”
“Go.”
“Okay, okay.” Argon trudged back to the supply room, where he’d been furiously typing a fake log of Alvin’s doings.
Draxor observed Ringworm float away from the crumpled cop cars, then switched off the screen. He expected to see the starry expanse of space, but all he got was blackness.
“Stupid screen,” Draxor muttered. “I’ll have Argon fix that when he finishes the log.” But then Draxor noticed a few specks of light in the bottom-left corner of the screen. And then a few more became visible. It took him a few seconds, but Draxor realized the screen was working fine; there was just something big and black moving across it.
“Hey Argon!” he yelled. “There’s a big black ship blocking our screen!”
Draxor searched his extensive knowledge of alien races (this included his species, the earthlings, and the dreaded golgarthans) and came to a swift conclusion: this black ship belonged to the dreaded golgarthans!
The dreaded golgarthans were unique to the rest of the universe in two ways. First, they were always, and completely black. Totally absent of color. A golgarthan resembled the outline of a regular humanoid, but they looked like some sort of walking abyss of darkness. For some reason, they could not create any clothing that would stay its color when worn by a golgarthan. Golgarthan architects simply could not build or design anything that wasn’t completely black. Color, apparently, was just not one of their things. But except among the more fashion-sensible races of the galaxy, this was not why they were so dreaded.
The second way the golgarthans were so unique to the rest of the universe was their inability to comprehend deceit. (They are the only race that has never had politicians or lawyers.) It was really quite impossible to barter with a golgarthan, and simply frustrating to attempt a game of cards with one. Conversely, golgarthans are incredibly, and brutally honest. And this is not the earthling form of brutal honesty. This isn’t brutal as in “I slept with another woman this morning, honey.” This is brutal as in “I slept with another woman this morning, honey, and it’s the same woman I’ve made love to for the past six months while wondering if our own relationship could last. Plus, you have fatty thighs, I married you for your father’s money, and I loathe your Tuesday special casserole.” This is why they are the dreaded golgarthans. Fatty-thighed women would do their best to avoid them, as well as those who tend to leave the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoe.
So when Draxor realized that there was a golgarthan starship floating past the Glass, he checked his reflection in the console for warts, moles, scars, or anything else embarrassing that a brutally honest person might discuss rather openly.
“Argon!” Draxor yelled, after his check-up. “There’s a golgarthan ship out here!” Argon realized that there was a conspicuous lack of noise emanating from the back of the ship. He grew very still for a moment, and then began to hear the noise of someone tapping at a keyboard. Draxor grabbed the heaviest object he could find (Argon’s laser-powered fingernail clippers he’d left by the console the other day; admittedly not very heavy at all) and stormed into the supply room.
The automatic door opened to reveal a dark figure hunched over the computer console. The figure spun around and stood up, pointing an equally dark object at Argon.
“Don’t move!” the golgarthan commanded. Draxor froze mid-step. “I have a laser gun in my hand. And while it is actually out of ammunition, I’m banking on the fact that its mere presence will intimidate you into following my commands.” Draxor was completely disarmed by the golgarthan’s honesty.
“Where’s Argon?” he asked.
“Your companion is unconscious and locked in the closet over there,” the golgarthan said. “I’m downloading valuable information from your ship’s database. The transfer to my data tab is nearly complete, so if you don’t make any sudden movements I won’t attack you. In a moment or so I’ll leave, and you’ll be too preoccupied with things to call for someone to capture me.”
“Who do you work for?” Draxor asked, hoping for another honest answer.
“My superiors,” he answered. “By the way, those laser fingernail clippers are probably more dangerous than my laser gun right now, so I’d appreciate it if you dropped them.” Draxor did so. The golgarthan continued to point his unloaded gun at Draxor. Draxor thought this to be somewhat pointless, like pointing a fruit at someone. Soon enough, the embarrassing standstill ended when the computer console beeped. The golgarthan backed up to the computer and pressed a few buttons. Then he pulled his data tab out of the console and put it in what looked like would’ve been the golgarthan’s pocket.
“I’m leaving now,” the golgarthan announced. He slowly side-stepped over to the ladder against the left wall while still pointing his gun at Draxor. Draxor continued to not move. The golgarthan then climbed up the ladder to the Glass’ airlock, where he undoubtedly had his ship waiting. Once Draxor heard the airlock doors close and the ship fly off, he ran over to the closet and tried opening it. It was jammed shut.
“Hey Argon!” he yelled. “Brace yourself!”
“Mmmmf!” Argon responded.
Draxor searched the room for the nearest heavy object. This was, yet again, Argon’s laser fingernail clippers. Draxor picked them up and started trying to slowly cut through the door handle. After maybe four minutes of slow work and rapid cursing, Draxor managed to cut through and open the door. Argon was tied and gagged. Draxor untied him and removed the rag from his mouth.
“Why didn’t you tell me my uniform doesn’t match?” Argon demanded as soon as the rag was removed.
“What?” Draxor said, perplexed.
“The golgarthan said my clothes don’t match,” Argon announced, still miffed, but quickly beginning to realize how dumb he was sounding.
“I wear the same uniform you do,” Draxor said. “Anyway, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Argon said, “I’m fine. But check out what’s in this closet.”
Draxor peered into the supply closet they’d almost never opened over the course of two years. Inside were cases and cases of bottles.
“Maltezian firebrew!” Draxor exclaimed. “We’ll have to break some of this out in a minute. But first, we need to check the computer. The golgarthan said he was stealing some valuable information.”
“Yeah, I know,” Argon said. “He told me, too.” Draxor helped Argon up and they went over to the computer console. Argon tapped away at the keyboard for a minute, and then smacked his forehead.
“What?” Draxor asked.
“They stole the earthling logs!” Argon exclaimed. “Now I have to start all over!”
“Ugh,” Draxor said. “That really sucks for you. Hey, what’re those numbers in the corner of the screen?”
“What numbers?” Argon asked.
“Those ones flashing red over there,” Draxor said. “You know, the ones counting down.” Sure enough, there was a countdown in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, featuring flashing red numbers. Argon tapped a few more keys, then announced: “that’s probably a self-destruct sequence.”
“Oh,” Draxor said, a little concerned. “Do you think you could turn it off, maybe?”
“Um,” Argon said, typing furiously, “Someone would probably have to climb out onto the hull of the ship and manually disable it.”
“And by someone, you mean me?” Draxor asked.
“Sure,” Argon said. “I was going to do it, but feel free.”
“Well,” Draxor said, “I think I’m going to have a drink now.” Draxor opened up the closet door again and grabbed a maltezian firebrew.
“Now?” exclaimed Argon.
“Yeah, now,” Draxor said, grabbing another firebrew from the shelf. “You want to join me?”
“There’s only eight minutes until self-destruct,” Argon said.
“See?” Draxor said, “We’ve got plenty of time. We’ll have a drink, and I’ll suit up and head out there around the three-minute mark or so.” Argon shrugged and joined him.
* * * Meanwhile, Canada and Alvin had left the city completely (though not very inconspicuously). They’d gone into a forest and found a clearing that Canada had determined to be a safe pick-up point. Ringo still hadn’t caught up with them, so they had a brief waiting period.
“Canada,” said Alvin. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, earthling,” Canada said.
“Um, what’s so special about me?” asked Alvin. “I mean, you could have abducted anyone. I’m not any special. Why me?” Canada was silent for a moment.
“Well,” Canada began, “it all has to do with our problem. The universe is experiencing a very troubling change right now. And it all has to do with your internet.”
“The internet?” asked Alvin. “Really?”
“Yes,” Canada said, “the internet. The earthling internet, at least. You see, the rest of the universe has an internet, too. And a few years ago, we found a way to connect to your internet. It was just a curiosity at first, but soon we came to realize how exciting it was.”
“Our internet?” asked Alvin in disbelief. “It’s more exciting than a universal, alien internet?”
“Well,” Canada explained, “the rest of the universe is far more advanced than Earth, certainly. Your race is pretty much the dumbest one we’ve found. But the rest of the universe is much more work-oriented. We have focused on improving our planets and galaxies through scientific discovery, technological advancement, and diplomacy. We haven’t had time for movies and video games.”
“That’s sad,” Alvin said.
“That depends who you ask,” Canada said. “Anyway, after just a year or so of the Earth internet in our online web, races all over the galaxy began to be obsessed with your culture. Your movies, your games, your music, your sports, pretty much everything.” This was not sinking into Alvin’s skull very well.
“Um,” he said. He pinched himself again.
“Your internet has begun a sweeping change over the makeup of the entire universe,” Canada continued. “Work has declined. Beings are spending more time shooting earthling terrorists on their computers than building space ships or developing technology.”
“Wait,” Alvin interrupted, “the rest of the universe plays Counterstrike?”
“That’s actually one of my favorites,” Canada said. “But that’s just one of the things the “rest of the universe,” as you put it, does. Your earthling music is incredibly popular. While your movies are confusing sometimes, we’ve built movie theaters to show them, as there is such high demand for earthling excitement.”
“Don’t you guys make your own movies?” Alvin asked. This was absolutely insane.
“We didn’t know what a movie even was until we logged onto your internet,” Canada said. “The rest of the universe did not spend hardly any time with entertainment until a few years ago. Before Earth, we were a peaceful, hard-working, advancing universe. After Earth, we are a lazy, self-indulgent universe. That, earthling, is a problem.”
“How do I fit into this?” Alvin asked.
“Two years ago, we began a study of earthling culture,” Canada explained. “We deployed agents to several households across the planet. The galaxy’s best researchers orbited the planet in their spaceships, taking painstaking notes on every detail of the observed earthlings. But a year ago, the Intergalactic Council cut our funding in half, and we were forced to remove most of our agents and scientists. You are not the only earthling who we continued to monitor, but several of our other agents were given away or sold at garage sales.”
“So all your agents look like couches?” Alvin asked.
“Yes,” Canada said. “It is an amazing coincidence that your planet should construct comfort devices incredibly similar to the physical complexion of my race. We have not discovered the reason for this just yet. This coincidence does, however, make it incredibly convenient for us to monitor you.”
“Oh,” Alvin said. He was still having a hard time realizing that the thing he was discussing intergalactic relations with was the same thing he’d sat and farted on for the past two years.
“However,” Canada continued, “you were the only remaining earthling that we could maintain a full study on. Luckily, you were also one of the most internet-active subjects. I look forward to reading the scientists’ notes on your activities.”
Alvin was ready to go home now. He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of the entire universe analyzing a scientific report concerning what he did all day.
“Which reminds me,” Canada said, “I should contact the Glass so they know our coordinates and can pick us up.”
Alvin, curious, listened as several beeping noises emanated from Canada. The beeps repeated themselves with long pauses in-between until a voice came on and said, “Hello?”
“Is this Draxor?” Canada asked.
“Oh,” the voice said, “I’m sorry, we’re not here right now. Actually, chances are fairly good that we are here, but we’re too lazy to accept incoming transmissions. You can leave a message after the beep, and we’ll probably return your transmission after forgetting about it for a long time.” A long, resounding beep ensued.
“This is Canada,” Canada said, with an obvious edge of irritation to his voice. “The earthling and I are at coordinates X 6580, Y 2445, awaiting pickup. We are still waiting for Ringworm to catch up with us, but we would greatly appreciate it if you stopped watching your movie for a minute and let us know you’re coming. Thanks.” Alvin heard a short click ending the transmission.
“Okay, just two more questions,” Alvin said.
“Fine,” Canada said. “It sounds like we’ll have plenty of time.”
“The guys on the, uh, starship are watching movies?”
“Probably,” Canada said. “It is very hard to get a hold of them sometimes. They’ve admitted several times that they spend most of their time downloading and watching earthling movies.”
“Oh,” Alvin said. It was taking Alvin some time to adjust to the idea of aliens watching Lord of the Rings on their computers. It was taking Alvin some time to adjust to pretty much anything he was being told.
“Your other question?” asked Canada.
“Right,” Alvin said. “How did you just talk to that starship? I mean, how do you talk, period? How do you even speak English?” Alvin was just realizing that the two aliens who’d abducted him spoke perfect English, except for a little muffling.
“That is hard to explain,” Canada said. “Let’s take these questions one at a time. First of all, I’ve been technologically altered. Small sensory cameras were installed in me so I could better observe your habits. In addition, I’ve been equipped with a transmitter so I could receive and send information to the Glass.”
This all made sense to Alvin, in a ridiculous, unbelievable science-fiction movie-like way.
“For your second question,” Canada continued, “you might say my race speaks in a very different manner from yours. We’re, ah, a psychic race. I think that’s the word for it. We operate on a different dimension from you. Do you understand?”
“Um,” Alvin said, “yes. Sure.”
“In this dimension,” Canada said, disregarding Alvin’s tenuous response, “we have no physical means of mobility, communication, or nourishment. And so our race adapted. We learned how to accomplish these things via powers from another dimension. We can move ourselves using abilities we discovered in that dimension. We know, in this other dimension, how to communicate in such a way that others will understand us in their own language.”
“That’s convenient,” Alvin said. “I guess that explains how I can understand you. By the way, are all aliens pretty much like you?”
“Not at all,” Canada answered. “That’d be ridiculous.” Alvin was not of the opinion that a couch with psychic powers was in a good position to comment on anything ridiculous. “We’re basically the only race with psychic powers of any sort.”
Alvin was still finding this all to be terribly unbelievable. But talking couches do carry a kind of persuasive power concerning all things ridiculous. He heard a rustle of leaves behind him and turned around.
Ringworm had just caught up with them, bearing many a mark from his violent encounter with the police. His puke-colored stitch had dozens of rips in it from bullets, and there was a giant scald mark from where one of the police cars had lit on fire and burned him. Ringworm landed in the dirt with what can only be described as an exhausted demeanor.
“You look rough,” Canada commented. “What took so long?”
“Earthlings are weak,” Ringworm said, “but their vehicles are pretty thick. Sorry I didn’t contact you; they shot my transmitter with a bullet. The scientists will have to fix it, if they ever find it within themselves to show up. Why aren’t they here yet?”
“I’m really not certain,” Canada said. “I’m assuming they’re watching a movie.”
“Did you call them?” Ringworm asked.
“Yes, but I had to leave a message.”
“Great,” Ringworm exclaimed sarcastically. “With our luck, they’re probably just starting a Lord of the Rings marathon.”
“You know Lord of the Rings?” Alvin said, surprised.
“Of course I do,” Ringworm said. “Who doesn’t?”
