Explain that to a Martian 2
Copyright Gary Weston 2012
Smashwords Edition
Explain that to a Martian 2
I have a cat. No, not really. My girlfriend has a cat; it just lets me, mortgage payer, share my place with them. Isn't that sweet of it? We'll come back to that later. The sound I just heard runs through my badly damaged brain and a strange tingling sensation permeates my body through a blood alcohol level beyond anything medical science has yet been able to register on a human still living,. The rest of me isn't feeling too flash, either.
It's a hissing sound. Not unfamiliar, but, here in my bedroom with a girlfriend of a few weeks, making me wonder, is that her snoring?
Nothing snores like that. Not even a pro-wrestler, after smashing his or her opponent into the canvas, smothering his or her face with his or her steroid infused crotch, and smacking them over the head with their elbows for good measure, could come close enough to expelling such noise and such unpleasant breath that I could smell right then.
Not my girlfriend, then. I opened the other eye and immediately wished I hadn't. Because my eyes saw other eyes. Four of them to be precise. Not two heads with two eyes each you understand, but one, (and I use this word loosely), head with four independently moving eyes, kinda like golf-balls somebody had doodled a sickly yellow green iris on with indelible ink. Each eye was on a stalk, that allowed the owner to look in completely different directions at once. I was about to scream the roof off, but instead, I said, 'Hi, Joe.'
“Joe” beckoned me to the open bedroom door and I slipped out of bed, and meekly followed the bizarre creature into the lounge. On my settee sat three more identical creatures. Identical in every respect but size. One was roughly the same size as Joe, and next to that were two miniature carbon copies. They were all staring at me, standing naked before them. You have to picture that. Not me naked, obviously, but twelve eyes on stalks that waved about like flowers from some garden in Hades.
Right. I should have been scared, you think? Oddly, I wasn't. Nauseous from both my effort to break the world alcohol consumption record, and achieving a personal best, but also the disconcerting spectacle (imagine that lot in spectacles!) of all those eyes pointing in my direction.
Joe smacked a device on his tentacle. 'Thisssss Issss Gotta Pee,' he said with a delicate sweeping flourish of his other tentacle in my direction.
The three on the settee each sported a similar device and as one they smacked theirs and in unison said, 'Hellooooo, Gotta Peeeeeee.'
'Hi. And you're right. I gotta pee. Be right back.'
I went to the bathroom, and wondered if it was a good sign that my urine was such a dark yellow, suggesting my liver, God bless it, was still able to expel the toxins I so liberally consumed, making a mental note to google that question one day. But then again they say, ignorance can be blissful. After habitually washing my hands, I returned to the lounge and got another shock. All four visitors were now on the settee, plus Monster. The cat hadn't earned that name without a fight. He fights anything that breathes. Other cats, dogs foolish enough to get close enough irrespective of size, but it would be fair to say, his number one sparring partner is me. I have the scars to prove it. I hate that cat with a vengeance, almost as much as it hates me. I have often plotted Monster's demise, in ways so terrible but oh so enjoyable; the action being postponed only because I have to yet think how I can do it without Pamela, she's my girlfriend, by the way, discovering that I was the perpetrator of the deed. One day...
And yet. There he sat, purring like the good natured domestic feline he isn't, being stroked by one of the smaller creatures.
'Gotta Pee...' said Joe.
'I just did. Oh. Right. You think that's my name. Why is this all so familiar?'
And then it hit me. It also hit me why it hit me. It was because Joe let it. I remembered everything. Joe had come alone the first time. He had scared the crap out of me by suddenly appearing in my lounge. This was in the pre Pamela and Monster era. I had been on my way to the bathroom when I first saw him. We got quite chummy, in the end. I distinctly recall making us fish finger sandwiches and drinking bourbon with him.
'Hey. I gotta bone to pick with you, Joe,' I said, wrapping myself in the blanket draped over the back of the armchair. 'You stole the last of my booze.'
My words were translated through the gadgets on their tentacles. Joe started hissing. It was the nearest he could manage to a laugh.
'Sorryyyyy.'
'Yeah, I bet you are. Oh, what the hell. Fancy a drink?'
'Thought you would neverrrrr assssk.'
'What about ….?' I waved at the others.
'Not for the kids. Just water for the kids.'
'Kids?' I suddenly got it. 'You've brought the family along. You must be Joe's partner.'
'Yessss. Thessse are our babies.'
Joe tried to tell me their names. I won't even bother trying to write that down. I doubt if there are enough letters on the keyboard, anyway.
'Okay. We got Joe, Sally, number three and number four.'
'Okay, Gotta Pee,' said Sally.
'And thisss one,' said Joe.
I hadn't noticed it before, but between the side of Sally and the arm of the settee was an egg. It was about the size of an ostrich egg. It looked like a huge pearl. I recalled Joe telling me how they procreated by secreting stuff together and that somehow made the eggs from which their young hatched.
'Oh. Right. A nipper on the way. Well, we have to celebrate.'
With the blanket now covering up the bare essentials, I went to the drinks cabinet and poured three measures of bourbon. I put mine on the little table by the side of my chair and handed the others to Sally and Joe. I knew it was coming, that wet sandpaper touch of their skin as they took the glasses off me in the tips of their tentacles, but I still shuddered. I went to the kitchen and got two beakers of water for the...kids.
Picking up my drink, I said, 'Here's to you, Sally, Joe and the kids. May all your problems be little ones.'
I shouldn't have watched, but I did anyway. Just below the two vertical sits I have always assumed were their noses, is one horizontal slit, I know is the mouth. From each horizontal slit, a blue tube appeared, ringed with tiny suckers. The suckers inspected the liquids and then the tube sucked it all up. Joe had drunk some before, so he knew what to expect. Sally, however, was a virgin bourbon drinker, and her reaction was that all her eyes were standing ramrod straight pointing at the ceiling. I was a little concerned, until I heard Joe laugh. I was relieved to see Sally's eyes droop a little. They all looked at me.
'You have woman.' Sally said.
Joe had obviously told her about my solitary existence previously.
'Yes. Pamela.'
'You having babies with Pamela?' Sally asked.
I shrugged. 'We've only just met. She puts up with me, so that's encouraging.'
Sally stroked Monster, who purred with his eyes closed. 'Woman has a nice pussy.'
'I always thought so. Mind you, she has a cat as well.' Earth humour is often lost in translation.
Number three whispered something to Sally.
'They need to excrete,' Sally said.
I knew what that meant. It was no use offering them the use of the bathroom facilities. For reasons best only known to Martians, they have to do it outside.
'This way,' I said, taking them to the back door and unlocking it for them. It was still pitch black outside, for which I was grateful. Sally took the kids into the garden, and I left the door slightly open for them to get back in. My curiosity was not sufficiently aroused to peek. I went back to Joe.
'Nice family, Joe. Kids very nice and quiet.'
'Humm. Try say that after trip from Mars, them in back yelling are we there yet all way.'
'Is this just a social visit, Joe?'
'Long weekend. Partner wanted meet Gotta Pee in person.'
Now, think about that throw-away remark for a moment. If we ever got our crap together and send people to Mars, it would take months. Joe and his family could do it in a long weekend, here and back. A thought occurred to me.
'Joe. We have sent probes to your planet. How come we never see you and your people?'
At this point, he would have shrugged. You have to understand, Martians have no shoulders. They are rather shapeless lumps, not unlike those pictures of Humpty Dumpty we saw when we were kids. No necks, hands, toes or body hair. Just their eyes and tentacles, two for arms, two for legs; at the ends of those legs were large lumps on which they stood and walked about on. The tips of the arm tentacles are so flexible, they can do anything with them. I imagine they would make fantastic two fingered typists. I digress.
'We not let you see us.'
Joe did it again. Such a simple sentence, but boy...
'You don't let us see you?'
'We have special area for probes. We watch them. Up down, up down.' He started to laugh again, his eyes rolling around on the top of his head like ugly yellow poppies in a breeze.
Damn! Our robots were in a specially made theme park. I could just hear Joe saying to Sally and the kids, 'Hey. How about a trip to robot park?' And the kids would yell, 'Yeah!' and Sally would say, 'I'll make sandwiches. We're not paying their prices.' And off they would go, sitting on the floor, eating sandwiches and watching our robots go, up down, up down. Sally brought the kids back in and they sat down. Joe said something. Sally started laughing.
'Up down, up down.'
The kids started giggling, 'Up down, up down.'
'You writer still?' Joe asked.
'Assuming I ever was one. Yeah. I got an ebook out on Smashwords.'
'I read it. Very funny.'
'Damn! You read my book?'
'Internet. Gave you four stars. Very funny.'
'That was you?'
'You world famous on Mars.'
They've been studying us for years. Me in particular. That's not paranoia. Joe told me on his previous visit. Apparently, they think I'm hilarious. People here, just think I'm peculiar. I have peculiar visions of a classroom full of Martians, a teacher out front, saying. 'Now. Who can recite the English alphabet?'
A bloke would get home after a hard day at robot park, tired from constantly moving the rocks about to make it look like a continuously changing landscape, turn on the television, put his lumps up on a lump-stool, and laugh hysterically at me doing stuff. Nice to feel appreciated, I guess.
'You have sex?' Sally asked.
Martians have a habit of smacking you with questions like that. It's just curiosity. You sort of get used to it. I looked at the little ones, me not entirely comfortable with talking about things like that in front of kids. I needn't have worried. Their eyes were closed and hanging limply at the sides of their heads. As ugly as they were, they still looked kinda cute.
'Yes,' I whispered, not wanting to wake them up. 'Quite a lot, actually. Making up for lost time.'
I hoped they drew the line at watching me copulate. Thankfully, they changed the topic of conversation. Joe said something to Sally. Sally who would have shrugged if she could, replied something, and Joe looked at me and asked, 'Fish finger sandwiches?'
'Oh, right. I think I have some. Come in to the kitchen.'
Carefully getting up so as not to wake the kids, Sally and Joe gently covered the egg with a couple of cushions to keep it warm and then they followed me.
'Clean,' said Joe. 'Not crap.'
'You noticed. Pamela got busy training me. She says I'm almost civilised now.'
'Good job.'
I opened the clean freezer compartment confident there was nothing embarrassing in there. The art of the successful fish-finger sandwich is a complex thing. If it were an Olympic event, I would be a gold medallist. Statues of me would be erected in my honour, probably holding one of my special culinary masterpieces. As brilliant as I undoubtedly am at this specialist dish, I never usually have an appreciative audience watching me perform. Eight eyes were so close, I almost brushed against them.
'Okay, Sally. Pay attention. This is important stuff. The perfect fish finger sandwich requires precisely the right amount of things. The exact number of fingers per ratio of sandwich is critical. You need just enough to cover all the bread, without poking out the side. In this case, four is perfect. I hope you're remembering this.'
'Four,' Sally said.
'Right. Now. The bread. Never have anything fancy. None of that rubbish with seeds and stuff in it. Just good, crusty white bread only.'
'White bread,' said Joe.
'White bread,' repeated Sally.
'Now. Never clean out the frying pan of whatever was in there before. That gives each fish finger sandwich occasion its own unique special flavour.'
I knew the pan had had a stir-fry in it last time it was used. I added a little extra oil and lit the gas. When it was hot enough, I placed twelve fingers in the pan.
'Butter. Not some other spread. Copious amounts. Now, watch carefully. Spread the butter evenly right to the edges. Sally. Fancy a go?'
The Martian picked up the butter knife in the tentacle and made a pretty decent job of buttering the six slices. Meanwhile, I turned the fingers over. When cooked, I laid them out on the bread.
'Right. Never make this exotic dish without this. It is called brown sauce.'
'Brown sauce.'
'But it has to be this one. Do not substitute. Not too much or too little. See? Perfect.'
We now each had a sandwich to eat. We sat at the table. The Martians were watching me. I picked up the sandwich, the aroma making my stomach rumble. I took a bite, savouring the mouthful.
'Boy, that's good.'
A word of warning, here. Think very carefully the next time you get a dinner invitation from a Martian. Don't get me wrong. Lovely people, if a little over inquisitive, but the way they eat is something else. Having seen this before, I was prepared, I thought, and their blue feeding tubes came out, the little suckers on the end delicately probed and tested the meal. Then, the end of the tube opened to the size I could have thrown Monster into, (Hmm...?) and the sandwiches were gone in one bite. I wiped the brown sauce off my chin.
'Crap,' said Joe.
Not his opinion on my cooking ability. My food has this effect on him. No sooner it goes in, it has a need to come right back out again. Never having seen a Martian vomit, I wasn't going to take the chance of that happening at my kitchen table, especially as I was in the direct line of fire.
'Go for it,' I said, quickly opening the back door for him. 'How about you?' I asked Sally. 'You know, the family that craps together, stays to....'
'I okay.'
Knowing Joe would be a good twenty minutes, with or without a newspaper to read, I invited Sally back to the lounge. Her kids were wrapped up in each others tentacles, still flat out. Monster was curled up asleep with them. I was kinda disappointed the kids hadn't eaten the vile animal while we were in the kitchen. Sally lifted the cushions and gently touched the egg, presumably to check its temperature. She seemed happy with it and covered it back up, sitting between it and her kids. One eye of one kid opened sleepily, looked at Sally, then at me, closed and flopped down again.
I decided to wait for Joe to return before getting us another drink. I looked at Sally, and I was sure both of us were trying to think of something to say. I know I called her Sally, but she isn't female. Neither is Joe male. They are the same. They pair up, secrete their fluids that combines to make an egg, and whatever comes out they nurture together. But I had to call it something, so Sally it was. It fitted in with my idea of a stereotypical happy family, of one male, one female and two point five children.
'So. You and Joe. How long have you been together?'
'Three hundred and ninety two Earth years.'
That was such a huge figure, I just had to ask. 'How old are you, Sally?'
'Four hundred and sixty eight Earth years,' she said.
'Wow. Heck. Still just a spring chicken,' I said, thought about the egg and regretted it immediately. 'I meant you don't look a day over four hundred.'
A strangely girly giggling sound came out of the translator. Joe came back, looked at his kids sprawled out all over the settee and sat in the spare armchair.
'Fancy another drink, Joe?'
I almost expected him to say, 'No thanks, I'm driving,' but instead he said, 'Pleeeeeasssse.'
'Sally?'
'Jussssst a sssmalll one.'
The translator sometimes lisped.
'Coming right up.'
I got another three drinks and handed them out, getting back in my chair. Both Joe and I watched Sally as her blue feeding tube circled the rim of the glass. In it went, up went the booze. Eyes shot up as if somebody had Botoxed them. Joe looked at me and chuckled. As usual, he knocked his drink back in one hit. They've got no respect for good bourbon, Martians. I drink a lot of it, but at least I savour the moment.
'You don't want to meet Pamela?' I asked.
'Maybe another time,' said Sally.
'You're probably right. Out of interest, how many kids do you have?'
'Two and a bit,' said Joe, with a wave of his tentacle.
'Seriously? You've been married for centuries and you just got started?'
'We got more than you,' he replied.
'Yeah, well. No rush, eh?'
There came a strange ticking sound from somewhere. I couldn't quite place it, but Sally and Joe could. It came from the egg. Tick ticker ticker tick. Tick ticker ticker tick. Tick ticker ticker tick. The Martians started panicking. They were speaking so fast the translators couldn't keep up, Monster woke up, didn't look happy about it, which woke up the kids. Monster fled out of the room, in the direction of the bedroom.
'What the hell is going on, here?' I asked, scared to hear the reply.
'Baby coming. Baby coming early,' said Sally.
It was pandemonium. The kids woke up and started ...hell, I don't know. Crying? Play Leonard Cohen backwards, (or frontwards for that matter,) and it sounded something like that. (sorry, Len. Please don't sue me. I think you are great.) My Martian friends were running about on their spindly legs, babies were crying and their bloody egg was hatching, right there on my settee. Explain that to an insurance company!!!
'What the hell do we do?' I demanded, getting caught up in the hysteria.
'Boiling water. Boiling water,' yelled Joe.
'What! We are going to boil the egg?'
'Go. Water,' said Sally.
'Right. Gotya. Boiling water.'
I ran to the kitchen and filled the kettle. What the hell was going on? A Martian egg was hatching in my lounge. I wasn't over the moon about it, to be honest. These jokers live longer than Methuselah, and they pick the exact moment their damn egg is about to hatch to pay me a visit? I call that damn inconsiderate, if you don't mind me saying so. The kettle boiled. I grabbed a clean bowl and towels and raced back to the lounge. Either I was a little bit too late, or they got me out of the way during their special moment.
Boy, it was ugly! It was lying in the broken shell it had smashed its way out of. There was quite a bit of mess on my settee, as you can imagine. But all the Martians were staring at the new arrival as if a miracle had happened. Had happened? Here. Right here in my bloody lounge, a miracle had most definitely happened. A Martian, the first, as far as I know, had been born on Earth. On Earth, in my lounge, on my settee.
It was pink. Don't ask what shade; I wouldn't have a clue. Some sort of pink. I guess the ghastly yellow green colour doesn't kick in until later. Sally picked it up. She sat on the settee, carefully avoiding the puddle of mess, and...
Have you ever seen a woman breastfeed? Well, neither have I. I could swear there were no nipples on Sally before this moment. But out one popped. She picked up the baby, and on it latched. It was a piece of magic in the making. I grabbed my phone and took a picture.
'Gotta go, Gotta Pee,' said Joe.
'Yeah. I know. Our air stinks.'
'Been nice to seeing you.'
'Likewise.'
They were about to vanish. To be honest, I was exhausted and quite relieved.
'Gotta Pee?'
'Yes?'
'Can we name baby after you?'
'What? You want to name your baby Gotta Pee?'
'Be great honour for us. You world famous on Mars.'
'Okay, sure.'
There was much waving of tentacles, and the Martian family, with little Gotta Pee firmly latched onto Sally's teat, simply vanished.
'Hey. Are you okay?'
'Hmm?' I must have dosed off. 'Pamela. Sorry.'
'What is that smell in the kitchen?'
'Hmm? Smell? I must have been peckish.'
Monster came to me and jumped on my lap. The damn cat let me stroke him. Go figure.
'What's that smell?' She looked at the settee. 'And who did this?'
'I think Monster threw up somebody he'd eaten earlier.' It was the best I could do.
'Come on, you. It's three in the morning.'
'It always is,' I said, not really knowing why. I picked up Monster, happy and content in my arms. Lovely cat. Can't think why we call him Monster. We went to bed and slept like logs, Monster fast asleep on top of me. Next morning, I noticed two things were missing. Work this one out. My booze had vanished and even stranger, the brown sauce had gone. Something had happened last night, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. It was a few days later I checked my phone. There was this picture on it, one I don't remember taking. And I had this weird feeling, that somewhere on Mars is an ugly kid named Gotta Pee.