Occasionally a neighbor would come out of his house and scream "would you shut the act of sexual intercourse up???" Then several of the mercenaries would spray his lawn with bullets and jeer as he ran into the house.
I wondered why the Terran security forces didn't come. This morning I found out that their new policy is not to answer anymore calls from this street or, as the officer I spoke to from the payphone said, "we wouldn't have time to do a damn thing all day."
When the sun came up this morning the carnage was terrible. Poor dogs and cats lay all over the yard, cut down by the mercenaries during the night.
"Well," Bruce said as he gazed at the littered ground, "that should cut down on the barking, at least."
Friday, November 11, 2011
When Bruce and I emerged from our packing crate, I was walking a little bowlegged, but otherwise in good spirits. Our reunion had been, how shall I say it? Intense. But he was quickly distracted by the uniforms provided by the large-jawed woman for her defenders.
Remember the night we stayed in on the spaceship and watched the human service called Netflix, O Mighty and Grand Digging Instrument? That movie called 300?
I didn't mind it so much, but the tiny leather bikini looked a little ridiculous on someone of Bruce's frame. He wriggled into it while muttering obscenities. And when we met up with the other members of Oma's Home Guard they weren't that happy either. We stood in the dusty area in front of Base Camp Oma and tried to look as professional as a group of men and a three-foot alien can look while wearing very little covering their posteriors.
Strangely, the large-jawed woman looked satisfied as her eyes raked us up and down, then back up.
"I knew all those spare outfits were gonna come in handy some day! Pass out the shootin' irons."
Her assistant shuffled forward with a handful of old army pistols, BB guns and in my case, a water pistol.
"Sorry, dude," the assistant muttered as he handed it to, "we're outta the real shit."
"Not a problem," I said brightly. Then I aimed it at Bruce and began squirting him with it again and again until his entire torso was gleaming in the late November sun, with little drops of steam rising off his taut pecs and --- sorry. I digress.
Anyway, I drew treehouse duty. There were a couple of planks nailed across two branches in a place that allowed me to see anyone who might be approaching the perimeter fence. By this time, neighbors had begun to appear on their front lawns. I suppose it isn't every day that a house on their street is surrounded by burly men dressed in leather bikinis. Or maybe it is. I was visiting Minion Kyle in West Hollywood, and it happened there every day. Sorry. I digress.
Friday night wore on. Every ten minutes or so there would be a noise, and one of my fellow mercenaries would let loose a few quick rounds of ammunition, peppering the darkness. From my vantage point I could see into the house to where the large-jawed woman sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by what appeared to be dozen of Terran canines --- you know, the creatures you always say remind you of my cousin Erglin, O Blemish on the Celestial Chin of Theta. The assistant was sitting with her, and they were trying to talk while she typed on the computer. It didn't appear that she was getting anywhere fast, since after she had typed for a few minutes another human who looked like her would jerk the computer out of her hands and scamper to another part of the house to watch exciting film clips. Really exciting film clips. Then the large-jawed woman would stand up and roar "you bring that sumbitch back here, baby boy!" and he would scream back "Act of sexual intercourse you, momma!" and the assistant would knock his forehead on the table. It got so interesting that I forgot to watch for the approach of Mr. O'Connor's forces! Of course, even if they had come, the most I could do was get their kneecaps wet, given my height and the nature of my weapon.
Remember the night we stayed in on the spaceship and watched the human service called Netflix, O Mighty and Grand Digging Instrument? That movie called 300?
I didn't mind it so much, but the tiny leather bikini looked a little ridiculous on someone of Bruce's frame. He wriggled into it while muttering obscenities. And when we met up with the other members of Oma's Home Guard they weren't that happy either. We stood in the dusty area in front of Base Camp Oma and tried to look as professional as a group of men and a three-foot alien can look while wearing very little covering their posteriors.
Strangely, the large-jawed woman looked satisfied as her eyes raked us up and down, then back up.
"I knew all those spare outfits were gonna come in handy some day! Pass out the shootin' irons."
Her assistant shuffled forward with a handful of old army pistols, BB guns and in my case, a water pistol.
"Sorry, dude," the assistant muttered as he handed it to, "we're outta the real shit."
"Not a problem," I said brightly. Then I aimed it at Bruce and began squirting him with it again and again until his entire torso was gleaming in the late November sun, with little drops of steam rising off his taut pecs and --- sorry. I digress.
Anyway, I drew treehouse duty. There were a couple of planks nailed across two branches in a place that allowed me to see anyone who might be approaching the perimeter fence. By this time, neighbors had begun to appear on their front lawns. I suppose it isn't every day that a house on their street is surrounded by burly men dressed in leather bikinis. Or maybe it is. I was visiting Minion Kyle in West Hollywood, and it happened there every day. Sorry. I digress.
Friday night wore on. Every ten minutes or so there would be a noise, and one of my fellow mercenaries would let loose a few quick rounds of ammunition, peppering the darkness. From my vantage point I could see into the house to where the large-jawed woman sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by what appeared to be dozen of Terran canines --- you know, the creatures you always say remind you of my cousin Erglin, O Blemish on the Celestial Chin of Theta. The assistant was sitting with her, and they were trying to talk while she typed on the computer. It didn't appear that she was getting anywhere fast, since after she had typed for a few minutes another human who looked like her would jerk the computer out of her hands and scamper to another part of the house to watch exciting film clips. Really exciting film clips. Then the large-jawed woman would stand up and roar "you bring that sumbitch back here, baby boy!" and he would scream back "Act of sexual intercourse you, momma!" and the assistant would knock his forehead on the table. It got so interesting that I forgot to watch for the approach of Mr. O'Connor's forces! Of course, even if they had come, the most I could do was get their kneecaps wet, given my height and the nature of my weapon.
O Mighty Shovel!
It has worked, Your Decreptitude! I have been accepted as a mercenary at Base Camp Oma, as we are now calling it, for Operation: Desert Minimal Chance of Rain. I managed to mingle with a group of Hispanic humans waiting around outside of the local Home Depot when a rusty truck drove up with the large-jawed woman driving. The cab was filled with howling cats, frantically scratching at the windows to be set free. She ignored them, and motioned at three of us to get into the back of the truck. As per your instructions, O Wearer of the Sacred Jockey Shorts of Theta, I had procured a droopy mustache and sombrero as a disguise. The other Hispanics had looked curiously at me (you could hardly tell they were Hispanics at all, since they were wearing jeans and Tommy Hilfiger shirts. I felt pretty smug in my serape, let me tell you!), but I couldn't tell if this was because of my native dress or the fact that I am only three feet high, and the sombrero kept sliding down my face to rest on my shoulders.
Anyway, we reached the compound in Littlerock, and joined a crowd of other soldiers-for-hire that were milling in the front yard. The large-jawed woman climbed up on top of a crate (there were a lot of crates in the yard for some reason, as well as heaps of dog freeplow all over the place --- a lot of the other mercenaries kept stepping in it, and the smell was terrible!)
"Listen up, you retards!" the large-jawed woman bellowed. I had been distracted by the sight of her purple leggings and lime green top, but my attention was immediately front-and-center.
"There is going to be a major operation against this compound within the next thirty-six hours. I have received satellite intelligence reports from my supporters at NORAD that Patrick O'Connor's army will be moving against us at 0800 Sunday."
She pointed to some large wooden crates leaning against the far wall of the house.
"Those will be your barracks. Inside you will find your uniforms and weapons. Stand down, dress, and be back here in five minutes."
The throng of mercenaries dispersed. I tried to keep well in the background, but before I could get very far I was recognized! A burly man approached me, lifted the sombrero from my head and smiled down at me.
"Little guy, is that you? It's me! Bruce!"
My hearts sank, O Keeper of the Cojones of the Lords of Meeprap! It was my old friend the truck driver!
"Sure have missed your purty mouth, l'il feller. Come on, let's get away from the crazy bitch for a few seconds, 'cause you and I are gonna be bunkmates!
It has worked, Your Decreptitude! I have been accepted as a mercenary at Base Camp Oma, as we are now calling it, for Operation: Desert Minimal Chance of Rain. I managed to mingle with a group of Hispanic humans waiting around outside of the local Home Depot when a rusty truck drove up with the large-jawed woman driving. The cab was filled with howling cats, frantically scratching at the windows to be set free. She ignored them, and motioned at three of us to get into the back of the truck. As per your instructions, O Wearer of the Sacred Jockey Shorts of Theta, I had procured a droopy mustache and sombrero as a disguise. The other Hispanics had looked curiously at me (you could hardly tell they were Hispanics at all, since they were wearing jeans and Tommy Hilfiger shirts. I felt pretty smug in my serape, let me tell you!), but I couldn't tell if this was because of my native dress or the fact that I am only three feet high, and the sombrero kept sliding down my face to rest on my shoulders.
Anyway, we reached the compound in Littlerock, and joined a crowd of other soldiers-for-hire that were milling in the front yard. The large-jawed woman climbed up on top of a crate (there were a lot of crates in the yard for some reason, as well as heaps of dog freeplow all over the place --- a lot of the other mercenaries kept stepping in it, and the smell was terrible!)
"Listen up, you retards!" the large-jawed woman bellowed. I had been distracted by the sight of her purple leggings and lime green top, but my attention was immediately front-and-center.
"There is going to be a major operation against this compound within the next thirty-six hours. I have received satellite intelligence reports from my supporters at NORAD that Patrick O'Connor's army will be moving against us at 0800 Sunday."
She pointed to some large wooden crates leaning against the far wall of the house.
"Those will be your barracks. Inside you will find your uniforms and weapons. Stand down, dress, and be back here in five minutes."
The throng of mercenaries dispersed. I tried to keep well in the background, but before I could get very far I was recognized! A burly man approached me, lifted the sombrero from my head and smiled down at me.
"Little guy, is that you? It's me! Bruce!"
My hearts sank, O Keeper of the Cojones of the Lords of Meeprap! It was my old friend the truck driver!
"Sure have missed your purty mouth, l'il feller. Come on, let's get away from the crazy bitch for a few seconds, 'cause you and I are gonna be bunkmates!
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