Author: Jon Elkon

Sender: Agent 273536

27th of Glob year 222552

EVEN MORE TOP SECRET

Project: Ascertain whether the primitives of Planet called “Earth” by their human inhabitants may become a threat to the Empire any time soon.

All hail the Great Skong 0f the Aldeberanian Empire! And please give Absnxcz! my regards and tell it to reproduce, so that on my return I will have something nice to eat.

Day 7

I have found a fairly comfortable body to live in for a short time. I say a short time because it appears to be rotting quite a bit, as a result largely of the great quantities of a toxic liquid it imbibes. It also does not apparently have any set dwelling, so it gets dirty and smelly.   The initial design you gave me (the Werewolf, you will recall) has been shot so many times mainly by children, mentally unbalanced humans, and so on that it is far too well ventilated for the machinery to function effectively.

The body before my inhabitation

I URGENTLY ENTREAT YOU TO MANUFACTURE AND DESPATCH THE DESIGN I SUBMITTED IN MY PREVIOUS REPORT! This one does not have an extendible penis, neither do any of its two arms or two legs work well. I need that extra arm! It also has a number of bacteria and viruses dwelling in parts of it. I have made friends with many of these, but they inform me that they will shortly consume this entire Human, so perhaps I have made an error in assuming humans are the dominant specie. One thing is sure: this one is not going to last long, as it is rapidly biodegrading. I rely on you for a rapid replacement. I know these things take a while due to bureaucracy and Union disputes, but please expedite for my sake!

Incidentally, on the subject of the fuel used by this Human: it is fiercely inflammable as I discovered yesterday. Realising that the fuel was running out, I followed the easily identifiable smell of it to a building where there were several containers, and helped myself to one. On my removing the top to insert orally, a Human objected vociferously, asking for “money” and making threatening gestures. Naturally I used my Laser Supercannon  B13G to torch the bastard and to my surprise, the entire building erupted into flame. I attempted to apologise for this, but the fellow was far too crisp to respond.

I am very interested in this word “money” and have now done some extensive research. Here are my findings:

1: Money is composed of four different elements: paper, metal, plastic and invisible. This is extremely confusing for interplanetary visitors. It would seem that this inordinately illogical planet uses this substance as yet another fuel, along with the liquid described above, (they call the liquid by several different names according to the level of toxicity. For example, ‘alcool’ or ‘bier’ or ‘Misky’ etc. Research Required. For convenience I will refer to it as ‘Alcoohole’), in order to run and ruin their planet. ‘Money’ is however even more scarce and plentiful than Alcoohole.

2: There are several uses for Money in all its four forms. It is swapped for food quite often, for example, which is utterly confusing when Humans could so easily eat each other for free. Yet in the middle of this strange concatenation of buildings is a huge park, which is entirely wasted by being planted with inedible vegetation, when it could so easily be planted with food for everybody!)

Another use includes a way of acquiring a vast range of junk from the shiny establishments which range like tentacles (makes me feel so at home) all along wide alleys full of humans and transport methods. Fascinating! Some of this junk is right tintillating but most is utterly useless. For example, humans like to change their clothes all the time, which may be a method of making them look ugly enough to put others off eating them.

A strangely shaped Human is attracted by a ‘shop’ full of food which is made of junk.

The other stuff Money is used for, which I call tintillating, in another word, junk. The boxes purveying this stuff (called ‘Shoppez’) are entangling epiphanies of desperation. Their pathetic attempts to drag humans into their boxes we would find hilarious, but Humans seem to be utterly entranced. It is possible that they are attempting to use a similar technique we employ to trap sexual partners or to remove our legs and arms to keep them safe from each-other  – we call it magic. The main magic word they use is “SALE”. This seems to attract gullible humans into the maw of the store, unaware that the word is mere magic, and therefore, a lie. Once trapped inside they vie to shovel money at the predators-in charge in exchange for the junk. Amazing!

There are many variants of the ‘SALE’ word, all of them magic. For example, ‘two for one offer’, ‘Bargain’ etc.

As you will have noticed last night I  taught myself their language, which I can read and will soon be able to speak. This will eventually result in a far better understanding of this peculiar planet. Although I have to admit that right now, all I feel is confused and requiring more Alcoohole.

There is a word which now needs Further Research which sounds a bit like “Intervent” which has something complicated to do with money and the magic used to squeeze many money.

THEORY: Humans can be divided into PREDATORS and PREY, unlike our beloved home world where we are all predators. Much easier altogether. Further Research Required.

INTERIM CONCLUSION

It is perfectly obvious that if all Humans resembled the one I am in now there would not be a scintilla of threat to any species within a billion scrawgs of this pathetic planet. However, I have discovered several factors requiring Further Research which may lead to another conclusion.

Report Ends.

IF YOU HAVEN’T READ PART 1

\http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth/

TO Part 3!

http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth-part-3/

Another story in the Nasty Little Things collection.

Albert was the personification, the exemplification, the ultimate stereotype of the cranky old loner. His clothes expressed it, declared it, celebrated it. His face, his stubble, the curve of his back, the ground-out whisper of his voice – all of it told his history of disappointment and loss.

Albert had lived in his raised-ground floor in Turnpike Lane for thirty years and the contents made a point about each one of those years. This bought then, this found in a skip then, this given then and then and then, until the givers died or forgot. These kept in case they might be useful one day: tools, miscellaneous cutlery, pieces of wood, old bills, travel books, tattered copies of National Geographic, photographs in grubby frames containing grainy images of dead people.

Was Albert happy? Stupid question.

On the day he retired from his job with the Crannery Partnership (a legal firm for which he fulfilled the role of clerk) he said at his poorly attended retirement party “Thank you for the watch and for sentencing me to death. Retirement, dear colleagues, is a death sentence, no remission. I have hated working here and you are a bunch of wasters and sharks. See you on the other side.” Which was one way of ensuring no birthday cards from that lot.

It was a cheap gold-plated watch. They hadn’t even bothered to inscribe it, so he took it to the local jewelers on the High Street on his way home and had the message “To Albert with thanks and admiration for thirty years of service” engraved on the back.

Back at his flat Albert sat on the tattered grimy sofa surrounded by clutter in indecision. Now what. Everybody said when you retire you must have something to do. Really? Albert wasn’t interested in anything on the Something to do for Retirees list. University of the Third Age? The Green Party? Work in a charity shop? Visit museums? The National Trust? Go on a cruise? Really? None of it appealed.

Cup of tea. When in doubt, make tea.

From his window he looked down at the ragged garden below. It was attached to the basement flat, and never failed to depress and annoy him. None of the many tenants who had come and gone, come and gone had ever cared for the garden. Why, he wondered, as the kettle began its agonizing climb to a frantic boil, why would anyone rent a garden flat and not care for the garden?

Voices wafted up from the flat below. The new tenants. Two men in their twenties, both what he would have called “Duskies”, that is, of some dark-skinned origin that he was not interested in defining. In his ignorance Albert regarded all non-whites as being of the same ilk, and kept his distance.

He reached out to close the double-glazed kitchen window. He had no desire whatsoever to hear anything at all. He had no curiosity about these men; his main concern was to keep himself to himself.

But then, suddenly, they both emerged from the downstairs flat onto the patio area. Albert froze, realizing that closing the window would make a noise which would make them look up, and he had no desire for conversation. The kettle had reached its crescendo, and fulfilled its function once more. So Albert reached for his mug, a tea bag and poured the steaming liquid slowly into the cup.

And then there was another noise from downstairs which made his hand go very still.

It was a bark.

“Oh no!” he thought. “They’ve got a dog! They’ve got a bloody dog!” And thoughts tumbled around in his gnarled and bitter mind.

Oh no. A barking dog could disturb, intrude on sleep, annoy, shit all over the place. A bloody dog.

But then other thoughts.

Albert was not a Londoner. He had grown up in a small house in Guildford, Surrey, which he shared with his mother. She was a very dedicated shop-assistant, who had worked for Holland and Barrett in the town for many years. His father had died or disappeared or run away when he was two. Mother wouldn’t speak about him. In fact, she wouldn’t speak about much at all. She did all her motherly duties as conscientiously as she did her duties in the shop. He was well fed, sent to a local school, dressed well enough not to be picked on by classmates or picked out by teachers.

Then one day when he was twelve, mother brought a dog home. “He was tied up outside the shop,” she said, “abandoned. He’s only young. Do you want him?” She may have been telling the truth. Or she may have bought the creature, thinking, my lonely son needs a companion.

Albert had no experience with dogs, and no interest in them either.

Dog and boy stared at each-other, appraising.

The boy saw a young Springer Spaniel, ears cocked, head slightly to the side. Black and white, so very vulnerable, and in his eyes a desperate yearning loneliness.

The dog saw a pasty fat boy, dressed in his school clothes, the crumbs of  tea-cake lingering around his mouth, so very vulnerable, and in his eyes a desperate yearning loneliness.

The dog made the first move. He went up to Albert, continuing to look him straight in the eye, and gently prodded him with a paw.

“He wants to shake hands,” Mother said.

The boy was nonplussed. He extended a hand.

Then the dog went up on his hind legs and sniffed, evaluating. Albert froze. Then, very carefully with his tongue, he removed the tea-cake crumbs from the boy’s lower lip. It was a caring gesture.

Albert hadn’t experienced affection any time in his life up to now. Inside him, something broke. He felt as if at last, here was someone who understood him. Crying, he hugged the dog.

“What should we call him?” Mother asked.

“Mr Magoo,” the boy said, remembering the cartoon character who had made him so laugh.

The two became constant companions, only separated when Albert was at school. The dog always accompanied him to the gates; the first day or two, he was desperately sad when Albert would not let him in, and shooed him home, but came to realize that this was one place he could not go. Eventually he learned to go back home, as the wait outside was really far too long for a young dog full of energy, who really needed to spend a lot of time chasing things and exploring. He did, strangely, seem to know when school finished for the day. He was always there, alert, full of expectation and delight.

Outside of school hours boy and dog walked miles; explored rivers; argued over balls or quite large branches of trees, which Magoo enjoyed carrying and worrying, for hour after hour. Albert had no need of friends, and other students had no need of him.

For five years boy and dog were the perfect pair. Until the day Magoo wasn’t waiting for him outside the school gates.

Albert running through the streets, searching. Albert in rising panic. Fear, for the first time in his life.

And horror and inconsolable grief when the corpse of his friend was deposited on the doorstep by an anonymous person that evening, who no doubt had seen the address on the tab on Magoo’s collar, brought the body, rang the bell, ran away.

Probably the driver whose wheels had crushed the life out of Mr Magoo.

Albert looked out of the window when he heard the men go inside, leaving the dog tied up in the garden. A Springer Spaniel, black and white.

Leaning out of the window as far as he could safely lean, Albert stared at the dog which, when he heard sounds from above, looked up and stared back at him.

Silently, four eyes locked.

The dog cocked his head, ears raised. He sniffed the air.

Albert felt tears in his eyes, on his cheeks. “Magoo?” He whispered.

The dog gave a whispered whine.

Obsessions came easily to Albert. A belief once held took root and the roots became entangled and entwined. And this obsession certainly seemed to be mutual. Albert would find tearing himself away from the window a virtual impossibility, made essential however when his human neighbours came out into the garden. When that happened, Albert would shrink into the kitchen, a shadow amongst the dust grime and dirt, with his ears cocked for every word or sound.

All that evening he was to and fro from that window like a ghost possessed by a ghost. Whenever the dog’s owners were about, Albert withdrew. And then, when they went in his head would instantly pop out of the window.

It was a relatively warm evening and the two men were enjoying it. From their conversation Albert realised that they were planning on doing something with the garden. This would have pleased him – it would be good to have a pleasant view, growing things, a bit of green. But Albert’s mind had been thrown into disorder. As if someone with a big stick had reached into his brain and stirred it about. The word “Magoo” was the stick. Swirling about in there, memories of sunny afternoons and boats made of corrugated iron sinking in the stream at the bottom of the road, boy and dog swimming to the bank. Of running across fields feet tangling with paws, struggling for possession of a ball, with the almost demented joyful barks of the dog punctuating his laughter. Of lying on his bed with a book, the dog asleep across his legs, as close as his heart.

Eventually, the men took the dog inside for the night.

Albert did not sleep. Memories, emotions, decisions made and abandoned, but above all, memories. And the growing conviction that the dog downstairs was Magoo himself.

There was no logic to this. Perhaps he thought that the dog had been reincarnated. Or maybe, hadn’t died fifty years ago. And was somehow back, looking for him.

And this could have been the conviction that led him to the decision that he would take the animal back. So that boy and dog could be where they belonged.

It took three weeks for someone to realize that the smell coming from Albert’s flat was worrying. The two tenants downstairs raised the alarm. A balmy few days of summer had condensed the air around the patio into an unmoving miasma, which became utterly stench-laden, until finally Jeff and Josh called the Council who called the police who broke the door down. As it yielded to the sledgehammer, a small and frantic Springer Spaniel shot out into the corridor. The men, suffused with relief and incredulity, cradled the dog.

Albert lay on his bed, his face a picture of abject horror. His throat had been ripped out and his naked body was a mess of blood.

Image: dogtime.com

Another Short Story in the Nasty Little Things collection

On the back of a motorbike you feel everything  and you are at the mercy of everything. Wind, road, speed, gravity. And in control of nothing.

The spitterspots of rain like mist. The late evening traffic window-wiping their way up shiny streets

Up Euston road, weaving through cars busses trucks. He’s laughing, I can tell. It shakes his leather-clad back, swaying left and right past traffic as if as if he’s trying to dislodge me. I want to share his delight but I’m uneasy. I’m trying to sync my balance with his, leaning as he leans, holding on to the passenger-handles at my side white-knuckled, wishing I could hold him around his waist with both arms, but I know if I did that I would crush his ribs.

Does he know

I don’t want this. I only agreed to see “this brilliant Hampstead gym” because he’s always so adamant and enthusiastic and demanding about everything. I could have taken a tube.

Approaching Baker Street he accelerates and we jump the lights within inches of a Dentressangle. I can just hear his howl of triumph and joy.

We’re speeding up. He’s showing off now.

Through Regent’s Park at way above legal speed, the Indian’s engine roaring high-pitched and hysterical, like the war-cry of a madman.

Fear. Maybe he does know.

I lean into him “Slow down! For God’s sake!” words whipped away by wind

Through Camden as a blaze of swaying speed, our passing peppered by the anger of others, we must have broken every law, every speed camera gasps and surrenders, police cars shrug, report and continue on easier missions.

He is howling with delight, man and Indian fused, a conspiracy of furious joy, if he would slow down even for a second I would bail out, leap for freedom, risk any injury

Toward Parliament Hill

Then up! Over the grass! Bucking, the Indian Bronco. Whooping.

There is an oak tree. Like a sentinel near the top of the hill. He sees it, turns the bike in a slewing wild sudden move that throws me flying into this grass and heads straight at it.

The sound was a roar and a bang like

Then silence

I stagger up to look

He lies a few feet from the tree, his head hanging off his neck. Still with the motorcycle helmet on. The low hanging branch of the tree had nearly decapitated him. The Indian lies on its side, futtering.

*          *          *

“He knew we were having an affair,” she said. “Obsessed!”

“I didn’t even know that,” I said. “But I suspected. I thought he was trying to kill me.”

“I miss him.” She said.

“Me too” I said.

“I love you” she said.

“And I love you” I said.