The Alien in My Living Room
Tell me about it.
Mr. Mongoose Chinaman has mommy issues. He has never had any friends because his mom didn't want him to have any. Friends were a waste of time. They gripe. They 'influence' you to do bad things. They're freeloaders. They're leeches. You don't need 'em, son, you want company, you come to me. We'll bake strawberry cakes and blender some watermelons into juice.
He didn't. One day, as Uncle Apollo still snoozed, he sneaked out and was never to be seen again. His orange hair is dazzling. His suit, bland. His smile is scary, like the smile of a cat, while anthropomorphised, when it says something witty.
He isn't talking, maybe can't. I know about his excursion because he has a TV-like thingy fixed on his forehead; apparently, it helps him communicate in strange worlds. He is scared; I can feel it. He takes hold of my hand and shakes it violently, the sleeves of his suit dancing as he does it.
What his forehead shows me now: A jungle. No, a city. Metallic buildings. A sexy humanoid, helping Mr. Chinaman get into a spaceship (at least, I think it is a spaceship). Mr. Chinaman's hair is swaying sideways owing to a light breeze. The inside of the spaceship. He utters a few garbled words and everything goes dizzy.
The clip ends.
Another starts: A fat woman chasing the spaceship with what appears to be a flying scooter.
Mr. Chinaman shudders as the vision of the lady sweeps out of his forehead. Sweat is lining up the LCD of his brow. His orange hair turns into a darker shade.
I am obviously not much unnerved by the set of events occurring in my living room. I wonder why. I leave my host alone for a minute to bring him coffee.
He grasps it eagerly and examines the content, dipping his tongue into it. He does not seem to like it and splutters out the little he has swallowed. His nervousness is obvious.
“Would you like me to turn on some music?”
“Hu.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Hu.”
“What?”
“Hu.”
I turn on the record player anyway. I almost wish we were in some TV show in the sixties, where cave-men or smart aleck extra-terrestrials, everyone speaks English. Sadly, these little things do not gel within the confines of a short-story. We have to be credible. Mr. Chinaman has to speak in a foreign tongue. I have to be surprised.
But it's hard. The wife's going to be back any minute from the market. How am I to explain all this to her? That some form of an alien has teleported himself into the living room to be away from his terrifying mother? Good luck making her believe that.
Mr. Chinaman, in a bid to shock me further, starts talking in English: “Will you be my friend?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Will you be my friend?”
“You know English?”
“I learn fast.”
“I see.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will you?”
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