Short fiction

I'm totally not down with Rob's Alien

Once upon a time, in the barren, desolate mountains of Mexico City, two chivalrous compadres, Lite and Jonas were taking it easy. It was a Saturday morning and the week had been stressful.

  Lite works as a programmer, Jonas is unemployed, but occasionally impersonates clergymen when he’s bored or when his girlfriend, Bonnie, is not around. It was because of her not being around that they accepted an impromptu invitation by their lascivious friends, Charlie and Beaver, to go to a strip club the night before. The hangover headache was creeping about.

  “Cabron,” said Jonas, while stumbling to the kitchen to refill his cup of coffee, “I be tired.”

  “Tired of what, pinche huevon? You haven’t done a thing this week!”

  “I moved the dishes from the table to the sink, atsa lodda work!”

  Lite smiled and waved at Jonas to fill his cup too. Hot coffee, bad TV, Beaver half-asleep, half-drunk in the other sofa, an extraterrestrial corpse floating in the aquarium. All seemed good.

  “Say, Lite. What’d we do yesterday?”

  “We went with Bonnie to the cinema, then we had some sushi with mango sauce, then she left for her house, then Charlie came by with Beaver and they said they’d found a couple of free lap dance vouchers so we went to Chichichanga’s to see a buncha babes dancing to Mötley Crüe. Then you impersonated a Franciscan priest and talked about baby formula with a hooker for the entire night. We saw Richard Dawkins hitting on a bald transvestite that had a puppet in his/her hand, I had a bottle of whisky with Beaver and 3 or 4 lapdances and Charlie disappeared with two blondes, then we went for some tacos al pastor, broke a tire, changed it, got soaked by rain...”

  “Which is strange, as it’s January, cabron…”

  “...then we drove back home and crashed down in the living room, then woke up and had some motherfuckin' excellent coffee.”

  Then something became clear to them.

  There was an alien on the fish tank.

  It was lifeless, as it didn’t respond to the tiny fish nibbling at it.

  “So ... a dead alien,” said Jonas.

  “Well, at least it’s not a hooker,” sighed Beaver, waking up in the sofa.

  They exchanged glances and shrugged. After an uncomfortable silence, they got a toilet brush and fished around, trying to get the alien carcass out of the fish tank.

  “Wait, cabrones!” yelled Jonas. “We need a plastic bag or a tupperware or the floor is going to get ruined!”

  Since they were men who loved their security deposit, they fetched some plastic bags and created a plastic petate on the floor. After struggling to fish the alien carcass out, they rolled it around, covering him completely with plastic and used newspapers. Finally, the finance section was useful for something.

  “So, what do we do?”

  “We shudda dump him in an alley near my ol’ barrio.” Jonas saw his friend backing away slowly. “Hey, old habits, y’know?”

They wondered. Who was he? What killed him? And more important: is the scratching sensation a consequence of having too much salsa habanera or did the alien go all probe-happy on them?

  Questions best left alone. They drove to a desolate spot near the Queretaro highway and dug a makeshift grave. Jonas had some practice. Lite and Beaver decided not to question this.

  “Should we say a prayer?” asked Lite.

  “I dunno, maybe he was an agnostic alien, he could be offended,” said Beaver.

  “Look, gueyes, I’m an official clergy-impersonator, and I think, I just think, that it’s not the fact that the existence of a superior being is debated by many a person who’ve read al pendejo of Richard Dawkins, but what really matters is that this, this was an intelligent life form and now, it has departed the mortal coil and we shudda give it a small prayer.”

  They bowed down.

  “How can it be intelligent if it drowned in the fish tank?” asked Beaver.

  “Compañeros, give him...” 

  “...or her...” corrected Beaver.

  “Give it a proper moment of silence, please.”

  Jonas seemed cross. They were silent. For 10 seconds.

  “You know, maybe he is not an alien, but an angel,” said Lite.

  “Oh, yeah.” said Beaver. “Maybe he had proof that God DOES exist, then Richard Dawkins caught a whiff of this and killed it and dumped the body in our apartment. He thought that Jonas was a real clergyman and wanted to say that the Church wants to kill angels and maintain the monopoly on the idea of God”.

  Jonas, sole neuron, half-digested this theory and shot back:

  “Why would Richard Dawkins do such thing? He doesn’t know where we live?”

  “He was in the strip club yesterday, dontcha remember?”

Ah yes. Richard Dawkins french-kissing a bald transvestite with a puppet. Chichichanga’s was a very strange strip club.

  They left the shallow grave and drove back. It took them another three hours, and although the drive was supposed to be a quiet one, the constant calls to their cellular phones was a harbinger of their dark future. They were late to a formal dinner at Bonnie’s house.

  They arrived, improperly dressed for the occasion, dodging the inquisitive looks of the hosts.

  “I really hope you have a good excuse,” said Bonnie, with an accusing finger.

  “Well, it all started today in the morning...” replied Jonas while putting his arm around her.

  Everyone sat down. They had questions, but Jonas never failed to answer. He mesmerised them with his cool storytelling techniques, adding a few details here and there. He was a great weaver of stories and this could be a masterpiece. Everyone paid attention. They were sold.

  “…And that’s what happened!” Jonas said, triumphantly.

  The table was dead serious. Bonnie was a little sad but still clapped. Everyone clapped, maybe out of politeness or maybe because they were in true awe of the story. After a few drinks, all four sat by the patio garden. Bonnie kissed Jonas.

  “You are lucky, Jonas,” she said.

  “What? It’s all true, it really happened, neto!” Jonas continued, as Bonnie gave him the look. “Look, I hafta be honest with you. Please don’t get mad, I couldnna do anything ’bout it.”

  “What?”

  “The alien ate Robbie. He choked on it, that’s what killed him. I saw him in the early morning hours do it. I was terrified of him. I couldn’t do anything. He used his magic mental powers or alguna mamada asi.”

  “Who’s Robbie?”

  “Your favourite fish, the goldfish you gave me a year ago!”

  Bonnie sighed and hugged him.

  “Jonas, we talked about this.”

  He doesn’t react. Yet. Remember, only one neuron.

  “That one died right away, Jonas. You didn't take care of him properly!”

  “No, the alien killed it.”

  “Jonas?” Bonnie’s voice was brimming with concern.

  “Of course I cared for the fella. He was there yesterday, right, you guys? I loved the little fella, I always fed him on time and changed the water.”

  No response.

  “Guys?” Jonas put his drink down and looked at Beaver and Lite. “You saw Robbie, didn't you? He was alive yesterday, right?”

  There was no response.

Samuel Valdes Lopez