Dan and Frankie Save the World

by Richard Langridge

  ‘Bif, that you?’

  I stepped into the den, unsurprised to find Aunt Loretta sitting there in her recliner, still clad in the oversized nightgown she’d been dressed in that morning. After my mom passed away when I was nine, I’d been forced to go live with her, the state or whoever reasoning that, for my own sake, it was better to keep me with family, rather than ship me off with strangers—the irony of which being I would have been better off with literally anybody else.

  After an accident at the post office she worked at several years ago saw her rendered “disabled” (note the ironic use of speech quotes), she’d been living off of the state, those paltry checks we received in the mail each month the only thing we’d had to get by on for about as long as I could remember. I should also mention she’s not really “disabled” (again, seriously, speech quotes); unless you consider a severe lack of desire to go to work and actually contribute to society a disability, that is, in which case—yeah, I guess she is. Needless to say, her “crippled-ness”, combined with her obvious lack of care with regards to all things concerning me, made for one hell of a living arrangement—and that’s putting it mildly.

  ‘It’s me, Aunt Loretta.’

  She craned her head to look at me. There was an unusual amount of sweat glistening her brow, so much it was like she’d been painted in vaseline. Must have been one heck of a prize haul. ‘Did you pick up my bunion cream?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Loretta.’

  ‘And the cheesecake? Don’t tell me you forgot the cheesecake!’ As with work, she was also adverse to being hungry. I don’t want to say she was fat. But when your only source of exercise a day is an awkward shuffle from the living room to the refrigerator—well. It’s math, really.

  ‘And the cheesecake.’

  She made a noise like a startled mule and held out her hands, beckoning at me like a small child desperate to be picked up by its mother. Only Aunt Loretta didn’t want cuddles. You couldn’t eat hugs. As with every other day of the week, all Aunt Loretta ever wanted was food.

  I stepped over and handed her the bag, gasping as it was promptly ripped from my hands, a good chunk of finger-skin with it. She tore open the box, barely pausing to remove the foil before shoveling a good third of it into her mouth, reminding me, as on many occasions, of a pig at a troth.

  Aunt Loretta’s attention now suitably diverted, I took the opportunity to make my escape, making my way upstairs to the snort-gasp accompaniment of Aunt Loretta’s frenzied eating.

  Like the rest of Aunt Loretta’s place, my bedroom left much to be desired. It was a fair size, true—but that was really its only redeeming feature. One time, after a particularly violent storm two summers ago, a leak had gotten in, and—the universe being the biased asshole it is—it of course ended right above the spot where I slept. Sure, it didn’t leak anymore (not until the next bout of hard rain, at least), but the scars from that terrible time still lay in full evidence on the ceiling, comprised of a single, ugly stain, approximately three feet across, that in the right light kind of looked like a screaming Jesus. That’s what it looked like to me, anyway—or maybe I was just projecting.

  I dropped down onto my bed with a sigh, letting the mattress catch me, then proceeded to just lay there a moment, staring up at the stain that could have been Jesus reincarnate, wondering about my life and where exactly everything went so terribly, terribly wrong. I thought about Todd and school. About my mom and Elk Grove in general. It was something I did often, and that brought me little joy, but that I continued to do regardless. As I mentioned earlier, everybody had their own way of dealing with the boredom that is life in Elk Grove. Todd had his bullying. Aunt Loretta had her food. Fierce procrastination? That was mine.

  At some point my fingers found their way to the photo sitting propped on my bedside unit. It was a picture of my folks, taken shortly before I was born. My mom had her head thrown back, apparently laughing to something my dad had just said.

  I stared at them, how happy they both looked, and let out a long sigh.

  Once—just once—I wish something exciting would happen…

  What transpired next happened in the kind of whizz-flash spectacle of big-budget sci-fi movies.

  There was a sound, quiet at first; little more than a soft rumbling, and what I initially mistook for thunder.

  Curious, I pushed myself up and stepped over to the window to go check—

  The ball of fire raced across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke and flame behind it. It came down in a wide arc, the runoff left behind in its wake stretching out like the tail of some ungodly creature, one that was, for reasons unknown, currently on fire.

  Time stopped. My breathing ceased.

  My brain had just short-circuited.

  I watched the fireball continue on its arcing descent, my mouth hanging open.

  And then, just as I realized where it was headed—

  BOOM.

  The fireball had landed.

  Follow any misadventure back far enough, and you can almost always trace it down to one specific event.

  A person hooks a left, when they should have taken a right, for example. You pick the buttered popcorn, instead of the salted caramel, because in your haste to get in and watch the movie you forgot you’re lactose intolerant. It’s the wrong choice, made on gut feelings and insubstantial data or—as in probably most cases—simple, unfiltered ignorance.

  Well, little did I know it then, but I was about to have one of these moments.

  My footfalls made loud crunching sounds as I made my way through the trees in the direction of the crashed object.

  I had set off for it almost at once, barely pausing to throw on a jacket before sprinting out the door, feet hardly so much as touching the ground in my haste to discover exactly what it was just crash-landed less than a kilometer from my bedroom.

  On a whim right before leaving, I’d poked my head into the den to see if Aunt Loretta had seen the fireball too. But of course, she’d been asleep, the box from the cheesecake still hanging from one limp and pudgy hand. I thought it was probably for the best.

  I know it might seem like a bad idea now, rushing off into the forest where something having just burst flaming from the sky now resided. But I couldn’t help myself. I was intrigued, sure—but it was more than that. I had to know what it was. Don’t ask me why. But right then, for whatever reason, discovering what was out there seemed about the most important thing in the world.

  Further and further into the woods I ran, traipsing over fallen trees thick with moss and lichen, ducking every so often when the occasion called for it—which was pretty damn often, given how densely packed this stretch of woodland was. It was getting dark, too, the reduction in sunlight, coupled with the natural darkness afforded down here within the trees, making navigating difficult.

  It wasn’t long however before I began to see light coming at me through the trees up ahead, followed shortly after by the heat. It came toward me in waves, carried by the wind, and the smell—God, the smell! It was enough to make you want to puke; all acrid smoke, accompanied by another smell I couldn’t quite place, but that reminded me, for some reason, of junk yards.

  I fought my way through the last of the trees, letting the light lead me, guiding me like a lighthouse beckoning a wayward ship towards shore—

  I froze.

  During the course of my young life, I had seen plenty of movies, many of which having dabbled in the murky waters of what could only be regarded as poorly funded sci-fi, so maybe that’s why I recognized what I was looking at instantly, who knows.

  It was a spaceship.

  Big. Chrome. Shaped almost exactly like what you’d expect a UFO to look like; all round, and saucer-shaped, the only difference being a set of huge cylindrical… whatevers, poking out its sides. Despite the crash, the “hull” (if you could call it such), looked mostly untouched, its belly not even scorched, and the complete opposite of what you’d expect for something having just broken through Earth
’s atmosphere—which, while there was admittedly still every chance this thing was military, I highly doubted (sci-fi movies, remember?). A trail of flames marked its path through the trees, everything back there all smashed and on-fire.

  So right here’s the part where I no doubt should have gotten the heck out of there, where I should have said a big fat NOPE to the whole situation and booked it out of there just as fast as my legs could carry me.

  But for whatever reason, I didn’t run. I simply stood there instead, too stunned to move, the crackle-pop of burning wood all but deafening in my ears—

  BANG!

  I jerked in surprise as the dome-like top suddenly popped off like the lid on a Pringles can, and a hand shot out, gripping the side of the spacecraft momentarily before being joined by another, and then another. And, uh… another?

  There was a final deep grunt from inside, a groan of bending metal—

  The spaceship’s occupant stepped out onto the dirt.

  It had to have been eight-feet tall, built like a genetically reared bodybuilder, its blood-red skin pulled taut so that every fiber of muscle was visible. Four arms. Teeth like husks, from which lengths of thick drool ran, like a St. Bernard right after that first whiff of dinner.

  It was naked.

  I probably should have mentioned that sooner. In fact, the only thing concealing the place where its penis would normally have been was a dainty loincloth made of what looked like expensive leather, with some kind of symbol etched onto the face of it that I got the feeling, for no obvious reason I could think of, was some company’s brand logo.

  It shook itself like a dog, before leaning back and stretching out its hips, the muscles on its hulking form flexing horridly in the firelight.

  It turned its giant head towards me, seeming to notice my presence for the very first time.

  ‘HAHA! WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE?’ it said in its booming voice. ‘AN OFFERING? WHAT’S YOUR NAME, PUNY EARTHLING?’

  I struggled to find the words. All of a sudden, I’d forgotten how to speak. ‘B-Bif.’

  ‘BIF! HA! WHAT KIND OF A WARRIOR’S NAME IS BIF?! SOUNDS LIKE THE NOISE MY CHUM-CHUM MAKES WHEN IT RELEASES GAS! HA!’ It took a lumbering step towards me. ‘I’M GOING TO EAT YOUR BONES, BIF. I’M GOING TO TAKE YOUR SEX PARTS AND GARGLE WITH THEM UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  It took another giant step towards me, its huge form filling my view, becoming my whole world.

  Again, right here’s the part where I no doubt should have run, where I should have booked it out of there like there was a rocket up my ass. But it was the terror—I couldn’t move. Could scarcely even breathe.

  The creature reached out for me, all four hands aimed and pointed at my neck. ‘PREPARE TO—!’

  I yelped in surprise as something huge and loud smashed into the dirt in the exact space the mongoloid space monster had only moments ago been standing.

  The force of it sent me flailing backwards. I tried to keep my feet, almost managed it, then tumbled over a fallen spruce instead.

  When I was sure I wasn’t dead (or worse), I pushed myself up on my elbows—

  I gawped.

  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

  It was another spacecraft.

  Big. Boxy. Grey. A pair of huge pointed wings protruded from its sides, each easily several times the size of its body. There was a little flap on the top, not unlike a fin.

  In fact, except for the whole “spacecraft” part, it looked pretty much like your everyday Winnebago.

  There was a hiss as the door on its side flopped open and—

  ‘Holy shit-balls!’

  The man strode purposely down the ramp, weaving left and right as though navigating past obstacles only he could see.

  He was a tall man—probably a little over six feet—with the kind of wild, exotic hair of an ’80s glam rocker. An oversized leather jacket hung around his shoulders, absolutely plastered with studs, under which a full-length spandex bodysuit lay, colored in a fashion (blue with gold trim) that immediately brought to mind professional wrestling. On his feet, quite impossibly, were a pair of very old, very tattered Dr. Marten boots.

  He saw me lying there and froze. It was then I noticed the cans in his hands, what I would have sworn were beer, if I didn’t know any better.

  ‘Are you all right?!’ he said, waddle-walking down towards me. ‘For a moment there, I could have sworn I just…’ His eyes shifted to the bloodied chunks of Really Loud Guy poking out from under the spaceship. ‘OOOOoooo! Oh man, is that your friend?! I am SO SORRY. That’s my bad.’ He teetered as he bent down to inspect it. ‘Man, he’s dead. Seriously, look how dead he is—I mean, no offense. But damn. I smooshed him good, huh?’

  I didn’t answer. Too many things were happening at once for my brain to be able to process them. Clearly, I was in the middle of some major mental episode, and what I was seeing was simply nothing more than a hallucination caused by my fractured mind—the knowledge of which you’d think would at least do something to hinder the sense of unreality currently swelling inside me, but it didn’t.

  The man belched, before turning back to me. ‘You okay? You, uh, really don’t look so good.’

  I tried to answer, but it was already too late.

  The darkness crept in, and a moment later I was gone.

  3

  The way I see it, there are two types of people in the world; men of science, and men of faith.

  See, science shifts its views in response to new evidence. Once there was a time we believed the atom was the smallest thing in existence, right up until the moment we busted its head open, and a whole new bunch of crap fell out. Same thing with the flat-earth theory. It’s the repositioning of currently held beliefs in light of new and more substantial data.

  Then, on the flip side, there’s “faith”, which in summation can essentially be described as the rejection of new evidence in the interest of preserving a belief. For example; scientist-guy runs up, face all cheery and beaming with excitement, “Guys, look! I found these dinosaur bones, and after carbon-dating them, it turns out they’re millions of years old! How awesome is that?!”. Man of faith walks over, looks down at the half-submerged fossils still sticking out of the earth, and shakes his head. “Nah, bro—God put this here to test us.”.

  Is he right?

  Depending on your background, you’re probably going to fall one of two ways on this.

  And while I admittedly may have no stake in this particular dog-and-pony show, what I can say, is there comes a time in every man’s life where he’s forced to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about the universe, where he’s made to look at all the things he thought he knew about himself and ask the ever-impossible question, “what if?”—which is exactly the position I found myself in upon awakening in the small room on a duvet-less bunk, surrounded by empty beer(?) cans, and what looked, for all intents and purposes, like dozens upon dozens of alien porno mags.

  I shot up on my elbows, suddenly tense and afraid.

  It was indeed a small room. About the size of a prison cell, with what I noted, with no small amount of alarm, were no windows. A rug of what looked to be the pelt of some strange creature lined the floor; all pink and furry and, uh, weird. In the corner, lying like it had been tossed there with some frustration, was a blow-up doll. The doll had three boobs, with what looked suspiciously like antlers poking out of its head.

  I turned to the open doorway, so very, very confused. ‘Uh… hello?’ There was light out there, what looked like some sort of corridor. The walls were white and bare, kind of like a hospital. Was I in a hospital, then? Were hospitals usually this funky?

  When no answer greeted this, I swung my feet around, and—making sure not to step on any part of the rug—tiptoed outside.

  Unfortunately, what I saw there was no better. Just some big space, empty save for a crate of something I had no idea as to the contents of, with some half-eaten something sitting atop it, still wrapped in its wrapper, that up
on closer inspection looked like a mixture of a corn dog and a McDonalds egg McMuffin. There was a picture on one side—what looked suspiciously like a baby’s hand holding a ray gun. And I knew one thing for absolute certain: wherever the hell I was, it wasn’t a hospital.

  At the end of the space was another door.

  I made for it at once, footfalls slapping loudly on the grated metal floor, my breath coming out in little rapid grunts until I reached the door and—

  The door slid up with a neat hiss-thunk, just like they do on Star Trek.

  And it was then, as my eyes settled on what lay behind the door, that the full implications of my situation suddenly hit me.

  ‘Oh, hey—you’re awake!’ said the space-rocker man, turning to look at me as I stepped into the room. He was sat in a tattered chair, body pointed towards a huge convex window, about the size of the windshield you’d get on a big truck. A console sat beneath the windshield, wrapping around the room in a rough half-shoe. I saw buttons and switches. Gauges and dials and little LED lights—some even on the ceiling. To the left of the chair was a gearstick, only instead of gears, the options were; FAST; FASTER; and PISS-YOURSELF FAST. From the gearstick hung a keychain, with what can only be described as a shrunken, malformed head hanging from it.

  All this I registered only dimly, however.

  No, what my attention was drawn to was the thing that lay beyond the window, which, despite my limited knowledge regarding all things extra-planetary, appeared to be deep space.