The Hipster From Outer Space (The Hipster Trilogy Book 1)

by Luke Kondor

  The thoughts made him realise that he needed to get out of this human vessel as quickly as possible. Life was fragile. He took the first concrete step downwards into the underground. Around halfway down he realised that Gary wasn’t following. He turned back and saw him at the top of the stairway, looking down.

  “Come on, feline,” he said. “Follow me.”

  A human male dressed in a floral shirt glanced at him like he was strange.

  “Move along, human,” Moomamu said and pointed at the man’s shirt. “There’s only one strange human here. Now come on, feline. We don’t have time!”

  Gary didn’t move. He just looked down at Moomamu, his tail calmly swaying side to side.

  Moomamu huffed and walked back up the stairs. He held his hands in the air like he’d seen some prepubescent humans do and said “Dude?” He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but it seemed appropriate.

  Gary didn’t move. He looked at him like he was stupid. Moomamu got down on one knee and whispered to him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Gary looked around him. When the place temporarily emptied of humans, he whispered back, “Carry me.”

  “What? Carry you? Why?” he whispered.

  “Animals are not allowed down in the underground unless a Tall One carries them.”

  More humans emerged from the hole. It seemed to him that the humans were just as primal as the cat, if not more so. He reached his arms out and picked Gary up. He placed his right hand under his belly and his left hand beneath the front paws.

  “Mind Gary’s genitals,” Gary said.

  “I am doing,” Moomamu replied, readjusting his grip.

  As they made their way downwards into the underground, more humans commented on him. Gary placed his head on Moomamu’s shoulder. Close enough to whisper into his ear without raising suspicion.

  “You’re going to need to get a ticket from one of those men behind the glass.”

  Careful not to drop Gary, he reached his left hand into his pocket and pulled out some of the sterling coins, leftover from the café. Which reminded him about work: he’d missed his first day. He struck the thought from his mind — more important things.

  He walked over to a line of humans standing one behind the other. He walked straight past them to a rotund, balding human in a blue uniform, protected by a glass panel.

  “I need to go home,” he said, holding out the coins.

  “You can’t push in like that,” a female shouted behind him. He ignored her.

  “And where exactly is home?” the rotund gatekeeper asked.

  Moomamu realised he had no idea what the plan was. He’d just been following Gary.

  “We need to go to King’s Cross,” Gary whispered.

  The rotund man’s eyes widened.

  “What did you say?” the gatekeeper said.

  Moomamu coughed.

  “We’re going to the King’s Cross,” he said to the gatekeeper. “Wow … is the king the one who will take me home?” he said to Gary, but loud enough for everyone in the line behind to hear.

  “Shut up,” whispered Gary, and the gatekeepers eye’s widened again. He tapped something into his computing device, his eye routinely glancing at Gary.

  “No, he doesn’t talk,” Moomamu said.

  “Stop talking,” Gary muttered.

  “Cat’s don’t talk on this planet,” he added.

  “Okay,” the gatekeeper said. “That’s fine. I never said they did. It’s three pounds and forty, please.”

  Moomamu dropped the coins on the counter and the man handed him back most of the coins and a single paper ticket.

  “Follow my tail,” Gary said as he pointed his fluffy ginger appendage towards a set of gates.

  Hundreds of humans were walking in and out of them. The gates beeped as each one passed. Moomamu watched as the humans placing their paper tickets into little holes that swallowed them up and then coughed them back out.

  As he got into the line and got closer to the machine, he prepared his ticket. He offered it to the open mouth of the machine and it sucked it out of his hand and excreted it out of a similar hole on the top.

  “Too easy,” he whispered to Gary as he walked through towards even more stairs. These stairs were motorised and carried him deeper into the planet.

  As the stairs carried him downwards the temperature rose. Occasionally gusts of air flew up from below, cooling his face for a moment before passing by.

  Once at the bottom he noticed the humans splitting up and moving in different directions.

  Gary guided Moomamu with his tail like a compass, directing him where to go, where to stand. He could’ve done it all by himself, he thought. He didn’t need the feline.

  “Watch your step,” Gary said as he nearly walked off a platform and into a pit of gravel and metal.

  Along the platform were several hundred humans standing behind a yellow line, waiting. Across the platform, on the wall, was a picture of a large-breasted woman in a bikini with the words ‘Beach Body Ready?’ and next to that a picture of a book. It was the ‘best thriller in years’.

  On the ends of each platform on the lower levels were two great open mouths of darkness. The whole place rumbled with activity hidden within the mouths and behind the walls. There was great machinery whirring away down here, Moomamu thought.

  Suddenly, following a gush of wind, a giant screaming metal snake-thing emerged from the hole. It crawled past Moomamu and stopped by the hole on the other end.

  The snake-thing was made up of smaller compartments with doors that opened and the humans piled into each one.

  “Should I go?” he said.

  “Not yet,” Gary whispered.

  They waited as this one passed through and another one followed it. This time there weren’t many humans left to fill up the compartments.

  “Gary prefers to get a seat if he can,” Gary said.

  They stepped inside one of the compartments. It was lit with bright yellow lights and made up of dirty chairs and yellow poles. He went to sit down on one of the chairs, but there was a black mark caked into it. He had no idea what it was. So he sat on the chair next to it. Gary climbed down onto Moomamu’s lap as humans filled up the remaining seats. Even the one with the black mark.

  “That’s a cute cat,” said one of the humans. Another fat one. This one was female and wasn’t from this part of the planet. Its skin was darker and its accent was wrong. “Can I stroke it?”

  “Can you what?” Moomamu said.

  “Your cat. Can I pet it?”

  Gary shook his head as if to say no.

  “No,” Moomamu said. “No, you can’t.”

  The fat woman tutted and went back to her own business.

  Moomamu sat back as the doors closed and the snake-thing came to life. It ventured forth into the blackness and Moomamu’s skin went bumpy with excitement. He was on his way to see a king about going home.

  Aidan Black

  “Success is a staircase,” Aidan said to himself. “You just reach out and take a step at a time.”

  He knocked on the door labelled 154. The door from his memories. Nobody answered.

  He took a deep breath and combed his hair back — pulling dark crusty chunks of dried blood out with the plastic comb. His head was still throbbing, but it was a hell of a lot better than before. The pressure had dissipated somewhat, and the whispering had quietened.

  He turned around and looked the street up and down. Full of Londoners — hipsters, three-piece-suits, bat-shit crazy people, the homeless lining the streets with their sleeping bags and cardboard dreams. He hated the people, but as he looked out across the skyline, in the distance he could see the towering Shard building, like a knife cutting into the horizon. The success of it was so thick he could chew it. The money, the hard work, the man hours, determination, the positive aspirations. People making dents in the universe.

  One day he’d build his own goddamn Shard. He’d make something so awe-inspiring it
would cut a fucking hole in the universe.

  Suddenly the door opened. Behind it a girl with short hair. An immigrant perhaps. She was attractive looking, but not what Aidan would refer to as winner’s material.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice full of negativity. She was wearing pink pyjamas with little cartoon unicorns on them. It was two p.m.

  “Landlord’s sent me to have a look at the plumbing,” Aidan said and pointed to his rusty old toolbox which was on the floor by his side. The tin box resting on top of it.

  “He didn’t mention anything. Look, to be honest, it’s a bit of a mess in here, I don’t think I can just …” She stopped talking. Aidan saw her looking at the side of his head. At the dried patch of dark blood.

  “Can I come in please?” he said, putting his hand against the door frame, just enough to make it impossible to shut the door. He wished she’d back down. It would make everything easier, for the both of them.

  She was in the middle of saying something about calling the landlord when Aidan burst through the door, wrapping his arm around her face, covering her mouth, and dragging her into the flat.

  A few seconds later, after the screaming had stopped, he returned to pick up his toolbox before making his way back in.

  Rosie Darlington-Whit

  Bexley wouldn’t admit it, but he was in pain. Rosie could almost see the smoke rising from his red, raw fingers. And she could definitely see the two giant blisters on his palms, translucent bags, filling with fluid.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, reached into his bag and put his flat cap on. He then opened the glovebox which was full of first aid materials — bandages, alcohol, scissors, glue, etc. He unravelled a length of white bandage and wrapped his hands one by one.

  “I will need some attention, but the girl was worse. Her hand had already set off when I got there.”

  “Yeah well, we’ve worried about her for long enough. I’m more worried about you right now.”

  The sights of Soho were always bright and vibrant with people in all manner of clothing and flashing signs — Asian masseuses, smoothie bars. The place usually smelled like a million fusion restaurants, but all they could smell inside the car was the damp smoke rising up from the back seat.

  They were stuck in traffic. Caught at a snail’s pace. Riding the clutch. The old Saab growled every time Rosie changed into first and second gears. It was The Family’s car. Passed down between generations. Well, just the one generation actually. Before this, they didn’t have a car. They used public transport. But back then a lot of the work was in Central London. It had spread out a lot in recent years. The inconsistencies were showing up all over the country. It was a wonder they hadn’t started showing up on the news.

  “We need a blue light. I don’t get why we can’t have one. Police cars have them. Ambulances have then. And let me tell you … our job is a damn sight more important.”

  “Because we’re not officially in the open with what we do,” Bexley said. “A blue light would only draw attention.”

  “I know,” Rosie said, as her freckled little face scrunched up. “It would just be nice is all.”

  In the back seat, lying down and covered in the protective bag, was their sizzling dimension-hopper — Miss Hannah Birkin.

  The security tapes at the bank only confirmed what they’d already expected. They already had the address, history, description, etc, and all they needed to see was her face to confirm. The tip-off was right. They were always right.

  It had been a while since Rosie felt sorry for any of them. Just another day in the office. Even the guys who rescued dogs from abandoned homes must start to feel a little bored over time. Sure, they’re cute at first and you feel sorry for them but over time they just become cases. New cases and old cases. Different people, but still just cases. Things to solve, to close, move on.

  The traffic picked up its pace and they heard the crying again.

  “We’re nearly there now, Miss Birkin,” Rosie said.

  She heard the gentle sobs of a woman who was confused, burnt and bagged up. Poor girl. Didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  “Where are you taking me?” Hannah asked. “Are you going to hurt me? Or sell me on for trafficking or something?”

  Rosie looked confused.

  “No,” she smiled. “We’re not going to sell you.” She chuckled.

  Bexley kept his eyes straight ahead, not perturbed in the slightest.

  “Can you take me home?” Hannah said through more sobs.

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Rosie said. “We’re going to send you home.”

  They pulled into an older road in Soho, drove past a musical theatre, a gay bar and an authentic Italian restaurant before pulling up on the side of the road. Rosie put the handbrake on with a click and placed a small blue permit sticker on the dashboard, plain for all parking attendants to see.

  “They will still ticket you,” Bexley warned.

  “If they try it … I will kill them,” Rosie joked.

  “I’ll get the wheelchair,” he said.

  Bexley climbed out of the car and walked a little farther down the street, stopping at a building that looked so old it might topple at any moment. It was a thin slice of a building trapped between bigger, newer, more modern builds. Bexley grabbed the door knocker shaped like a lion and slammed it against the huge wooden front door. A few seconds later it opened up and Bexley disappeared into it.

  Rosie hummed to herself and tapped the front wheel with her hands. She hummed a song she’d never heard before. She did that sometimes. It calmed her mind.

  She thought about making conversation with Hannah but decided against it. She looked at herself in the rear view mirror and her face was exactly as she left it — no makeup, freckles, and the tired blue eyes of someone who only slept four hours a night.

  “I really should do something with my face,” she said aloud.

  “What?” Hannah wheezed.

  “Nothing,” she said as Bexley reappeared with the wheelchair.

  It was a wheelchair left by their grandmother when she died. They hadn’t thrown it away because they didn’t throw anything away, ever. The Family were hoarders and kept everything from generations back.

  Bexley opened the back door to the car and a draught flew in and sent chills down Rosie’s back. He reached in and scooped Hannah up like she was a bag of shopping. He placed her on the wheelchair and swung the car door shut. Rosie climbed out of the driver’s seat and locked up.

  As they wheeled Hannah over to the front door, Rosie noticed a couple of men walk past. One was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and the other was wearing a headband and a tight green vest top with holes for his nipples. She looked at their bagged-up wheelchair patient and remembered why Soho was such a good place to be weird. No one expected any different.

  They wheeled Hannah over and they could still hear her crying.

  “Nearly there, Miss Birkin,” she said, “nearly there.”

  They arrived at the wooden door with the gilded lion door knocker. Above the lion, etched into the door, were the words ‘The Family’. Rosie reached forward, knocked and the door opened.

  Moomamu The Thinker

  The snake-thing crawled through the dark tunnels, stopping occasionally to distribute and collect humans. Every time it was about to stop, an unseen woman would talk and say the name of the place they’d been, and where they were now going to. He saw a simple map drawn on the interior wall, and could see the name King’s Cross further along the path they were currently flying down.

  Moomamu noticed the majority of humans on the snake-thing weren’t smiling. Their faces were vapid and expressionless. They looked like their brains had stopped functioning. Some even fell asleep.

  Gary curled up on his lap. His eyes were closed too. He’d switched himself off.

  Moomamu wondered how anybody could sleep on a screaming mechanical beast such as this. He was about to ask som
eone but he found his eyelids growing heavy.

  The violent thrashing of the snake-thing was relaxing. He let his head lean back and rest against the side, his hand gently resting on top of Gary’s warm torso. The soothing vibrations running through him. He thought about the internal organs inside the cat’s body. All that blood — made up of plasma, platelets and blood cells — shooting around his body, providing oxygen where needed. He thought about how peculiar it was that over all these millions of years, evolution had coughed up a funny little being like a cat. It wasn’t particularly rare. He’d seen similar species sprout up all over the galaxy. But seeing it this close, touching it with a physical hand with its own intricacies, feeling the movements inside its body, seemed somehow ludicrous. Almost impossible.

  He found his face doing the smile configuration. He tried to stop it. He didn’t want to be the only one on the snake-thing doing it. The cat had told him to try to fit in. No smiles allowed.

  With that, he closed his eyes.

  ***

  When he opened them again, he wasn’t sure where he was. Everything seemed different.

  The cat was gone.

  The humans were gone.

  He was alone.

  The snake-thing was still moving forward, but the unseen woman had stopped talking. The interiors of the snake-thing itself seemed different. Older, like it was from half a century before. The lighting was no way near as vibrant. Only a few smaller less powerful filaments were lining the roof and they would occasionally flicker off and then back on.