Alien Space Tentacle Porn

by Peter Cawdron

  “Yes, it is,” I reply, rubbing my hands together. “Ah, did anyone leave anything for me?”

  “Yes. Your assistant dropped off your luggage this afternoon.”

  “Wonderful,” I say with a voice that screams insincerity to my mind.

  “We have you booked for five nights in the penthouse suite,” she says, handing me a key fob, adding. “You’re in 1801.”

  “Thank you,” I say, as though I’m being polite while robbing a teller at a bank. I walk over to the elevator, trying to keep my bare feet out of sight, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

  The penthouse suite is spacious, with a large living room, kitchenette and three bedrooms, two of which have views across Central Park. The heating is on, and it feels glorious—like Florida on a hot summer’s day. There’s a massive skylight in the living room, stretching out over the couch in the shape of a dome. I can’t help but stare up at the night sky as the clouds begin to part. Stars radiate in the darkness.

  “Which one are you going to?” I mumble, thinking about Sharon. I feel dejected. Defeated.

  There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, along with a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne. With just a couple of fake ID cards, I’m suddenly a multimillionaire, but all this luxury is no consolation for what I’ve just lost. What humanity has lost.

  The master bedroom has two suitcases. I open them and they’re full of clothing. Shoes, shirts, jeans, shorts, underwear—everything I need still wrapped in plastic.

  I collapse on the bed and sink into the soft mattress, pulling the blanket over my shoulders.

  I’m lovesick. I can’t stop thinking about Sharon. Is it wrong to feel a little horny? She’s an alien. Is that sick? Twisted? And yet she looks and feels so human. I touched her skin. I ran my hands over her stomach and across her hips. I felt her soft breasts beneath my fingertips. Love? Or just lust? Is love a personalized porn show? How do you separate love from animal instincts and sexual desire? Or is one an extension of the other?

  Within a few minutes, I’m asleep and dreaming of a particular sexy alien siren dancing naked in a police holding cell.

  Chapter 06: Mr President

  I wake feeling refreshed.

  The bathroom is stocked with everything I need, including a razor and shaving cream. After having a shower and getting dressed, I grab some fruit and take the elevator down to reception.

  “Good morning, Mr. Owen,” a young man behind the counter says as I step out of the elevator. He smiles warmly. I’m not going to ask how he knew I was about to step out of the elevator, I’m guessing that’s his job—to make millionaires feel important. Me, I feel disappointed, but not with him so I smile warmly.

  Sharon has good taste in clothing. I’m wearing designer jeans, trendy leather boots, a comfortable cotton shirt, polar fleece sweater, and a North Face down-filled jacket, along with a New York Yankees baseball cap. A quick glance in the mirror as I pass through the reception and I look like I’m ready for drinks at the ski lodge.

  “Have a great day,” the receptionist says.

  “You too,” I reply, burying my hands in my pockets as I walk out through the rotating doors. It’s a beautiful day outside—the sky is electric blue. A magnificent, radiant sun warms the winter air. The day is cool, but not chilly.

  I bite into an apple, leaving my banana for later. For me, breakfast is normally yogurt and granola, as I generally need something thick and heavy to sit in my stomach until lunchtime, but I’m not that hungry today. I’m focused.

  Dammit. Why the hell did we have to go and blow our first chance at conversing with creatures from another planet?

  A brisk walk along Central Park West has me striding past the American Museum of Natural History.

  What am I doing? Where am I going? Where can I go? I’m walking in a straight line with no real purpose or destination in mind, simply keeping Central Park on my left. At this rate, I’ll end up doing laps of the park and going nowhere. But what can I do? I’m not an alien. Or am I?

  Okay, let’s think this through. At the moment, DARPA is convinced I’m one of the crew. That’s the only point of leverage I have. When I lose that, and I will, I’m screwed, millionaire or not.

  I stop at an ATM and withdraw fifty bucks. When the machine asks if I want a receipt with the balance, I can’t resist. Hell, yes. And there it is, more numbers strung together than I’ve ever seen in my life. Damn.

  Current balance: 197,884,534

  Just disappear, Joe.

  With money like that, who needs a passport? Jump on a yacht, sail the Caribbean, follow your dreams. Only my dreams aren’t about money. They’re about Sharon. I can’t do it. I cannot pretend none of this ever happened. Sharon and Mark may have turned their backs on us Earthlings, they may have been forced to by whatever alien edict they’re following , but I can’t run and hide. It’s stupid, but I believe in their cause—awakening humanity from its long, dark slumber. I could never be satisfied if I took the easy way out.

  I backtrack to the museum, wondering if Sharon and Mark are like the alien equivalent of Jane Goodall and David Attenborough. Venturing into the untamed wilds of planet Earth, they speak in hushed tones, describing the jungle natives for an intergalactic audience lounging in celestial armchairs.

  I can imagine Morgan Freeman narrating in my head. The males are particularly driven when it comes to mating rituals, often going to elaborate lengths to entice a female’s attention with such displays as karaoke, and gifts in the form of chocolate or an impressive bunch of flowers, when often all that is needed is a kind word and some help with the housework.

  There’s a row of public computers in the lobby of the museum, along with a payphone. I find the phone number for DARPA on their website.

  Over the phone, I hear a distinctly computerized voice say, “Defense Research, how may I direct your call?”

  “Nathaniel Lill,” I say, being careful to pronounce his name clearly.

  “Professor Lill is not in the office at the moment, connecting to his cell phone. Please wait.”

  Shoom, bar-bap-boom, shoom bar boom, plays through the phone like elevator music. The tune is actually a little catchy, and as it repeats I find myself tapping my foot to the beat.

  “Nate here,” a familiar voice says.

  “How did you sleep last night?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” I say. “Joe.”

  “Joe?”

  There’s muffled talking in the background as he holds his hand over the phone and scrambles to get someone’s attention.

  “Have you still got that banana?” I ask to dispel any notion of doubt in his mind about who he’s talking to.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” he says, and we converse like long lost friends. “We’re still trying to figure out precisely how you got out of here. Did you piss in the lock?”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “What can I do for you, Joe? Why are you calling me? Are you ready to come in?”

  “Not quite,” I reply. “The game has changed.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First, no funny business or Chicago gets nuked. You got that?”

  “I got that,” Nate replies. The tone of his voice changes markedly with those few words, signaling his somber acceptance that this is not a meeting of equals. I’m not sure Mark and Sharon would condone threats of violence, but it seems to get the message across. I’m still not sure what I’m doing, but I’ve got to try something. I’ve got to salvage some sanity out of this crazy mess.

  “Tell the President. Noon at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Make it happen,” I cut him off. “We meet in public. We talk. We leave and go our own separate ways. And there’s no further contact. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  With that, I hang up. My hands are shaking. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to the President, but I feel compe
lled to stand up for Mark and Sharon. At some point, they’ll be back, or someone else will drop by, and we need to grow up a little before then. We’ve got to stop playing silly games.

  I’m an imposter. I feel stupid. Utterly incompetent. But wait. If I was incompetent, how would I know? I wouldn’t. Utilizing the rationale I’ve seen on display from Sharon, if I was incompetent, I’d be convinced I was competent. So feeling incompetent gives me a glimmer of hope, an opportunity to be genuinely competent. Sharon would be proud of my logic, I’m sure.

  Perhaps feeling as though I’m an imposter means I’m not. Maybe feeling stupid gives me the chance to make smart choices instead of blundering on oblivious to my own stupidity. The smart choice would be to get out of the country. Find somewhere with no extradition treaty and run like hell. But perhaps the smartest choice is what I’m doing right now—refusing to be selfish and take the easy way out.

  There’s a cafe in the lobby so I grab a coffee and buy a book on American Natural History from the gift shop next door, giving myself something to read while I wait. There’s a television in the cafe showing footage from CNN. The sound is down, but there’s speech-to-text running, so I can see what’s being said. It’s mostly finance news and a running commentary about yet another bloody conflict in the Middle East. More lives needlessly lost over oil in the sand. Around 11 AM, there are images of President Harding landing in New York. The caption reads:

  President to visit American Natural History Museum… Benefactor during his term as Governor of New York… Heading on to the United Nations this afternoon for talks with German Chancellor Hamult.

  Nice work, Nate.

  By 11:30, the tourists are all particularly beefy, with crew cut hair, dark sunglasses, two piece business suits, and radio pieces in their ears. No one approaches me in the cafe. It’s as though I’m invisible. I’m nervous, watching the clock on the wall as it slowly approaches noon. I go to the bathroom to pee at 11:45 and again at 11:52, desperate to steady my nerves.

  Shortly after noon, the President enters with a small detachment of Secret Service agents surrounding him. I’m expecting him to walk over and sit down with me, but he doesn’t, even though I’m staring at him as he walks briskly by at a distance of about twenty feet. The president disappears into the museum. I guess they didn’t give him any mug shots. To be fair, everyone was staring at him, so he wouldn’t know who he was supposed to meet.

  I get up, leaving my history book on the table, and try to walk casually into the museum, but I’m sure I look like a criminal creeping around, waiting to nab a purse and run.

  I need to pee again.

  Get it together, Joe. He’s just a man. He puts his pants on one leg at a time just like you. He eats, sleeps, poops and pees.

  Don’t think about pee.

  Breathe.

  The President stands alone in front of a display showing an authentic teepee with Native American Indians depicted as lifelike models going about their daily chores. They’re tanning hides, starting fires, tending to children, repairing bows, and sharpening arrowheads.

  The Secret Service stand in a loose circle roughly twenty feet away from the display. As I approach, one of them stops me and lightly pats me down. His hand rests on my jacket for a moment, politely suggesting I should empty my pocket.

  Slowly, I pull out my banana, saying, “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”

  No response. No sense of humor.

  I put the banana back in my jacket pocket and walk up behind the President. He’s lost in thought, staring intently at the display. Okay, this is it. Showtime. Don’t be intimidated. You’re an alien. Be the alien—a badass, acid-for-blood, rip-your-heart-out xenomorph complete with writhing tentacles.

  Okay. Be serious.

  “Twenty million. Dead,” I say, letting those words sink in as I compose myself.

  The President turns to face me. He’s nervous, and strangely enough that helps me relax. He looks older than he does on television, and sadder, lacking the charisma I normally associate with him. His hair is slightly ruffled, and his tie is off-center. It’s been a hectic morning for him.

  It takes me a moment to realize he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve been reading up on American history all morning so the facts are fresh in my mind, but he seems to think I’m threatening to kill twenty million people. To be fair, I did just threaten to nuke Chicago.

  “Mainly from disease,” I say, gesturing toward the display. “Ninety percent of the population was wiped out. Sometimes deliberately, but most of the time, inadvertently.”

  I need to be careful with my pronouns, making sure ‘I’ or ‘we’ refers to aliens while ‘you’ is reserved for humanity.

  “Your knowledge of infectious disease was so rudimentary, there was little that could be done to avoid the misery and suffering. Disease spread like wildfire.”

  He nods thoughtfully.

  “This is what we’re trying to avoid. Unforeseen, unintended consequences. Consequences that cannot be reversed.”

  Good use of ‘we,’ and a point well made, I think.

  I pause, wanting to give him the opportunity to respond if he wants to. For a few seconds, there’s an awkward silence. Radios squawk softly behind us. Secret Service agents speak in hushed tones that echo softly off the vast marble floor.

  “I presume you’re wearing a wire?”

  The President nods nervously, like a drug snitch being fingered.

  “That’s okay,” I say, as that simple question told me something important. He’s being honest, but not forthcoming. I find that curiously interesting.

  “What do you want from us?” The President asks, wiping sweat from his forehead. The poor guy probably thinks he’s been dragged here to negotiate the peaceful surrender of humanity to an alien invasion force. Too many goddamn awful movies, that’s our problem. No one stops to think aliens might be peaceful.

  “Nothing,” I say. I’m pretty sure that’s accurate. “We don’t want your water, or your gold, or your women, or anything crazy like that.”

  Again, I let my words sink in. He looks relieved.

  “We want you to emerge into your own. We want you to leave the past behind. Our only interest is in seeing you mature as a peaceful star-faring species.”

  “And you can help us?” he asks.

  “Not in the way you think.”

  “So no beads for blankets, huh?”

  “No.”

  Again, the silence around us is deafening. I keep waiting for him to say something, but he seems distracted. Maybe he’s overawed by the occasion. If only he knew he was talking to a spoiled brat from Queens.

  “We can guide you,” I say, which is kind of true, and kind of a lie. It was true. It’s not any more. “We’re not going to give you, or any other nation, any kind of alien tech. You have to earn your own keep.”

  He nods.

  I’m racking my brains trying to figure out what Sharon would say if she were here. She’s not, which eats away at my heart, but I’m determined to do her proud. I’ve got to try to fill that void. I’ve got to keep us moving in the right direction. Equality. Sharon was big on equality.

  “Look at this,” I say, leading the President over to the other side of the floor. There’s an exhibit on the Revolutionary War. A copy of the Declaration of Independence has been set behind a glass frame in an ornate wooden display case. Spotlights highlight the fine cursive writing on the aging parchment.

  I point to the second paragraph, saying. “Look at how this journey began.”

  The President reads aloud. Normally, a vast room like this would be a cacophony of noise with its marble floor and high, lofty ceiling, but today the museum is solemn, silent and empty, allowing the President’s voice to echo with gravitas.

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal—”

  “Don’t you see?” I say, cutting him off. I’m excited, remembering the passion with which Sharon talked to me in the cemet
ery. “This is what America stands for. Equality. It’s right here, at the very foundation of the nation. And yet even as Jefferson penned these words, he kept slaves in his home. Jefferson spoke of equality, but only for men—white men.

  “As a nation, you have spent over two hundred years trying to live up to the heart and intent of these few words. You’ve spent two hundred years trying to get equality right.”

  The president rubs his hand over his face, lost in the words before him. I seize the moment to drive my point home.

  “Do you want to know what it takes to reach the stars? It doesn’t take rocket ships and ray guns. It doesn’t take astronauts and robots. It takes equality here on Earth. Think about what equality means and you’ll find yourself among the stars.”

  He wrings his hands together, saying, “They briefed me on what to expect when I walked in here—NASA, SETI, DARPA, the National Security Council. They had me memorize dozens of points that were likely to come up. But, you know what? They were wrong. All of them.”

  I nod, seeing he gets it.

  “They thought First Contact would be about you, but it’s not, is it? It’s about us.”

  I smile.

  “I’m supposed to ask you lots of questions, like where you’re from, how you got here, who else is out there, but you’re not going to answer any of those questions, are you?”

  I shake my head, not that I could answer any of them anyway.

  The President taps the glass, resting his fingers over those few words as he says, “This was supposed to be our turning point.”

  “Yes.”

  “We started on this path a long time ago, but we’re not there yet, are we?”

  “No.”

  He breathes deeply, exhaling and sighing at that realization.

  “So what happens next?” he asks.

  “Keep growing as a species, not just a nation. Keep changing for the better. Reason must prevail over instinct. Honesty must prevail over ideology.”

  “And you?” he asks. “Will I ever see you again?”

  “No,” I say. “Not unless something goes horribly wrong.”