The Twiller

by David Derrico

  THE TWILLER

  by David Derrico

  FLYLEAF

  Ian continued walking through the spaceport, more or less at random. As he gaped at a kiosk offering a wide variety of creative piercing services, he was startled by a loud ringing sound coming from his pocket. Belatedly, he realized his cell phone was ringing. He went to answer it, and paused, then shrugged disinterestedly. He never got signal anywhere back on Earth, so why shouldn’t he get reception half a galaxy away?

  He answered the phone skeptically. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Harebungler?” came a voice, rather clearly, Ian thought. “Is that you?”

  Ian looked down at himself. “I believe so.”

  “Good, good, Mr. Harebungler. This is Colonel Zachary Sanders of the NETSA. It has come to our attention that you have recently been abducted by aliens. As such, I have a very important mission for you.”

  “Really?” asked Ian, who had never heard of the NETSA. “What is the NETSA?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified, Mr. Harebungler. But we have an important mission for you.”

  Ian shrugged. “What’s the mission?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Harebungler.” The man sighed. “Perhaps you don’t realize just how important—and how classified—this mission is. You are, after all, only a civilian. It just wouldn’t do for us to go around telling civilians about super-secret, classified plans like this one, now would it?”

  Ian was confused. “No, I suppose not.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So it’s like, Top Secret, then?”

  “Oh, no,” said the man, whose voice was beginning to disconcert Ian. “It’s far more classified than that. In fact, it’s so fiendishly classified, even the name describing how classified it is, is classified. Do you see?”

  “Yes,” said Ian, who didn’t.

  “Very good.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Ian, who was beginning to piece some of the conversation together as his head cleared. “Did you say your name was Sanders?”

  There was a definite pause from the other end of the line. “Yes.”

  “But, Colonel Sanders?”

  “That is all,” said the voice, and hung up.

  * * * * *

  THE TWILLER

  The Unintentional Adventures of a Truly Hapless Hero

  A Novel by David Derrico

  * * * * *

  THE TWILLER

  Smashwords Edition

  Find paperback and other editions of The Twiller at:

  www.davidderrico.com

  Publishing History

  First digital edition published, June 2010

  First paperback edition published, June 2010

  Copyright 2010 by David Derrico

  Cover art copyright 2010 by David Derrico

  Cover background image used courtesy of NASA, ESA, N. Smith (University of California, Berkeley), and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA).

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  v. 1.0S

  ISBN: 978-1-4523-9653-8

  * * * * *

  Also by David Derrico

  RIGHT ASCENSION

  DECLINATION,

  The Sequel to Right Ascension

  * * * * *

  For my wife, Brigitte, who supported my decision to take the time to concentrate on writing my third novel.

  * * * * *

  Foreword

  Thank you for wasting a lovely Sunday afternoon reading The Twiller. How do I know it’s a Sunday afternoon, you ask? The answers to that, as well as many other seemingly unrelated questions, will hopefully become clear by the end of this book.

  As you read, you may notice a certain similarity between the characters in The Twiller and people from my own life—maybe even you. If you are the litigious type, rest assured that any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely intentional. Names have been changed (in most cases very transparently) to protect the guilty.

  On a related note, if you come across something that doesn’t strike you as uproariously funny, it’s probably best (for me, I mean) to assume that I’m discussing a real person you don’t know, a place you haven’t been to, or some other inside joke that would be hilarious if only you were in on it.

  One other word of warning before you proceed: you should know that nearly all of this book was stolen from Douglas Adams’ painfully funny Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. Well, maybe not the whole book, but all the funny parts, anyway.

  Except for the bit about the cell phone and the colonel. That was all mine.

  - David Derrico

  * * * * *

  Part I

  Ian Harebungler had never thought of himself as an extraordinary man, although, to be fair, he did think his last name was rather unusual and he did realize that his hunger for cucumber sandwiches was well above average. In fact, whenever Ian thought about such things, his brain invariably turned to the fact that his 4’11” height was embarrassingly short, he had lost a good portion of his hair (now almost totally gone) by the time he was 16, and that he had an almost uncanny knack for finding himself smack in the middle of whatever happened to be the most embarrassing disaster occurring at the time.

  So, look, perhaps we had better start over.

  Ian Harebungler often thought of himself as more—or, rather, less—than ordinary, but never in his wildest dreams (which usually involved the aforementioned cucumber sandwiches) did he think such an extraordinary thing would happen to him as what actually did happen to him late one early spring evening last year.

  Of course, knowing what you already know about Ian, you are probably singularly unsurprised, because, after all, most if not all of Ian’s adventures following that early spring evening turned out to be a series of near-random and hideously embarrassing disasters that could happen only to Ian.

  Ian, on the other hand, merely thought that he had bungled something terribly, as usual, when the sleek, blue-green alien ship landed in his front yard at 1713 Millifront Way and proceeded to abduct him from his living room sofa, not to mention the unsightly brown ring it left on his well-manicured lawn. Ian at first thought that he had been abducted as punishment for some heinous crime or blunder, and, as it turns out, his instincts were quite correct, though this would not become clear for some time. Indeed, the crime he was in fact guilty of never crossed Ian’s feeble mind, which is of course understandable inasmuch as that “being human” is only a crime on a handful of planets in Ian’s own galaxy, though it is punishable by death in most civilized cultures elsewhere in the Universe.

  In any event, Ian was clueless as to the dramatic (and highly improbable) series of political events that culminated in him sliding down a cold metal ramp and being deposited unceremoniously in a six-foot by ten-foot room that was very bright, very clean, and very, very hard.

  Ian rubbed his elbow as he arose, shakily testing his legs and finding, to his surprise, that they were able to support his meager weight. As he looked at the austere walls of the room, which he assumed (quite incorrectly) to be steel, he was hampered by a blurry yellow spot in his vision that appeared to follow him as he gazed about his cell. Ian rubbed his eyes, and, to his considerable dismay, the blurry yellow spot resolved into a clearly defined yellow spot that, at first glance, appeared to be a yellow marshmallow with a set of enormous white eyes hovering approximately four feet in the air. Though Ian quite understandably thought that he had simply gone mad, what with the alien abduction and his terrible fall and what happened to his lawn and so on, he would in fact later remark on just h
ow accurate his first impression of the Twiller was.

  Fortuitously for Ian, just as he was about to lose his mind completely, the walls (which he still at this point incorrectly assumed to be steel) began closing perilously about him. As if this weren’t bad enough, obnoxious music began playing from hidden speakers, music that seemed straight out of a game show, the type of music that clearly let you know time was running out and you were about to get buzzed or whammied or something. As a final helpful touch, a large digital countdown appeared on the ceiling and steadily ticked from 00:15 to 00:14 to 00:13 before Ian looked away.

  “Well,” Ian said, slumping dejectedly to the floor, “I suppose this is it. Not much we can do about this, I imagine.”

  “Twill,” replied the Twiller apologetically.

  It was at this point that Ian quite simply decided to go mad.

  . . . . .

  It is rather unfortunate that Ian chose the particular time that he did to go mad because, had he retained his sanity just another few seconds, he would have seen something quite remarkable take place.

  What he would have seen was this: the yellow Twiller, hovering its small, marshmallow-like body through the air with apparent ease, squeezed itself through a tiny crack between the collapsing walls and disappeared therein. What Ian would not have seen, even had he retained his sanity, was the Twiller, with a Herculean effort, pressing a small red button that halted the walls’ constriction and opened a small trapdoor in the floor.

  When Ian opened his eyes, well after the allotted thirteen seconds had passed, he saw the Twiller, hovering quiescently near the trapdoor, and the walls, which very distinctly appeared not to be moving.

  “Pretty lucky break for us, eh?” mused Ian.

  “Twill,” trilled the Twiller.

  “Well, er, I guess we had better see where this leads …” Ian paused. “What should I call you, exactly?”

  “Twill,” the Twiller trilled.

  “Very good then. Let’s go, Twill.”

  With that, Ian peered down the shaft, and, finding a ladder hanging from the opening, he confidently proceeded down it, getting a whole three rungs before he lost his grip and tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. Thankfully, the drop was not far and the floor was not quite as hard as the steel-like material of the cell. He dusted himself off to find the Twiller hovering quietly behind him.

  “Do you want to come with me?” Ian asked.

  “Twill.”

  Ian shrugged. After all, the little marshmallow didn’t really seem all that useful, and—what’s more—wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

  Ian squinted into the relative darkness of the underground passageway, which of course was not actually underground, though that is neither here nor there. In any event, Ian decided to walk down the passageway, as he didn’t seem to have anything better to do at the time. The Twiller followed him silently, keeping just behind his left shoulder as he walked.

  After a short time, Ian came across another ladder, this one leading up. Without much conscious thought, Ian ascended it, his muscles straining with the effort, and emerged into what he at the time thought was the strangest room he would ever see, though later events would knock it out of the top spot (and even out of the top ten altogether).

  Multicolored tubes and pipes jutted out from strange octangular machines set into the walls, and sheets of shimmering silver fabric hung off a pair of flat benches that dominated the center of the room. More strange than the furnishings, however, was the slim alien being standing between the benches.

  “Lie down, Mr. Harebungler,” it said.

  Considering that this was only his second encounter with an alien (the first being one of his ex-girlfriends, though he was blissfully unaware at the time), Ian handled himself remarkably well.

  “B–but perhaps I could—” he stammered.

  “No,” replied the alien. “You can not. Lie down.”

  Ian looked to the Twiller for help. It gazed back at him helplessly.

  “Okay,” Ian agreed.

  . . . . .

  Perhaps now would be as good a time as any to explain the circumstances surrounding Ian’s abduction.

  You see, while humans are almost universally despised and avoided by most sentient races in the Universe, there is a race of super-intelligent beings from the Large Magellanic Cloud (though this is of course not what they call it) that, curiously enough, depends on humanity for its very survival.

  The Anasazi first journeyed to Earth when their supply of pink liotropes dried up sometime around the 3rd century BC (also not what they called it). The Anasazi, to that point, had depended on the liotropes (which conveniently were indigenous to their home planet) to neutralize the poisonous effects of the gendami fruit, which they ate prodigiously. If the blood of a live liotrope was not injected within a few minutes of consuming the fruit, the Anasazi in question would have a massive allergic reaction and, well, let’s just say that it would be a very unhappy (and sexually deprived) Anasazi for some time.

  Luckily for the Anasazi, the curative powers of the liotropes are almost perfectly duplicated by the human appendix, which, when mixed with a certain mixture of chemicals, can provide enough antidote to last the Anasazi for decades.

  This means that—somewhat unfortunately for humans—a live human is needed every so often so that his appendix could be removed. And while the Anasazi were quite capable medically and could easily remove the appendix and even replace it with an artificial one if they so desired, thus sparing the kidnapped human’s life, they were also not known as the nicest group of aliens to ever come out of the Large Magellanic Cloud.

  Oh, and, as for the collapsing walls and all that … there is a perfectly good reason to make the captured humans go through a little ordeal before they are murdered, but the Anasazi simply do it because they rather enjoy the show.

  . . . . .

  Ian squirmed beneath the restraints on the medical table and watched as the slim alien creature fondled a particularly cruel-looking medical instrument. It was at this point that Ian finally realized that the alien intended to do something dreadfully painful to his person and—what’s more—that it did not appear to be offering him any anesthetic.

  “Say, um, hello,” Ian offered, “do you think there would be any way that instead of cutting me up and killing me and all that rot, that you could possibly, say, not cut me up and kill me?” He looked to the alien hopefully. “How does that sound?”

  The alien being looked back at Ian with a look that bordered on intense loathing. Actually, let’s not mince words. Intense loathing is precisely the look the alien gave Ian, and even Ian was able to read it rather clearly.

  “Give me one good reason,” began the alien calmly, “why I should not kill you.”

  Ian thought about this. Several reasons sprang immediately to mind, like his fear of excruciating pain and death, the fact that he may have left his gas on, and the stack of cucumber sandwiches sitting in his refrigerator. In all fairness, however, he realized that none of these would actually qualify as a good reason.

  “I bleed a lot,” Ian found himself saying, much to his own surprise. “It would get fairly messy.”

  The alien smiled, though how it did this was unclear, inasmuch as that it, technically, did not have a mouth.

  “I quite enjoy the mess, actually,” it replied.

  Ian shrugged. “Is it going to hurt?” he asked.

  “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

  It was at this point that a bright yellow streak caught Ian’s eye. The Twiller, from the far side of the room, had launched itself at top speed into a computer bank behind the alien doctor. With a sickening sound, the Twiller hit the button it was aiming for and fell wearily to the ground. An almost inaudible click alerted Ian to the fact that his restraints had been released.

  “Stupid Twiller!” shouted the alien. “I should have taken care of you before.”

  The alien advanced menacingly towards the helpless Twiller, which
seemed unable to summon the strength to hover away. Ian sat up, and in a fit of bravery or desperation, hurled a silver bedpan at the distracted Anasazi.

  The bedpan hit the alien in the back of the head with startling force and accuracy, cracking its brittle skull and killing it instantly. The slender alien body dropped lifelessly to the floor, whereupon several less vital bones were broken as well.

  Ian ran over and scooped up the disabled Twiller. “What do we do now?” he asked, frantic.

  “Twill,” it replied, barely more than a whisper.

  Ian considered this for a moment. Luckily for him, it was precisely at this moment that the Anasazi ship came under attack.

  . . . . .

  Right off, we should probably explain here that none of the events in the following section were known to Ian, and that they are related here for the sole benefit of the reader. All Ian was aware of during this period was a lot of noise and of course the talking Barcalounger.

  . . . . .

  The Veraxian warship bristled with weaponry. It bristled with rage. It bristled with some combination of weaponry and rage. What the exact proportions of weaponry to rage were, it was hard to say, but there certainly appeared to be enough of both to go around.

  The ship looked as if it were the sort of ship that was perpetually ready to pounce at any other starship, asteroid, or planet it saw, and as if it very much desired to do a wide range of not very nice things to whatever it pounced upon. It always looked as if it were at the end of a very bad day, the sort of Tuesday afternoon that just dragged on with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It looked as if it were permanently incredibly put out by something or other.