The Twiller

by David Derrico

  Ian was unimpressed. “Is that what this is?”

  D-von scratched his head in puzzlement. “Never mind,” he said. “Just drink it.” He narrowed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “And hold on to something.”

  Ian shrugged. With a nod to D-von, he put the thimble to his lips and downed it.

  The last thing he remembered thinking before he passed out was: how the heck did all those elephants get inside my head?

  . . . . .

  Ian awoke to a headache never before experienced by an Earthling. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up, failing miserably on both counts. His eyes throbbed painfully from where he had poked them, and his hip ached from his fall.

  “Wha–what happened?”

  “I thought you said you wanted a stiff drink?”

  Ian looked up into a kaleidoscope of sickly color. His eyes cleared and hovering over him was D-von. The Twiller, which was actually hovering, was there too.

  “What did you do to me?”

  D-von laughed. “Supernova, remember? It’ll put hair on your chest. Now get up.”

  With D-von’s help, Ian stumbled to a bench in the corner of the spaceport and collapsed onto it. He tried for several moments to be as still and silent as possible. “What are you still doing here?” he asked, softly.

  “Well, you know,” the alien replied, “you can’t just give a guy a Supernova and leave him to his own devices.” He shrugged. “You’d have woken up to find that someone had liberated you of your clothes, your money, and most likely your medically valuable organs.”

  An ambulance screamed through Ian’s skull, sirens wailing. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “Hey, don’t mention it,” his friend replied. “Where’d you say you were from?”

  “Millifront Way,” Ian replied.

  “Hmm. Never heard of that one,” D-von admitted. “Is it a large galaxy?”

  Ian winced. “Apparently so,” he replied, misinterpreting the question.

  “How do you get there?”

  Ian thought about the question for a moment. “The only way I know of is to be born.”

  D-von looked at him quizzically. “That’s deep, man. Okay, no more Supernovas for you.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize you were a philosopher.”

  “I would very much like to go home.”

  “Sure, sure,” D-von agreed. “Just hire a cab. And be careful for the ‘black hole trick.’ Don’t let them keep the meter running.”

  “Thanks,” replied Ian. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”

  D-von cocked his head back and laughed. “No, no I suppose you don’t.” He looked Ian up and down. “Not in those threads.”

  Ian ignored the insult. “So, where do I get some money?”

  D-von considered the question. “Well, when I get low on cash, I sometimes head over to Yore Mayker’s Circus of—”

  “No!” shouted Ian, so loudly that he enraged the pack of elephants in his head to stampede once again. He closed his eyes and added, more softly, “I just came from there.”

  “Did you win?”

  Ian thought for a moment. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Well,” replied his friend, “you appear to be all right. In fact, you seem to have several extra organs—eyes and ears for example.”

  Ian looked to D-von, for the first time noticing that the creature only had one bulbous eye and no visible ears. Ian wondered how such a thing would escape his attention. It was precisely the sort of thing he fancied himself as being rather good at noticing.

  “Yes, well, how do you suggest I get home, then?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. You can hitchhike.”

  “Hitchhike?”

  “Sure,” D-von replied. “Should be no problem at all, just as soon as you find someone going to the Millifront Galaxy.”

  Ian considered correcting him, but did not. His head still hurt too badly to think about it. He looked to the Twiller for help, but it appeared to be having its own problems. It was bobbing erratically in the air. On second thought, Ian was not quite sure if it was the Twiller that was bobbing or if the entire spaceport was still spinning around him. “Alright then,” he said quickly, as a wave of nausea passed over him, “I had better be going. Thanks for the Supernova.” Ian turned to leave.

  “No problem,” said D-von. “Hey—wait a second.”

  Ian paused uncertainly.

  “This, uh, Millifront Galaxy you’re going to …”

  “Yes?” asked Ian.

  “Are the girls there hot?”

  Ian shook his head and slowly walked away.

  . . . . .

  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.

  . . . . .

  After wandering around the spaceport a bit more while checking his cell phone’s reception, Ian decided he would eventually need to come up with some sort of plan. He stopped abruptly, causing the Twiller to crash harmlessly into his neck.

  “Sorry there, little buddy,” Ian said.

  His little friend did not respond, but it clearly did not look like itself. (Ian was still not sure what sex the Twiller was, or even if it had a sex. Ian had never checked, to be honest, but he didn’t, uh, notice anything.) Now that he could see a bit more clearly, Ian noticed that the Twiller was not its usual color. It was, in fact, more green than yellow. Ian was concerned.

  “How are you doing, little buddy?” he asked. “I’m concerned.”

  The Twiller looked at him through bloodshot little eyes. Ian expected the usual response.

  “Bleargh,” the Twiller said instead, spraying a fine stream of yellow-green liquid onto Ian’s shirt pocket.

  “Sorry I asked,” he muttered.

  “Twill” replied the Twiller meekly.

  “That’s okay, little guy,” he said. “I still don’t feel all that well myself.”

  The Twiller nuzzled up to Ian’s neck and let out
a soft purring twill. Ian turned to see a frightening alien curiously approaching him. He tried to be open-minded as it drew closer.

  “How cute!” it shrieked, startling both Ian and the Twiller. “Can I pet it?”

  “Uh, sure,” said Ian, not really sure if the Twiller qualified as his pet. “But be careful, he’s a bit hungover.”

  The alien reached out to embrace the cowering Twiller, who let out a plaintive trill. It was quickly lost from sight as the alien hugged it close to its body.

  “My name is Poo,” offered the creature, speaking from one of its several mouths.

  Ian shook his head and let out a small chuckle. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but did you say your name was …”

  Poo tilted her head inquiringly, allowing the relieved Twiller to escape her grasp.

  “N–never mind,” Ian stammered. No point insulting the creature 15 seconds into the relationship. Ian realized he was decidedly low on friends at the moment. Even the Twiller seemed less talkative than usual.

  “You certainly are a strange creature,” said Poo, eyeing him with several of her stalk-mounted tentacle-eye-things. “You know, I once visited a planet in the Nowhere Quadrant where I had to live for a while with beings similar to yourself.” She shook her head. “We were going to conquer the whole planet and use the beings that lived there as slave labor.”

  “That sounds horrid.”

  “Well, yes, yes it was, actually. Those aliens—I forget what they were called now—they were just the most disgusting creatures you could imagine. Luckily it turned out they were all but useless as slave labor as well, so I was able to leave after only a couple of cycles.”

  “Um … and you say I remind you of these disgusting things?” Ian surveyed himself—the tattered clothing, his various scars and bruises, and the smattering of grime that covered most of his body, and of course the Twiller barf on his front pocket. “Well, I dare say you haven’t caught me at my best.”

  Poo shrugged, managing to convey the distinct impression that she didn’t think a shave and shower would help much. “Anyway, are you hungry? I’m starving, myself.”

  Ian sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so. Actually, yes, I am. I feel like a hamburger.”

  “I know what you mean. You look like you went through a meat grinder.”

  Ian let the insult pass.

  Poo licked several of her mouths simultaneously. “You know, if I don’t eat soon, my stomach will begin feeding on itself, and then where will I be?”

  Ian considered his response for several moments, but instead decided to stare thoughtfully at an imaginary spot on the ceiling.

  “Well?” said Poo. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go catch a flight.”

  Ian was, as usual, completely confused. “What?”

  Poo sighed. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Ian shook his head. “I wouldn’t be caught dead eating at a spaceport,” she continued. “The best place to grab some grub is on a transport shuttle.”

  Ian jerked back, suddenly sober. “Airplane food? The best place to eat is on a plane?”

  “Sure,” replied the creature, absent-mindedly sucking on one of her tentacles. “You don’t even know that? You are a dork.”

  . . . . .

  Poo did not seem upset that Ian had no money, possessions, or skills with which he could procure his own passage on the transport. She did, however, refuse to even let him inquire about the possibility of going home. Instead, she had picked their destination seemingly arbitrarily, without accepting any input from Ian.

  “We can’t just go anywhere,” Poo explained, as if she were speaking to a very small child, or whatever baby Poos were called. “This flight has the best food.” A spattering of drool escaped one of Poo’s mouths. “Very flavorful. A little noisy, but what the heck.”

  Ian opened his mouth and considered asking about that last comment, but thought the better of it and just let it go.

  The pair (and the Twiller, who was allowed to fly free) made it through the short line and onto the transport. Thankfully, it was nearly empty. They walked down the aisle toward the rear. “Here,” Poo directed.

  Ian squeezed into the row as directed, and slid himself into the tiny seat on the left-hand side of the shuttle. He wanted to complain about how small and uncomfortable and restrictive the seats were, and how they seemed ill-proportioned for him, until he realized that they had obviously not been designed for human beings. They were, in fact, apparently taken directly from a Southwest Airlines 747.

  Ian was surprised to see Poo continue walking, and seat herself several rows behind him, on the other side of the transport.

  “Hey … uh, I mean,” Ian stammered. He surreptitiously sniffed his armpits in embarrassment. He hadn’t showered in a few days, sure, but he still thought he smelled significantly better than any other creatures he had encountered on his recent travels.

  Poo ignored him, grabbing a menu and rubbing her hands together furiously.

  The shuttle lifted off and Ian sat in the cramped seat for what seemed like a long time, with no one but the Twiller to talk to. Finally, an alien flight attendant appeared pushing a hovering cart.

  “Has the gentleman decided on his entrée today?” it asked.

  Ian looked around for the gentleman it was referring to. “Uh, yes,” he stammered, almost without thought, “I mean no.” Realizing his hunger, he mustered up a sudden measure of bravado. “I’ll have the special.”

  “An excellent choice!” shrieked the flight attendant. It opened a door on the cart and scooped a revolting mass of slimy goo onto Ian’s fold-out tray table. It flashed a practiced smile and continued down the aisle. Puzzled, Ian looked uncertainly at the goo, noticing that the flight attendant had not even thought to give him any utensils. What kind of transport shuttle is this, anyway? he caught himself thinking.

  Absently, Ian probed the goo with his outstretched pinky, just to test the consistency of it. It was rather sticky. In fact, it seemed to be folding around his finger. Ian tried to jerk his finger back, only to find that it was quite soundly stuck in the mess. He looked back over his shoulder for help, just in time to see Poo lunge face-first into her pile of goo and just sit there.

  Ian looked to the Twiller for help, and suddenly felt the strangest sensation of his life: he could feel his body somehow absorbing the food. In fact, it made a loud and nauseating sucking sound as the goo seemed to funnel into his finger. He could see the mound on his tray begin to shrink, and his stomach stopped rumbling. He leaned back, surprisingly at ease with what was happening, and licked his lips. He almost thought he tasted chicken.

  With a final sickening slurp, the goo was gone, and Ian was quite full. In fact, he noticed, he had quite clearly overeaten. Just then, the shuttle decided it would be a good time to hit some interstellar turbulence.

  “This is your captain speaking,” came a voice from a speaker above Ian’s head. “Please remain calm. We are encountering a slight patch of bumpy air,”—Ian was peripherally aware of the fact that there was no air in space—“but there is nothing to worry about. After all,” the voice droned on, “there really is not very much you can do about it, is there? Please do not bother with your seatbelts—if we crash into an asteroid, the best you can hope for is to die from the impact. Suffocating in the void of space really is one of the worst ways to go.”

  Ian fumbled for the seatbelt, which he quickly realized did not exist. He rummaged through the seatback pocket, finding a bunch of in-flight magazines, a barf bag, and what looked to be a safety brochure. It was covered with drawings of spaceships crashing violently into asteroids and each other. He opened it and soon realized there were no words or instructions—just the disturbing pictures. Just as well, he thought bitterly. It would probably be in Spanish anyway.

  “Those passengers on the right side of the shuttle,” continued the Captain as if the ship were not lurching through an asteroid field, which it quite clearly was, “may look out the window to see the Carina N
ebula, the center of the galaxy, a lovely binary system with a red dwarf star and a black hole, and the very edge of the Universe. I do say the edge of the Universe looks particularly captivating today.” Ian vainly craned his neck to try to see across the plane, his imagination of the wonders outside momentarily overcoming his nausea. “Those of you on the left side of the shuttle”—the Captain’s voice suddenly became a good deal more hostile—“will not see a gosh-darned thing but the void of space. In fact,” the eerie voice continued, “we are purposely flying in circles so as to keep all the cool stuff on the right side of the ship. Now, if those of you on the right side of the shuttle would sit back and relax, we’ll have you through this turbulence momentarily.”

  The spaceship took a nauseating lurch, and so did Ian’s stomach, overfull with goo. He fumbled for the barf bag, trying in vain to find the opening as the taste of bile filled his mouth. It appeared the barf bag had more than one hole in it. Ian was beginning to get disoriented, and he fought to keep his mouth closed, noting as he did so that the Twiller was inching slowly away from him. By the time Ian figured out that the barf bag was designed for creatures with two mouths, it was too late.

  . . . . .

  “I can’t take you anywhere!” Poo stormed. “Haven’t you ever heard of a barf bag on your backwater planet?”

  “Well, I, yes,” Ian muttered.

  “Twill,” added the Twiller, in Ian’s defense.

  “You keep out of this,” snapped Poo. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”

  It should be noted at this point that “here” was a desolate rock of a planet, perhaps even a mere asteroid, where the transport shuttle had jettisoned the three travelers after Ian had spewed all over himself and the shuttle. It was quite a mess, and it was not surprising that they had been forcibly ejected. Anyone who has ever seen vomit in zero gravity will know exactly what I mean.

  Poo hastily stalked away on her fleshy tentacles, flagging down a passing spacecraft and hitching a ride. Within moments, she was aboard and the spacecraft sped off. Ian’s mouth still hung open.

  The Twiller said nothing. It appeared to have much on its mind.