The Twiller

by David Derrico

  Ian trudged through the living river of aliens. Even at the spaceport he had not encountered such a disparate and diverse range of alien creatures. For a moment, he considered that there were millions of people back on Earth who would give their right arm to meet an actual alien, and here Ian was in the midst of thousands of them. All Ian wanted, however, was to get away from the oppressive mass of beings. The stench was beginning to make him ill. Again.

  “Where should we go?” Ian spontaneously asked the Twiller. He was not sure if the Twiller had ever been to El Leigh, but it was considerably more worldly than Ian. Or Universe-y. Or whatever.

  The Twiller zoomed in front of Ian, leading him, and Ian struggled to keep up, trying not to touch any aliens that gave off bodily secretions. It zigged and zagged down sidewalks and alleys, eventually coming to rest before a large building that Ian instinctively recognized as a hotel. Must have been the bellhops, who had five arms apiece.

  Gratefully, Ian entered the lobby, wandering over to the reception desk. What Ian needed more than anything in the world right now was a nice hot shower. Also maybe some food. Yes, definitely food, then a shower. Actually, a good night’s sleep might truly be what he needed most of all. In fact, Ian would be happy just to brush his teeth. Can you imagine throwing up three times and not even being able to wash the taste of bile out of your mouth?

  As Ian was thinking of all the things he would like to do, he completely forgot about the fact that he had absolutely no money, nor any means of procuring any. As such, he walked up to the receptionist with a huge smile on his face.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” intoned the receptionist. “What can I possibly help you with today?”

  “I’d like a room,” Ian replied. “And room service. Cucumber sandwiches—the works. Oh,” he remembered suddenly, “and a shower, please.” He wasn’t quite sure if the denizens of El Leigh used showers. From the smell of things, Ian guessed not.

  “Very good, sir, very good. I must say, an excellent choice. The Shower Suite.” The alien’s fingers flew over a computer terminal. It looked up at Ian. “And how will sir be paying for the room today?” It smiled obsequiously.

  Ian’s eyes went wide. Right, payment. Now why hadn’t he thought of that? In retrospect, it seemed like a perfectly obvious thing to consider.

  Ian casted about the hotel lobby for—well, he didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he sure knew it when he saw it. Striding through the center of the lobby, surrounded by reporters, was an alien more bizarre than any Ian had seen on his travels. Though it was vaguely humanoid in appearance—with the requisite number of eyes, noses, and mouths—they appeared to be attached in a random and highly unnatural manner. The alien’s skin was dark in places, but its face appeared bleached, and its skin was stretched tautly over the bones in its face. And the creature’s voice was far too high-pitched and squeaky for any Earthling.

  “I just had to get out of there, you know?” said the creature, a snippet of conversation carrying across the lobby to Ian as the alien and its entourage passed by. “So I made it look like I overdosed on sleeping drugs. Can you imagine living on a world that barbaric for 50 years?” It shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to focus on my new music video coming out next month. It’s ground-breaking. It’s called ‘Twiller.’ There will be zombies. That’s really all I can tell you.”

  Ian turned back to the unctuous hotel receptionist. “I’m with him,” he said triumphantly, pointing across the lobby. “The plasticy-looking one over there with all the make-up—Michael Jackson.”

  The receptionist’s eyebrows—which, Ian noted, were located on its forearms—arched upward for a moment, but then the alien gave a small shrug. It probably figured that Michael would never notice one more room added to his bill.

  “Very good, sir,” the receptionist intoned, its smile suddenly fading. “However, I am afraid there is just one small problem.” It pointed above its head to a sign, which read, in big, bold letters:

  NO TWILLERS ALLOWED

  Under Any Circumstances

  We Mean It

  Don’t Make Us Get Snooty

  “Uh,” Ian stammered, looking back at his friend. “He’s not with me.” The Twiller, visibly hurt, cast its large eyes to the floor and hovered despondently away. Ian felt a twinge of panic, and an even stronger twinge of regret. The Twiller had been his only real friend throughout his journeys.

  “Very good, sir,” the alien repeated, handing Ian a room key. “You are in room 729,843, on the 7,298th floor.” It produced its obsequious smile once again. “Your cucumber sandwiches should be waiting for you when you arrive.”

  Ian thanked the receptionist and hurried to the elevator, only peripherally wondering if the alien actually said the 7,298th floor. He looked around and was very glad to see that the Twiller had snuck back over to rejoin him. Ian cradled it in his hands and tried his best to give the tiny creature a hug without squishing it. “I’m sorry, little guy,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean it, right?”

  The Twiller cooed in affirmation as the elevator arrived and a mirrored door opened. Ian entered and scanned four full walls of tiny buttons. He eventually found the one marked 7,298 and pushed it—along with several others in the vicinity. The buttons were clearly meant for much smaller fingers than his.

  The elevator doors closed and the chamber shot upward like a missile, causing Ian to collapse heavily to the floor. When it stopped (at the wrong floor), Ian was almost thrown to the ceiling. This was repeated several times, and Ian instantly wished he had taken more care in pressing the correct button.

  Finally, the elevator stopped on floor 7,298 and Ian stumbled out. He looked to the key in his hand and was singularly unimpressed, inasmuch as it appeared to be, well, just a key. Not even one of those credit-card keycard things they use in every hotel back on Earth built after 1945. Ian smirked, feeling an odd sense of superiority at humanity’s small victory in the crucial hotel key technology arena. Unbeknownst to Ian, as he approached his room, the key imperceptibly scanned the DNA from his fingertips and remotely adjusted the room’s temperature, oxygen levels, and lighting for his comfort.

  Ian arrived at the room to find a tray of cucumber sandwiches gleaming on the bed. He devoured them ravenously, took what would turn out to be the greatest shower of his life—even though it, enigmatically, did not involve any water or liquid of any kind—and gratefully passed out, naked, on the bed.

  . . . . .

  When he awoke the next morning, refreshed, clean, and his stomach satiated, Ian ambled over to the closet. Inside, as he expected, was a white terry cloth robe with the hotel’s insignia embroidered on the front pocket. In the front pocket was a small card that read:

  These lovely 100% terry cloth robes are for sale in our gift shop. If you would prefer to steal the one in your room, you cretin, an obscene charge will be added to your bill. You will also be charged significant sums for any soap, shampoo, air, or toilet paper that you happen to use during your stay.

  Thank you,

  Management

  Ian shrugged and donned the robe, discarding his filthy clothes. He wasn’t paying for the room anyway. He ambled over to the bed and opened a drawer in the nightstand. He fished out a worn Bible.

  Ian opened the book, noting the stamp on the inside cover, which read, “Placed by the Gideons.” There was a number listed, so Ian called it, ignoring a sign by the phone informing him of the astronomical fees the hotel charged if you so much as looked at the telephone.

  “Hello,” a voice answered. “You’ve reached the Gideons.”

  “Terrific,” Ian replied, pausing uncertainly. “What’s a Gideon?”

  “Oh, you know. We put the Bibles in hotels.”

  A sudden inspiration struck Ian. “Are you hiring?”

  “Sure we are. There are a lot of hotels out there. It’s a great job, really, if you like traveling. All-expense paid trips to exotic destinations, and all you have to do is drop
a Bible in the drawer before you leave. Not a bad deal.”

  Ian considered this. “Do I have to go to Gideon School or anything like that?”

  “Oh, no,” the man assured him. “Nothing like that.”

  “How much do you pay?”

  “Two hundred bucks per Bible, with the first payment in advance.”

  “Two hundred bucks!” Ian paused for a moment. “You pay in American dollars?”

  “No, not dollars, bucks. Let’s see … bucks are currently trading one-to-one for American dollars, though.”

  That seemed like an awfully convenient exchange rate, but Ian was bad at math, so he didn’t question it. “Wait—you’ve heard of America?”

  “Oh, yeah,” replied the Gideon. “I watch Survivor all the time.”

  Well, thought Ian, that explains it. Someone must be watching that swill. “When can I get started?”

  “As soon as I express mail your Gideon Starter Pack over to you.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Express delivery for Mr. Harebungler.”

  “How did you know my name?” Ian asked the Gideon.

  “Caller I.D.,” he replied. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Ian said, and hung up the phone. He walked over to the door, opened it, and signed for his package. Inside, he found a set of tiny Bibles (“just add water,” they read), a very thin instruction manual (“Step One: open drawer; Step Two: place Bible; Step Three: close drawer”), an unlimited travel voucher, and a credit chit. It had a built-in display, which read “200.”

  Ian pocketed the chit, and after another round of room service—Ian did not stop to wonder how the hotel was able to procure cucumber sandwiches—he headed out, tiny Bibles in hand, and prepared to spread the Word.

  . . . . .

  Ian swept through the hotel lobby in an absurdly good mood, not seeming to mind that he was still wearing the plush bathrobe he stole. Caught up by walking with elaborate sweeping motions, Ian carelessly knocked over what appeared to be a very expensive vase, or perhaps a fragile alien creature that liked to perch on pedestals. “Just charge it to my room,” he called, and strode out into the street.

  The glitzy cleanliness of the hotel lobby instantly gave way to the fetid haze enshrouding the city. Ian only took a few steps into the gloom before losing his previous resolve. He turned to the Twiller. “What the heck am I doing here?” he asked. “I need to get home.”

  “Twill,” came the expected reply, and Ian shrugged and continued on. Around the corner from the hotel, he came across a man selling food from a sidewalk cart. Ian approached the cart cautiously, peering into a roiling cauldron of brownish liquid. Every now and again, the man would spear something deep within the liquid, and would produce a dripping, fatty cylinder that he would deposit in some sort of doughy material with a slit in the top. The customers would often direct the man to squirt some foul-looking muck onto the concoction before walking away with their meal.

  Ian was feeling adventurous—and, more importantly, hungry—so he sidled up to the cart. “I’ll have one, please,” he said, and then added, against his better judgement, “With everything.”

  The cart man appraised Ian with his single bulbous eye, fishing into the vat and producing another cylinder, which he covered in sickly yellow goo and a greenish mush. Ian handed the man his new credit chit to swipe and claimed his prize.

  Pocketing his chit, Ian noticed the display now read only five. He considered what the Gideon had told him about the exchange ratio, and decided that El Leigh was an expensive city, indeed.

  Ian continued down the street as he ate. The food wasn’t bad. He had eaten worse hot dogs, but not for $195.

  As he was walking aimlessly, Ian heard a soft but distinct shrieking sound. He looked down to the source of the noise, and saw a tiny creature—like a fairy, but smaller. “Aw, man!” it said. “You almost squished me!”

  Ian looked to the Twiller, who was several times the being’s size. It shrugged. Ian looked back to the creature, who was dusting herself off. She looked like a little doll, or a figurine perhaps, but smaller. “I’m so sorry,” stammered Ian, leaning down to the creature, who was wearing something that looked like a dress, only smaller. “I, er, I didn’t see you there.”

  “No, of course you didn’t,” she replied. She frowned and wagged what looked like a finger, but smaller. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going, bigfoot.”

  “Yes, I surely will,” Ian replied, noticing for the first time that the fairy creature seemed to be carrying a small, fluffy animal in her arms. It looked like a cotton ball, only smaller. And fluffier.

  “Um, yes,” Ian stammered. He squinted at the alien, who was really quite attractive, from what he could tell. He suddenly wished he had a magnifying glass. “What is that you’re holding?” he asked.

  “This?” she replied, holding out the cotton ball. “This is ‘The Shugs,’ which is short for ‘Sugar.’ And my name is Mizmao.”

  Ian reached down to shake her hand, succeeding only in poking her. From closer up, he could tell that the cotton ball in her arms was actually a very small, very fluffy white cat. When Ian withdrew his finger, he found that it was covered in white fur, far more in fact than the entire mass of the tiny cat. He wiped it on his robe, which would turn out to be one of the most colossal blunders he would make on all his travels, which is really saying something. For now, all he noticed was that the fur clung tenaciously to the robe, and appeared to be multiplying.

  “So, Mizmao, I’ve never been to El Leigh before. Can you suggest anywhere for me to go?”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied. “Do you have an aircar?” Ian shook his head, noticing that a small breeze was causing prodigious quantities of cat fur to blow around and stick to his clothing. “Well, you can’t really get anywhere in El Leigh without an aircar.”

  Ian’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t appear that you can get anywhere with an aircar, either.”

  Mizmao ignored him. “I guess you can take a cab. Anyway, I would recommend checking out the beach. It’s really nice, and this marine layer clears up a bit over there.”

  Ian coughed, trying not to pull too much of the rancid air—or airborne fur—into his lungs. Marine layer? “So, how long does it take to get to the beach?” Ian tried brushing off some of the fur that clung to him, without success.

  “Oh, about ten minutes, without traffic,” she answered. “Just head west and you’ll hit it. About five miles.”

  Ian thanked her and went to flag down a cab. He spotted one and headed over to it.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “The beach,” Ian replied, getting in.

  Ian sat in the aircar for several hours, taking a small nap. Upon waking, he got out of the cab at the same spot—ignoring the objections of the driver, who was stuck but didn’t want to leave the cab to chase Ian down for the fare—and walked the five miles to the beach.

  . . . . .

  Ian stepped from the pavement onto a beach of coarse, gray sand. His feet sore from the journey, he pulled off his shoes and wiggled his toes in the sand. They were instantly filthy. The beach wasn’t so much sand as dirt. Even though the denizens of El Leigh inexplicably spoke English, they seemed to use words that did not mean exactly what Ian expected. In fact, he had not heard a single person use the words “smog,” “gridlock,” or “dirt,” although it was rather hard to look anywhere in El Leigh and not see all three.

  Ian surveyed the water. He could not see much of it, as it was teeming with swimmers, surfers, and a shark-like thing that startled Ian until he realized that it was wearing inflatable water wings on its flippers. Ian could only see out a few hundred yards, in any event, before his view was blocked by the omnipresent “marine layer.”

  Ian looked to his left to find a series of smokestacks, belching more of the marine layer into the air. In fact, it appeared that the facility was in fact a smog factory, the sole purpose of which was to maintain the smog content of the surrounding air.
It seemed to Ian that it was doing a remarkable job.

  To his right, Ian saw an unending carpet of beings covering every square inch of dirt on the beach. Several of them appeared to be quite badly sunburned, although Ian was not absolutely certain that their reddish coloration was at all abnormal.

  Ian found a small patch of dirt to sit on when a large bulbous alien departed. He sat and looked out at the small, crowded sliver of ocean he could see before the smog obscured his view. He looked along the coastline, his view of which was impeded by towering smokestacks. He looked at some of his fellow sunbathers, and even though many of them wore no clothing at all, Ian could not make himself feel the least bit aroused. He scratched absently at his chin, finding that he was all but covered in fine, white fur. He tried valiantly to brush it off, but it would simply float back onto his clothing as if attracted by his own personal gravity.

  An aircar marked “Beach Patrol” cruised along the beach, angling directly toward Ian. It stopped within a few feet of him and a large, mean-looking alien stepped out and hopped down to the ground. It wore a black uniform and carried a pink baton.

  “Excuse me, sir,” it began. “But county regulations prohibit you from sitting in just that way on public beaches.”

  Ian narrowed his eyes at the alien. “In just what way?”

  “Like that. Exactly how you are sitting right now.”

  Ian shifted positions slightly. “So you’re saying this is illegal?”

  “Are you getting smart with me?” the alien snapped. “Alright, I think your fun here is over.”

  Ian adopted a confused expression. “I apologize for the misunderstanding … officer. How about if I sit in a different position, then? Would that be okay?”

  The alien seemed to ponder the request. “I’m not sure if I can allow that. What’s done is done. Besides,” he looked down his noses at Ian, “I bet you haven’t even paid the county beach fee.”