Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth

by Ned Rust

  “I know you’re not a bear!!” screamed Mr. Coffin. “Bears can’t talk!”

  “No, not unless they’re Mindthling bears, I don’t suppose.”

  Mr. Coffin looked at him dumbfounded.

  “You know it’s kind of funny—back on Ith the natives thought I was a giant rabbit, which is ridiculous because lagomorphs don’t have antlers. In fact, that’s how I got the name Mr. BunBun. I don’t really mind, of course; I mean, I’m not a child. I don’t mind a little fun. But for a moment there I thought maybe you thought I was a bear! Imagine if I’d come to Earth before I went to Ith and I’d been given a bear nickname. I wonder if it would have been something like Mr. BearBear, or a play on—”

  “So what is it?” interrupted Mr. Coffin. “Uppers? Downers? Speed? Horse? Reefer?”

  “Sorry—again our vocabularies diverge. Or are you being poetic? I’ve heard of Earth’s poems!”

  “Shut up or I will spray you so hard you’ll wish you were dead!”

  “With the bear spray? Again, I’m not sure I understand. What is this ‘bear spray’? A deodorant?”

  The old man’s eyes looked like they might entirely bug out of his head. “I am not joking around here.”

  “I’m thoroughly confused,” said Mr. BunBun. “Or is it from rather than for bears—like skunk spray? Do bears on Earth have scent glands?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course it’s not spray from a bear—it’s spray to stop a bear!”

  “But I’m not a bear. And why would you wish to stop one? Shouldn’t one just let a bear go about its business? I mean you might make it mad if you interrup—”

  “I know you’re not a bear; you’re a drug-addicted burglar!!!”

  “What?” asked Mr. BunBun.

  “Are you trying to distract me?! Get me to drop my guard?!”

  “Sir, I am certain that we are simply misunderstanding each other.”

  “Listen up, you costume-wearing psycho—we’re going over to the neighbors’ to call the cops and I don’t want to hear another peep.”

  “KOPs?” said Mr. BunBun, horrified. “You have them here on Earth, too? Already!?”

  “I mean it! Just one more peep!”

  “Peep?” asked Mr. BunBun.

  “What?!”

  “You said peep. I don’t know what that means. It sounds like an onomatopoetic construction?”

  “You’re a dead man if you say just one more word,” said Mr. Coffin, gesturing with the can. “Now, move!”

  “Oh, really, I’d love to join you but I’m afraid I can’t—I have places to go, people to see. Speaking of which, can you kindly point me toward the nearest metropolis?”

  “Shut up!” screamed the man, and shook his arms at Mr. BunBun with the unintended effect that he accidentally depressed the spray can’s trigger. There was a terrific hissing noise as a jet of the powerful repellent arced out a dozen yards to Mr. BunBun’s left.

  “Jesus Christ on a stick!” screamed Mr. Coffin as he fumbled to control the stream and, in his panic, dropped the can to the damp ground. In less than a second he found himself deep inside a caustic cloud of bear repellent. His eyes swelled shut, and his nostrils and mouth exploded with pain.

  Mr. BunBun was safely a few paces upwind but his acute sense of smell, coupled with his extensive chemical training, told him that the horrible compound the old man had just sprayed would have much the same effect on him. On the bright side, he could also tell that the man’s physiological reaction to the spray—while terrible—was transitory. Capsaicin, the principal irritant in hot peppers—while highly painful—tends not to inflict permanent physical damage.

  BunBun sympathetically regarded the fog-shrouded man as Mr. Coffin sank to his knees and wailed like a small, if very loud, child.

  “I wonder if all the humans here are so volatile,” BunBun said, backing away as the man fell forward on his belly, passing out for the second time that morning.

  BunBun stood a moment, observing the slowly dissipating vapor. His binky beeped and he looked down at the screen on his wrist to see that several RF transmissions were closing on him. He quickly surmised they must belong to the uniformed people he’d seen gathering around the light-flashing vehicles parked in front of the house to the west—the ones that had been making so much noise earlier when the man had been unconscious the first time.

  The device indicated these nearby signals were not Ith protocol, but it had also picked up some distant ones that were. They might not yet be close, but Rex and his aspiring Deacons knew he was here. And they would surely be coming.

  CHAPTER 12

  Keeping Up Appearances

  On reflection, the most surprising thing was how calm and reasonable everybody was being.

  If the tables had been turned and a big-eyed, small-eared, makeup-wearing Kempton had arrived on the sidewalk in front of the Griffin home back in Hedgerow Heights, Patrick was certain there would have been a code-red freak-out.

  Police departments, fire departments, and—if they’d suspected Kempton really was an alien—scientists in yellow biohazard suits would have been all over the place. Humvees bristling with antennae, quarantine tents, satellite news trucks, helicopters, protest marches …

  Patrick reminded himself this was a dream and so logic was probably at least a little bit out the window.

  The father reemerged from the house and stumbled down the front steps.

  “It’s okay,” he yelled, waving his cell phone at them, “I’ve got my binky!

  “And,” he said as he got near, “I’ve received a message from the admins that we should introduce ourselves to our guest!”

  “Some of us already did,” corrected Oma.

  Mr. Puber regarded his daughter. It seemed to Patrick like he might be considering a list of potential replies and wasn’t finding any suitable to say out loud. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Patrick.

  “Well, we’re the Pubers and this—” he said, gesturing behind him at the windowless house, “is our home. So, of course, I’m Mr. Puber, this is Mrs. Puber, and these are our children, Kempton and Oma. And your name is?”

  “I’m Patrick,” said Patrick. “Patrick Griffin.”

  “Well,” said the man, beaming with pride or, at least, self-importance, “welcome to Ith, Patrick Griffin!”

  “Thanks, uh, for having me.”

  “Tell us, honey,” said Mrs. Puber to her husband, “what do the admins wish us to do next?”

  “Oh, umm, well they wish for us to—” The man’s phone made a note like an electric cricket and he broke off, eyes widening and face turning scarlet even through his makeup.

  “What’s happened, dear?” said his wife. “You seem flustered!”

  “Well, I should say I’m flustered!” the man spluttered. “I’ve just gotten a direct SMS from Deacon Sabrina Kim herself!”

  “WHAT!!!??” shouted Kempton.

  “And she has given us an additional and quite wonderful job ticket!”

  “FROM DEACON SABRINA KIM—FOR YOU?!” asked Kempton. “A PERSONALLY DIRECTED SMS?!!? AND A JOB TICKET?!!!”

  “Yes indeed,” said the man, beaming again. “Here, allow me to read:

  Family unit coordinator at 96 Eveningside Drive, The Ministry of Awareness is aware of the arrival of a trans-world emissary at or near your residence. In the interest of full transparency, and to be entirely mindful of the comfort of this distinguished personage, you are hereby granted the profound privilege of providing board, shelter, and entertainment to our visitor. To the purpose of his orientation and greater comfort, you are to provide him a fully immersive experience.

  • Today, Sixday, Dodecuary 24th, you will entertain him at your residence so that on-boarding preparations can be made in the wider community. You are to keep him indoors and acquaint him with any and all residential systems and technologies.

  • Tomorrow, Sevensday, Dodecuary 25th, you will have him join your own similarly aged children in any and al
l previously scheduled school and extracurricular activities.

  The term of this request shall hold until superseding notice is delivered to you by an official of rank seven or higher.

  “But what does that mean, dear?!” asked Mrs. Puber.

  “Yeah, Dad—does that mean he’s staying with us?”

  “Yes—we are to show him all about life here on Ith, and the best way to do that is to give him immersive, on-site experience!”

  “Wait, does that mean tomorrow—”

  “Yes, he will be accompanying you and Oma to school for Lasters Day.”

  “That’s so totally awesome—my feed’s going to go viral!” Kempton shouted, pumping his fists at the sky.

  A windowless six-wheeled vehicle shaped like a giant brick—though bright green and bristling with antennae—trundled up the street and stopped in front of the house. A small-wheeled robot emerged from a hatch in its side and scooted up the front path. Kempton reached into a hopper on its back and removed a pair of purple five-toed shoes.

  “What a wonderful color!” exclaimed Mrs. Puber.

  “Yes, they’ll go very nicely with your blue pants,” said Mr. Puber, referring to Patrick’s jeans.

  “And with your, umm, black-and-orange shirt,” said Kempton. “Now, here’s your binky,” he said, handing him a fancy cell phone just like everybody else’s.

  Patrick examined its shiny, keyless surface. Letters and strange symbols wobbled across its wrap-around screen, and a large-eyed smiley-face emoticon lit up at the top.

  “And here’s your binky belt,” said Kempton, handing him a case for his phone attached to a shiny cloth belt. The garment was the same purple as his new foot-gloves.

  “Thank you,” said Patrick, a little distractedly. He hoped wearing it was optional.

  Kempton smiled contentedly as he lathered his hands with a fresh dollop of sanitizing gel.

  “So now,” said Mrs. Puber, “we have to just take care of one other thing.”

  “What other thing?” asked Patrick.

  Oma broke into a musical laugh.

  “Well, you need to reapply your cosmetics,” said Mr. Puber.

  “What!?” asked Patrick. “I mean, I’d rather not—”

  “You really are an Earthling, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Puber. “Here on Ith, one simply doesn’t go out in public with a naked face.”

  “You might as well not wear any pants!” said Kempton.

  The donkey happened to bray just then, and everybody but Patrick laughed; Patrick was busy pinching his arm and wondering what else he could try to wake himself up.

  CHAPTER 13

  Daughterly Support

  Mrs. Griffin, oblivious to the drizzling rain, was out in the yard pulling at her hair with one hand, pressing her phone to her ear with the other, and screaming hysterically. Firemen in rain-beaded face masks and elephant-trunk respirators were trooping in through the front door.

  “Mom!” yelled Lucie, running up to her mother.

  “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, HE’S GONE!” her mother was screaming. “Rick—THEY CAN’T FIND HIM!”

  The emergency vehicles had by now shut off their sirens, leaving the damp, still air nothing to hold but the chugging of their diesels and the crackling of fuzzy-voiced dispatches. Lucie could hear her father’s placating voice on the phone: it was going to be okay, he’d be there in forty minutes—he and Neil were driving back from Paramus already—there had to be a reasonable explanation.

  “But THERE IS NO reasonable explanation!” Mrs. Griffin screamed. Lucie had a feeling like she was on the backside of a roller coaster incline.

  “Somebody used POISON GAS and PATRICK IS GONE!”

  “What?!” said Lucie, dropping her book and umbrella and grabbing her mother’s free hand.

  Mrs. Griffin looked down at her teenage daughter.

  “Oh Lucie, Lucie!” she cried, dropping the phone to the grass, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. “What have I done?”

  “Mom!? What happened to Patrick?”

  Mary Griffin buried her face in her daughter’s black hair. “I left him all alone,” she blubbered. “And he’s gone. They used gas to abduct him—I’m not being hysterical—terrorists have taken him!”

  “Mom,” said Lucie, somehow reassured by what her mother had said. There was no way terrorists had shown up in Hedgerow Heights and taken her favorite little brother, Patrick. Although it wasn’t exactly like him—her brother Neil was the one more apt to do something epically moronic—he’d clearly taken advantage of getting left alone in the house and done something, well, weird. But there was no way he’d been abducted by terrorists. Probably he had burned something in the toaster oven and was now hiding, hoping to avoid trouble. Only, of course, with a fire engine, two police cars, and an ambulance—to say nothing of an emotionally traumatized mother—it was a little late for that.

  “Calm down, Mom,” she said, grabbing her mother’s rain- and tear-streaked face with both hands. “Patrick’s totally fine. You and Dad are going to ground him for the rest of his life, I’m sure, but I promise he’s perfectly safe.”

  A firefighter emerged from the front door, mask tilted up over his forehead. “I think we’ve found a clue,” he said. “Looks like somebody did a chemistry experiment in the kitchen. Sink was full of some concoction—there were spray bottles, soaps, window cleaner, you name it, all out on the counter. So that’s what set off your smoke alarm. Your son into science projects by any chance, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Griffin stifled a sob and nodded.

  “You see, Mom? No terrorist poison gas attack,” said Lucie. It made sense Patrick had been messing around with chemicals.

  “It’s true. Patrick wants to be a chemist just like his Uncle Andrew,” said Mrs. Griffin.

  “Well, then,” continued the firefighter, “the little Einstein’s probably hiding someplace—none of us likes trouble, do we?” The man smiled kindly and strolled off to his truck.

  “You see, Mom?” asked Lucie. “That’s what happened.”

  “But it’s not like Patrick—”

  “Ma’am,” said an approaching police officer. “You left your son home at what time? Eight forty-five? It’s ten twenty-five now. Give us a call if he isn’t back in a couple hours, okay? Is this yours?” He retrieved her iPhone from the wet grass. It appeared to still be working.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Griffin, taking the phone. “But something has happened to him, I know it. I can feel it.”

  “Mom, the officer’s right,” said Lucie. “Patrick just went off to Dexter’s or is hiding inside someplace. I’ll look for him, okay? And Dad and everybody can help when they get back.”

  “Meantime we’ll keep our eyes peeled and—” said the policeman.

  He was interrupted by a piercing wail, a horrible scream that brought goose bumps to Lucie’s arms.

  “What the f-f-f—” the officer started to say.

  “That isn’t Patrick, is it!?” interrupted Mrs. Griffin, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

  The scream trailed off. It seemed to have been coming from behind the Coffin mansion next door.

  “No, that was definitely not Patrick,” said Lucie.

  “Stay right here!” said the policeman. He began shouting instructions into his handset and took off running toward the old house.

  Lucie took her mother’s trembling hand.

  “How do you know it’s not Patrick, Lucie?”

  “Mom, for one thing, that was clearly a woman’s voice.”

  “I guess it was.”

  “And, for another, in your whole life, have you ever heard Patrick actually scream?”

  Mrs. Griffin gave a grateful squeeze to her daughter’s hand.

  It was true—neither of them could remember Patrick screaming in his whole life—sure he’d cried as a baby, but even then he’d never really screamed. Unlike the other Griffin children, he somehow just wasn’t wired for drama.

  CHAPTER 14
>
  Massive Multiplayer

  After applying Patrick’s makeup—and another dose of hand sanitizer—Kempton strapped himself into the contoured chair in the middle of the cornerless gray room and began barking commands: “Join formation, config seven, passkey November-Echo-Romeo-Delta!”

  A moment later he—together with Patrick and Oma, standing behind his control chair—were skimming like a jet plane above the canopy of a canyon-fractured rain forest.

  If Patrick hadn’t been told it was a game, he’d have sworn that somehow the entire room had turned to glass and gone airborne. The vibrations, the detail of the trees, the clouds, the brightness of the sun—

  “You’re late, ABK-96,” said a nasal voice. Patrick guessed it must belong to the pilot of one of the other four slate-gray, disc-like vehicles flying in formation with them.

  “You clearly haven’t been checking your soash feed, D-Con Soldja,” said Kempton.

  “Why would anybody be checking soash feeds during Arse-Five-Oh?”

  “You going soft on us, ABK?”

  Patrick wondered what the heck they were talking about—every third word they said he’d never heard before—but they were taking this all very seriously and he decided he shouldn’t interrupt.

  “We’ll see who’s going soft,” retorted Kempton. “First I’ll kick all your butts and then—while you’re waiting to respawn—you’ll learn that the reason I was late was that my feed happened to go viral.”

  “Wha-at?” said one incredulous voice.

  “Ri-ight,” said another.

  “The only reason,” said a third, “that your feed will ever go viral, ABK, is if you have such an epic fail that it rips a hole in the fabric of the universe.”

  “Whatever you belties say,” replied Kempton.

  A bat-winged, eagle-headed, lion-bodied creature with reptilian forelegs exploded from the forest canopy like a shark leaping from the ocean—a shark that could fly at what looked to be two hundred miles per hour.