ALIEN SPACE
TENTACLE PORN
Peter Cawdron
thinkingscifi.wordpress.com
Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2015
All rights reserved
The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published as a short story in The Alien Chronicles.
US Kindle Edition
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Alien Space Tentacle Porn
A 1950s hospital. Temporary amnesia. A naked man running through Central Park yelling something about alien space tentacles. Tinfoil, duct tape, and bananas. These are the ingredients for a spectacular romp through a world you never thought possible as aliens reach out and make contact with Earth.
Chapter 01: Tentacles
Damn, it feels as though someone’s jabbed an ice pick behind my right eye.
Slowly, my eyes flicker open.
I’m in a hospital. The walls are an indifferent shade of green. There are bars on the windows and a bathroom to one side. Worn linoleum curls up from the floor, making a backsplash reaching almost a foot in height.
I feel naked, even though I’m dressed in a thin cotton hospital gown. The bed I’m on smells old and musty. My feet rest on a scratchy wool blanket lying at the foot of the bed. The heavily bleached cotton sheets make me itchy. This shithole looks like something out of a 1950’s B-Grade movie.
A nurse says, “Try not to move,” doing nothing to dispel the notion that I’ve been sucked into a time warp. Her blond hair has been meticulously clipped back with bobby pins and pulled behind a dainty half-cap that looks as though it was made from folded paper. Her cap has the classic red cross symbol on a stark white background. I thought those had gone out of fashion long ago. She holds a wooden clipboard and has the traditional upside-down watch hanging from her shirt pocket so she can glance down and catch the time.
I half expect Rock Hudson or Dean Martin to come walking in to play the role of doctor. With perfect teeth, charismatic smiles, and hair slicked back under half a pound of lard, either of them would fit right in.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Brooklyn Psychiatric.”
“A mental hospital?”
I try to sit up, but I move too fast and my head feels like it’s about to explode. The room around me spins. I’m not sure if I’m going to faint or throw up.
“No sudden movements,” the nurse says.
“You’re not kidding,” I reply, bringing my hand to my head as I sit up. I turn to face her, wanting to get out of bed. I’m not sure why, but I feel as though I need to stand, if only to reassure myself of reality. I’m lightheaded and woozy. I know it’s not a good idea, but I want to feel the ground set firmly under my feet.
“Relax,” the nurse says, reaching out and grabbing my shoulder to steady me. “Not so fast. What’s the rush?”
My feet dangle over the edge of the bed a few inches above the floor. She’s right. I feel drained. If I stood up now, I’d collapse.
The light coming in through the window is blinding. There must be spotlights outside as a brilliant white light shines through to the far wall. The sky beyond is pitch black. There’s no moon, no clouds, no stars. The inky darkness looks unnatural in contrast to the bright lights.
“Could you pull the curtains?” I ask, but the nurse ignores me, checking something off on her chart.
A doctor walks into the room. Well, I assume he’s a doctor, as he’s wearing a classic white coat. He’s not quite Rock Hudson, but he’s pretty darn close. Doctor Not-Rock-Hudson smiles.
“Good to see you’re awake,” he says, taking a chair and turning it around in front of me. He sits down and leans into the chair.
“What happened to me?”
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head. That’s a mistake. My inner ear swirls. It’s only then I notice the two officers standing behind the doctor. One Army. One Navy. Like the nurse, they could have been whipped out of a 1950’s movie. They’re wearing old-fashioned uniforms—plain shirts, heavily starched, flawlessly pressed trousers, black polished shoes. The Army guy even has a folded cap slipped under his right shoulder board.
“Where’s Rock?” I ask. It’s a private joke. None of them get it, of course, and it doesn’t seem to help my predicament. The two officers don’t show any emotion.
“Do you remember being arrested?” the doctor asks.
I’m not going to shake my head again. I offer a polite, “No.”
“Central Park? Do you remember running naked through the park?”
I can’t help but laugh at the idea. “Hell no!” Although that burst of emotion leaves me feeling dizzy. I’m careful not to fall off the bed.
“What about the aliens in Central Park? You were yelling something about space tentacles when they found you.”
“Aliens?” I ask, thinking this is more than a little ridiculous. “Tentacles? You’re kidding, right?”
What the hell am I supposed to know about aliens in Central Park? This is a psychiatric hospital. I can’t imagine the doctor believes in extraterrestrials any more than I believe there are pink elephants floating through the sky. Any serious discussion about the existence of aliens drawing crop circles in Central Park is likely to end with me being certified insane. I feel as though the doctor is toying with me. The scowl on his face says denial isn’t helping. I’m damned either way.
“Sorry, Doc. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I really don’t, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me.
“You need to be honest,” the doctor says. His eyes dart to one side, gesturing at the Army officer behind him. His voice softens as he says, “I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”
Ah, good cop, bad cop. He’s siding with me, wanting me to open up to him, only I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. And to me, that’s the real problem. No one is ever sure of anything. I could be lying about this whole episode and he’d never know it, because he’s not me. I could be telling the truth, but that wouldn’t matter either because it doesn’t matter what I say. What matters is what he believes I’m saying. Him, me, the nurse, the officers. The only person that ever really knows the truth is the one living it, and sometimes even they’re fooled.
I’m not lying.
I really don’t know anything about running naked through Central Park yelling something crazy about alien space tentacles. What the hell is all this about? Was I messed up on drugs? It sounds like I was caught up in a low-budget porno. As my head clears, I start to get a pretty good idea how something like this might have happened.
The nurse angles the bed so I can sit up. I close my eyes, ignoring the doctor as he continues talking. I need to piece together what happened from my fragmented memory.
* * *
Sharon is a babe.
She lives in the ground floor apartment directly below mine. We bump into each other in the laundry from time to time. And by bump, I mean she has a full bust and we’ve skimmed past each other awkwardly in the long, cramped, narrow basement laundromat. She’s asked me for soap a few times, and once I bummed a quarter from her to keep the dryer running a little longer. We’ve talked about politics, the economy, science, and sometimes, just before we part, there’s an awkward silence that seems to say more than words.
Sharon is easy on the eyes, even though she dresses conservatively, with a blouse buttoned up to her throat, or a turtleneck sweater.
I’ve always liked her, and not just
in the damn-she’s-hot sense. Sharon always has a kind word to say. There’s chemistry between us, but more than that, she radiates both enthusiasm and intelligence.
I think she likes me too, as she’s always happy to see me. But she lives with her brother, Mark.
Mark has a perpetual scowl. He’s one of these guys that’s bald on top so he shaves his head to look hip. Most days you can see a little stubble on the sides, just above his ears. It’s the Bruce Willis look, only I don’t think it does Mark any favors.
Mark is a sourpuss. I’ve never seen the man laugh or smile. Nothing is ever good enough for him. I remember stopping to chat with Mark and Sharon one morning, noting that the sun was out and it was going to be a glorious day. Mark sneered, saying storms were on the way. He was wrong, and that seemed to make him even grumpier that afternoon. Summer eventually gave way to autumn, and then winter, and Mark finally got his storms, but not on that day.
My eyes are still closed as I recall these details.
The officers in the hospital room are talking. They’re saying something about turning me over to the Feds, but threats are meaningless to a man who feels as though he’s dying. I doubt I could feel any worse than I do right now. I need to zone out and figure out how I ended up in a psych ward.
My thinking runs to hazy memories, wanting to make sense of the past few days, and the fog in my mind begins to clear.
Sharon and Mark were arguing with someone on the sidewalk as I walked down the steps of our shared brownstone. I didn’t think too much of it until shots were fired.
Gunfire in New York evokes a certain kind of contradiction. The city that never sleeps suddenly falls silent. It’s only for a second or two, and I’m hard pressed to figure out if it’s just psychological, and I’m imagining the silence in stark contrast to the deafening report of gunshots, or if there really is a moment when the city falls quiet and the bustle of life stops for a second.
Mark crumples to the pavement, but he’s got an arm outstretched, firing at a black sedan as it pulls away.
Tires screech.
The engine roars.
More shots ring out from the passenger window, and yet all I can think is: What is it with black sedans? Black is so cliché for bad guys.
Brilliant red blood sprays out across the murky grey snow, snapping me back to reality. Winter is lifeless. The trees are skeletons. The cars are covered in ice. Snow blankets the stairs. Everything’s white or an off-grey. Everything except the deep crimson stains on the snow behind Mark.
Sharon screams.
I run down the stairs, almost losing my footing on a patch of ice. Sharon holds Mark, cradling his head. Blood seeps through a wound in the center of his chest. His eyes stare blindly up at the blue sky.
“I—”
I’m speechless. I’m in shock. I’m vaguely aware that I’ve become a witness to a violent crime, and will be called on at some point to give a statement to the police, or to testify in court, but already my recollection of events is murky. I don’t know what Mark was arguing about. I couldn’t pick out the shooter in a lineup if he was six foot four and surrounded by dwarfs. I didn’t catch the license plate. About all I caught was a black sedan, but I can’t recall the make. It could have been a Cadillac. It could have been a Toyota Prius. I have no idea.
Sharon says, “Help me get him inside.”
“He’s dead,” I say, stating the obvious.
“We can save him,” she replies, handing me the keys to her apartment. “Put him in the bathtub. Quick!”
Before my stunned brain has time to realize what’s happening, I’m staggering up the stairs cradling Mark’s lifeless body in my arms. Blood drips on my shoes.
Sharon is gone.
I back through the front door. My heel catches on the carpet in the lobby and it’s all I can do not to fall backwards. Fumbling with her keys, I struggle to raise Mark high enough so my hand can reach the lock. I could put him down, but for some reason that feels wrong, and so I persevere until finally the door unlocks.
The door swings open. I accidentally bump Mark’s head against the doorframe in my rush to get to the bathtub—as though getting there actually matters. Turning sideways, I shimmy down the hall.
The apartment is empty. Mark and Sharon have lived here for years, but there’s no carpet, no furniture. There’s a fridge in the kitchen, but no table, no chairs. No couch in the living room. No beds in the bedrooms.
The apartment layout is the same as mine, so I head straight for the bathroom. It feels stupid, but I lay Mark in the bathtub just as Sharon instructed. I’m a little clumsy and his head hits the tap. Thinking about it, I realize I’ve put him in the wrong way, with his head by the faucet. Blood runs down the drain.
“Shit.”
I go to move him, but he’s heavy, and it’s awkward leaning down to grab his legs and twist him around. After a few tugs, I give up. What difference does it make? He’s dead.
I look at myself in the mirror. Blood has soaked into my jacket.
Sharon squeezes into the bathroom behind me. She’s dragging two metal trash cans full of packed snow and ice. She dumps them on Mark, covering him in slush.
“Ice,” she says, as Mark’s head disappears beneath the dirty snow. “I need more ice.”
“There’s an ice machine on the second floor,” I say, trying to be helpful, but very much still in shock. Did she just bury her brother in ice?
“Brilliant,” she replies, kissing me on the cheek. “Stay here with him.”
“Ah.”
She kissed me. Why did she kiss me? Her brother has just been murdered, and she’s kissing me?
Sharon’s gone before I can say anything. I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen, frantically opening and then slamming drawers and cupboards. She runs out the door and pounds up the stairs.
I stand there feeling stupid. I should be doing something. There’s a dead body lying in the bathtub beneath the snow and ice. What is there to be done? Nothing. I stack the two empty trashcans together and sit them on the toilet seat. For some bizarre reason, tidying up makes sense of a senseless situation.
Sirens sound in the distance. Pulling back the curtain, I peer out through the tiny bathroom window.
A cop car skids to a halt in front of the building. There aren’t any parking spots, so he noses his cruiser into a slight gap, leaving its fat ass blocking the road. Blue and red lights push back the twilight, flickering over the snow and ice.
I look back at Mark. Two legs protrude from beneath the slush in the tub.
“This is so wrong,” I mumble to myself, but I haven’t done anything wrong. Have I? I don’t think so. Outside, a cop stands beside the blood-splattered snow on the sidewalk, talking to one of the neighbors from across the road. A small crowd forms as another cop car arrives from the opposite direction.
Sharon jogs back into the cramped bathroom still catching her breath. She’s carrying three plastic bags full of ice cubes, and she’s got a roll of Saran Wrap under her arm, along with a roll of tinfoil. She raises her elbow and both rolls drop to the bathroom floor. The bags of ice are unceremoniously dumped on the tiles. Ice cubes skate across the floor.
“Help me get him up.”
Sharon plunges her hands into the snow and slush covering Mark’s body. I’m more cautious, not wanting to touch him. She drags him up by the front of his jacket, and leans him against the side of the tub. Mark’s head lolls to one side. Ice sticks to his hair. His lips are blue. His eyes stare blindly ahead.
“You’ve only got three minutes,” I say, not sure what she thinks she can accomplish. I’ve heard of people doing some pretty weird shit when someone dies, but this wins first prize at the county fair.
“You might have three minutes,” she replies. “He has thirty.”
I start to say something but Sharon cuts me off. “Hold this.”
She positions the bags of ice around his head and grabs my hands, pushing them in place against the cold plastic. I do
as I’m told.
Sharon pulls at the roll of Saran Wrap and starts winding the thin plastic sheet around Mark’s head. She dodges my arms as she wraps the bags against his face and the sides of his skull. I get the gist of what she’s doing and alternate my hands, making sure the ice is hard up against his skin. Sharon packs the ice carefully, patting it down and moving it around so none of Mark’s facial features can be seen.
“We’re scientists,” she says as she works. “We’re not from around here.”
“Brooklyn?” I ask, detecting a familiar twang in her accent.
“Wrong planet,” she replies, standing up and admiring her handiwork. I stand back as well, although I’m not sure what I’m admiring.
Planet?
Did she just say planet?
Maybe I didn’t hear her correctly. I try to think of the names of various countries that sound like planet. Nope, can’t think of any. Plano? Maybe she’s from Texas.
“The police are here,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“Oh, good,” she replies, reaching around behind me and pulling back the curtain. She pulls a handgun from the small of her back and fires three rounds blindly out the window. The sound of gunfire in a tiny tiled bathroom is like thunder breaking directly overhead, rattling my bones. I grimace, closing my eyes for a second.
And she’s gone.
I look around and Sharon has disappeared.
I peer through the window. The crowd has panicked. They’re screaming and running for cover as the cops duck behind their vehicles. The cops have their guns drawn, pointing at the building—pointing at me!
“Shit!” I whip my hand away from the curtain. The lacy fabric can’t fall back in place fast enough.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I repeat with my heart pounding in my chest.
“We need to get out of here,” Sharon says, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, only she’s talking to a banana.
I blink and look again, wondering if my eyes are deceiving me. Nope, I got it right the first time. Sharon is holding a banana like a phone and speaking into it. I can’t help myself. I reach out, wanting to touch the banana as she speaks, wondering if it’s like a joke phone or something.
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