The Twiller

by David Derrico

  The alien stared at him intently. It seemed to be sizing him up. “You might be right,” it said thoughtfully. “You probably would make a fine steak. Not the leanest cut, certainly, but look at all that nice marbling there.” He pinched the flab under Ian’s biceps. “And you’ve probably never worked a day in your life. Those anemic muscles of yours would be awfully tender. You’d hardly need any marinade at all. Just a little seasoning, seared at 600 degrees for a couple of minutes on each side, then low heat for another six, six-and-a-half minutes per side. Cover you up and let you rest for five minutes, and you’d be perfect.”

  Ian stared at the creature in shock, and tried to slip off the barstool to sit farther away. But the stool still held him securely, apparently unwilling to let him go before he ate or drank anything.

  “The name’s John,” said the creature cheerfully, and Ian was relieved to see that the slightly hungry look had faded from its eyes. “I make the best steaks on the planet. I’ll have to make you one sometime.”

  Ian tried to ignore the slight ambiguity in the creature’s last statement. “Nice to meet you, John,” Ian replied, grateful to meet someone with such a normal name. “So, what’s good here?”

  “The ribs,” replied John without hesitation. “Best ribs in the galaxy. One day I’ll get myself a smoker, invent my own barbecue sauce recipe, and slow-cook ‘em all day until the meat just drips off the bone.” He shrugged. “Until then, I just come here.”

  Just then, the bartender sauntered over, wiping a mug with a ratty cloth and succeeding only in smudging some dirt around it. “I’ll have the ribs,” Ian proclaimed, snapping the menu shut. “A whole mess of ‘em.”

  The bartender just nodded and headed back to put in the order.

  “Good choice,” said John, sliding onto the barstool next to Ian. He downed the remnants of a huge tankard of beer. “So, where are you from? Not around here, I take it?”

  “How do you know that?” Ian asked.

  “Easy,” John shrugged. “You can’t take a little Fleur Ida heat, and the first three suns have already set for the day. You should see what it’s like at high noon.”

  Ian shuddered even contemplating it.

  “We get a lot of tourists down here,” John explained. “They’re always complaining about the heat and the bugs, which I have to admit are pretty nasty.” He waved at the bartender to refill his beer. “I’m really not sure why they all come visit in the first place.”

  Ian considered explaining that he never seemed to end up anywhere voluntarily these days, but he glanced up and was relieved to see the bartender arriving with John’s beer and Ian’s meal. A huge rack of ribs dominated the plate, dwarfing a decent-sized baked potato and what seemed to be a purely superfluous tiny cup of cole slaw.

  Ian started in on his meal ravenously, and, as the meat slid effortlessly off the bone, he thought, just for that moment, that perhaps everything had been worth it. Definitely the best ribs in the galaxy.

  “Told ya,” said John smugly, and not even that could bother Ian just then.

  . . . . .

  Ian stared at the empty plate in front of him and gently placed a hand on his swollen belly. He was obscenely full. In fact, he had never eaten so much in his life, as he had never had anything so delicious in his life before. He sat contentedly for a moment, certain he would never eat again.

  “I’m impressed,” said John. “I never thought a scrawny thing like you could finish off a full rack.”

  Ian responded with a vigorous belch that startled the Twiller, who had been uninterested in the ribs and had instead feasted on the cole slaw. “I think I need to use the restroom,” said Ian, easing himself off the barstool.

  John shook his head violently. “I wouldn’t do that,” he advised. “It’s not safe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ian, stopping in his tracks. “What’s in there?”

  John let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s what I’d like to know.” He shook his head again.

  “I–I don’t understand. Then why do you say it’s not safe?”

  John sighed and leaned an elbow on the bar. Ian had the unsubstantiated but certain feeling that he was in for a long and disconcerting explanation, so he sat back down as well.

  “It’s those rings,” John began. “Those paper things you put over the toilet seat before you sit.”

  “Yes?” asked Ian. “Are they made of some caustic material that will burn human flesh? Will touching one teleport me somewhere hideous? Are there parasitic aliens that take the shape of those paper rings and invade your body through—”

  John, thankfully, cut him off. “No. Don’t be retarded. They’re just paper. You’ve been in space too long.”

  Ian could not argue. “Well, what then? Do they not have them here or something?”

  “Oh, it’s much worse than you think!” John’s voice gained volume and strength. “They have them, all right. That’s the problem.”

  Ian thought it was best to not ask any more silly questions, and just let his surly friend explain.

  “You see,” John continued, “almost every bathroom in civilized sectors of space has those paper rings in a dispenser by the toilets. You know, the dispensers that say ‘Provided By The Management For Your Protection’?”

  “Yeah,” said Ian, glad to hear something familiar. “Yes, I know those very well. We have those on my planet.” Ian felt rather proud.

  “Hmph,” John snorted. “The slug-beasts of Ventribula IV have them too, and they mate in cocoons made of their own excrement.”

  Ian felt a bit less proud, but only just a bit.

  “Anyway,” said John, “didn’t those ever concern you? Didn’t you ever wonder about those? I mean, they don’t say ‘Provided By The Management For Your Improved Hygiene.’ Or ‘Provided By The Management For Your Comfort.’ Or ‘Provided By The Management For Your Piece Of Mind.’”

  “Well—”

  “No!” interrupted John, who was nearly shouting now. “They are provided for your protection! Which implies—no, it states—that you must be protected from something, does it not? Now, what would you need to be protected from? Do you know? Do you? From some sort of danger, right? I mean, what sorts of things must you be protected from? Do you need to be protected from money? I don’t think so. Do you need to be protected from young, beautiful, horny women? Uh-uh. Do you need to be protected from gold? Or a nice Porterhouse steak? Do you? Well, do you?”

  Ian opened his mouth to speak, but John rose from the barstool with great menace in his eyes and hate in his heart, and Ian thought the better of it.

  “No, you’re damned right you don’t!” John continued to raise his voice, and other patrons at the bar were beginning to move away from him. “No one needs to be protected from any of those things. No, you only need to be protected from danger. And isn’t danger, by it’s very nature of being dangerous, grave danger? So the question I ask you, silly alien, is this: what exactly do you need protection from? What nefarious sort of grave danger lurks in those bathroom stalls?”

  “I guess I never really—”

  “That’s right you didn’t,” John forcefully interjected, without really knowing what Ian was about to say. “But I’ll tell you what you do need to be protected from. Radiation, how about that one? I’d say you need to be protected from radiation. How about from the Ebola virus? Hm? I’d certainly like to be protected from that. Ravenous space dragons. The Plague. The Scourge of Hezboth VII. Oh, yes, we need protection from all of those things. And how about terrorists? We definitely need protection from them.”

  “Right,” said Ian, figuring a one-word comment would have a chance of getting through the tirade.

  “But it gets worse. It gets much, much worse. Because we both agree that there is some grave danger in that bathroom stall, presumably right there on the toilet seat, that we need protection from. Some evil, lurking, terrorist germs and God-knows-what ready to infect and violate our God-knows-where. But what does
this kind and benevolent ‘management’ provide to protect us? A shield, perhaps? An antidote or vaccine? Maybe a blaster, or an armed guard? Some kind of force field? No! A flimsy, one-atom-thick ring of paper, that’s what! A wafer-thin sheet of absorbent material—not latex, or titanium—no, it’s just this crappy little thin little stupid little piece of freaking paper!” John really was actually (not just nearly) shouting now, and Ian was rather afraid, partly of the toilet danger, but mostly of John.

  John gathered himself a bit, and continued. “So if you think I’m going in there—in there with that … that … whatever the hell danger is lurking in there, armed with nothing but a flimsy little piece of paper for ‘protection’ … well, you’ve got another thing coming.” Spent from his tirade, John cast one last suspicious glance in the general direction of the bathroom, and sat back down.

  Ian exhaled a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He looked to the bathroom in fear. Of course someone named “John” would know quite a lot about toilets. Ian crossed his legs and resolved not to think about the gurgling in his abdomen any longer.

  . . . . .

  Several hours and many pitchers of beer later, Ian’s bladder was close to bursting. But, John insisted he would be safer relieving himself outside than in the nefarious bathroom. So, they paid their bill and headed to the door, where Ian paused for a moment to brace himself for the heat.

  He opened the door and a wave of warm, damp air hit him like the breath of a ravenous space dragon. Thankfully, most of the planet’s suns had set, and the warmth of the evening was bearable, if still unpleasant. Ian quickly dashed behind a tree to empty his bladder, and came back feeling much better. He noticed the Twiller had dashed behind a small shrub for apparently the same reason.

  John nodded in approval and looked both ways down the empty street. “So, where are you headed for the night?” As if on command, the flames dancing about his hair receded to a subdued smoldering.

  “Oh, I figure I’ll just find the nearest hotel,” Ian replied.

  “Nah,” said John. “You don’t need a hotel. Not during the off-season.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “See all those condos a few blocks down, along the beach?” John motioned toward an unbroken line of tall and mid-size buildings. “They’re packed with northerners during the winter, but now they’re all empty. Plenty of great places to crash.”

  Sure enough, not a single light shone from any of the many windows in the line of buildings. They appeared deserted, standing in stark, silent silhouette against the setting rays of the last evening sun.

  “So, they’re all just vacant?” Ian asked.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve got that whole building to myself.” John pointed to the nearest building, then cast his gaze skyward. “If we can get over there, we’ll be fine.”

  Ian’s muscles tensed, and he followed John’s eyes as they darted around the sky. He couldn’t see anything in the dusky twilight, but he thought he sensed a far-off buzzing sound. “What do you mean, if we can get over there?”

  John paused his observations long enough to give Ian a look. “Oh, right, you’re not from around here.” He reached into a holster on his hip and pulled out a heavy, black gun that oozed power. The thing was massive, twice as thick as any gun Ian had seen, but John hefted it with practiced ease in one solid hand. “Just stick with me. And run.”

  With that, John took off toward the buildings, and Ian followed behind, struggling to keep up. John’s head swiveled back and forth as he scanned the sky, but he thankfully glanced back to Ian and slowed for him to catch up. “Faster,” John huffed. “They’re getting closer.”

  Ian didn’t even want to know what ‘they’ were, so he just concentrated on following John and running as fast as he could. The buzzing sound had definitely gotten louder, and appeared to be coming from all directions at once. The Twiller rushed ahead, effortlessly keeping up with John and twilling encouragingly for Ian to keep up.

  “Damn!” shouted John. “Too slow.” He veered off and took shelter under a metal awning covering a closed T-shirt shop. “Under here!”

  Ian complied, darting behind John and nervously looking out at the sky behind him.

  The buzzing sound was definitely louder, still coming from all directions but now Ian could make out a single, louder buzzing sound, and the source seemed to be moving. John gripped his pistol in both hands and waited.

  A dark shape flashed overhead, and Ian caught a brief glimpse as John’s gun thundered and the enormous muzzle flash illuminated the flying creature overhead. The monster was black like the darkest night, slender in form but the size of a flying Labrador Retriever. Two pairs of huge translucent wings blurred together as they beat at a feverish pace. The flash reflected off a pair of huge, bulbous, compound eyes on the creature’s head, and a long, slender spike jutted from its head like a rapier blade.

  John’s aim was true, and the beast buckled as it was hit, losing altitude as it absorbed the powerful bullet impact. But it quickly recovered before it hit the ground, and darted toward John from chest height, its foot-long spike aimed to skewer his neck.

  John fired twice more, three times, and the creature finally slammed loudly to the ground, only a few feet away. Its wings buzzed in one final, spasmodic twitch, and then it lay still, bright red blood gushing from its wounds. Evil seemed to roll off the creature in waves.

  “Fiend,” John spat. “Looks like it’s already fed tonight.” He nodded to the blood.

  Ian could only stare at the thing, a beast straight out of his nightmares, but somehow revoltingly familiar.

  “We’d better get to shelter,” John said, and dashed the last half block to the condo building. Ian raced after him, glancing over his shoulder to see a swarm of the creatures descending from the skies behind them. He began to scream, but John jerked him up by his collar, pulling him the last few steps and inside the building. John quickly pulled the door shut behind them.

  Ian collapsed to the tile floor, panting, and was relieved to see the Twiller floating nearby. “What in God’s name … ?” he asked breathlessly. “Are we safe?”

  “Yup,” John said as he casually re-holstered his gun. He reached down and helped Ian back to his feet. “I told you the mosquitoes down here are no joke.”

  * * * * *

  Part XIII

  After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Ian took a slow, cheaply decorated elevator to the fifth floor of the condo building, where John stepped off and headed a few doors down the hall. He opened the door (which did not appear to be locked) and Ian followed him inside.

  The door opened into the kitchen, and Ian immediately went to the sink to splash some cold water on his face. The knob on the left was marked “HOT,” with a large icon of a fireball and the word “CAUTION” in several languages. Ian turned the other knob, and screamed as his hands were scalded by the searing hot water that came out of the faucet.

  “The cold water doesn’t come out right away,” John admonished him. “You have to give the cold water cooler a chance to kick in.”

  Sure enough, Ian waited a few seconds and the steam started to dissipate. He timidly put his hands under the water and was relieved to find it was only lukewarm.

  “That’s about as cold as it gets,” John shrugged.

  Ian splashed water on his face, wiping away some of the sweat and cooling off a bit. He dried his face on a nearby dishtowel and stepped out of the kitchen, looking around the rest of the apartment.

  The place was a mess. Empty pizza boxes, papers, and general trash were strewn across the floor and covered the tables. It appeared John didn’t much care about the condition he left his borrowed apartment in.

  “Jeez,” said Ian. “Can’t you clean this place up? Would it kill you to sweep, or vacuum the place?”

  “Oh no,” replied John. “Nature abhors a vacuum.”

  Ian didn’t know how to respond, but just then, his cell phone rang from his pocket. There was only one man
it could be.

  “Could you excuse me for a minute?” Ian asked. John nodded, and Ian headed out to the balcony to take the call. The Twiller followed him out.

  “Hello,” said Ian, “Mr. Sanders, I presume?”

  “That’s Colonel Sanders,” the voice replied. Ian suppressed a chuckle. “Okay wise guy, I see you still think this is all one big joke.”

  “Well,” Ian replied with a sigh, “I must have traveled halfway across the Universe by now. I’ve spent time performing in a circus, in a ‘spaceship’ with the approximate shape and spaceworthiness of an old green Buick, and more spaceports than I care to remember. I’ve been chased by ravenous space dragons, bloodthirsty politicians, and mosquitoes large enough to carry away a small child … and the car she’s riding in. I’ve been poked, prodded, arrested, insulted, and born. So, unless you are calling to tell me that you have a way for me to get home ….”

  Colonel Sanders lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mr. Harebungler, your mission has been an unqualified success. We have arranged for you to return home. A transport shuttle will be sent to pick you up and bring you back to Earth.”

  Ian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Sanders, if this is a trick—”

  “No trick, son. You have served your country well, even though no other living soul in the country knows of your mission. Or of the NETSA. Or of me. Or, of course, you. Nonetheless, you have been invaluable.”

  “I have? I mean, yes, I would think that I have been.”

  “The data you have collected for us will enable me to prevent a terrible catastrophe from befalling the planet. But, since I am the only one with the requisite security clearance, I am the only one who knows of the threat, the only one who can use the knowledge you’ve gained to protect the Earth.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic? I mean, surely it’s not that bad, sir,” he added, afraid he had gone too far.