by Mark Nutter
“Egg whites? Whaddya wanna eat that shit for?” said Nate every morning. “You think it’s gonna make you live longer?”
“I’m trying to lower my cholesterol.”
“Lower this,” Nate would say, making a gesture.
“And coffee,” continued Donnie. “Your coffee is the best in town, Irene.”
“Thank you, Donnie. See, Nate? Donnie’s a gentleman.”
“Gentleman this,” Nate would reply, repeating his gesture.
“That gesture means nothing when you keep doing it over and over.”
“Over and over this.”
“Egg white omelette, rye toast,” Irene called out to Pete, the massive cook at the grill.
Herb, Nate, and Donnie would then nod to the two black construction workers in the booth at the far end of the diner. They were also there every morning. Irene was thinking of calling them the Two Musketeers but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Anybody remember this good old good one? Gee, it’s great after staying out late, walkin’ my baby back home...” sang Herb.
“Oh Christ,” said Nate.
And so it had gone for the past eight years.
Then the aliens came.
The aliens didn’t take over all at once. They did it gradually, so as not to alarm the human race.
“Here come the Three Musketeers,” said Irene, her voice quavering, as Herb, Nate, and Donnie settled into their usual booth.
“It’s quiet today,” said Herb, looking at the other booths. “Where is everybody?”
“Nothing happened,” said Irene.
“Whaddya mean?” said Nate.
“Nothing.”
“You’re crazy,” said Nate, putting his hand up her skirt.
She didn’t slap it away. There was an awkward moment of stillness.
“You gonna slap my hand away?”
“Okay.” Irene did nothing.
“Well hell. I’m not going any farther. You think I’m actually interested in what’s up there?”
“Anybody remembers this one?” said Herb. “Once I built a railroad, made it run, made it race against time — oh hell.”
Herb stood and walked gingerly to the bathroom.
“Irene, could I please have an egg white omelette?” said Donnie.
“A what?”
“You know. The same thing I have every day.”
“What’s in it?”
“Egg whites?”
Irene wrote in her pad, slowly. “E - G - G... “
“W – H - I — T — E — S,” offered Donnie.
“I don’t think we have those. I’ll check.” Irene skittered over to Pete at the grill. The two of them held a hushed conversation.
Meanwhile Herb waddled back to his chair.
“Craziest thing,” he said. “You know the booth where the two black fellas always sit? There’s two little piles of ashes on the seats. Like two little perfect pyramids of ashes. What do you make of that?”
“I’d say them fellas pooped out some ashes ha ha ha,” Nate cracked himself up. “Ashes out of their asses ha ha ha.”
Irene returned to the table.
“Pete wants to know if egg whites have green tassels on the end and are orange,” she said.
“Egg whites are white, ya stupid broad,” said Nate.
“Those sound like carrots, Irene,” said Donnie.
“Oh. No, we don’t have any egg whites.”
“That’s okay,” said Donnie. “I’ll just have a glass of water.”
“I’ll see if we have any,” said Irene.
“What?!” said Nate.
“Yes, we have no bananas...” sang Herb.
After a few days Donnie stopped ordering his egg white omelette. He’d gotten tired of being asked questions like, “Do egg whites have handles?” “Do they scream when you squeeze them?”
Donnie decided from now on he’d settle for water, if they had any.
One morning Irene, who was trembling more than usual, said, “Here come the Three Customers.”
“You mean the Three Musketeers,” said Donnie.
“Stupid broad,” said Nate.
“Nobody cleaned up those two piles of ashes,” said Herb returning from the bathroom.
Irene had lost weight. Her legs were like toothpicks. For a split second Nate considered slipping his hand up her skirt, then shuddered and scratched his sagging ass instead.
“Three coffees, please, Irene,” said Donnie.
“What’s coffee?”
“Oh Christ,” said Nate.
“You’re not out of coffee, are you?” said Herb.
“I’ll ask Pete,” said Irene, wobbling over to the cook.
“Something strange is going on here,” said Donnie.
“No shit, Sherlock,” said Nate.
The three of them watched Irene and Pete. A tendril-like tongue emerged from Pete’s mouth and entered Irene’s head through her ear. Irene vibrated violently for a few seconds. Then Pete slurped his tongue back into his mouth.
“What the hell was that?” said Nate.
“I thought Pete was married,” said Donnie.
Irene returned to the table.
“Pete says no coffee, because...” she spoke with difficulty, as if reciting a pre-written speech, “...coffee gives humans physical strength and cognitive power to battle non-human races.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake,” moaned Nate.
“Irene,” sighed Donnie, “if you don’t have coffee and you don’t have egg whites, you can’t honestly think we’ll keep coming back, can you?”
They kept coming back.
Each day the diner was several degrees hotter. A shimmering yellow substance was slowly oozing up the walls.
One morning Irene, now basically a skeleton in a loose-fitting waitress uniform, said, “Darp.”
“Whatever you say,” said Nate.
“Good morning, Irene,” said Donnie.
“Clarp.”
Nate and Donnie used napkins to wipe yellow sludge off the booth, then took their seats.
After a couple minutes Herb joined them, dabbing the sweat off his forehead.
“Pete’s grown a couple more arms, didja notice,” he said, then sang, “Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you...”
Irene came to the booth.
“Farp.”
“You don’t look well,” said Donnie.
“You never looked good,” said Nate, “and now you look like dog meat.”
Irene pulled out her waitress pad and began to write, pressing so hard that her hand holding the pad fell off and landed on the table.
“Oh, for shit’s sake,” said Nate.
“Barp... Pete,” said Irene, and hobbled over to the cook who had grown one more arm in the last five minutes. The forefinger on his new hand was glowing.
Pete opened his mouth and stretched it until it was three feet across. He regurgitated yellow goo all over Irene, then used his five arms to mold the goo over her skeletal frame, creating a new yellow human-shaped Irene.
“This place is going downhill,” said Herb.
“I really miss the coffee,” said Donnie.
“We all miss the coffee, jerk-off,” said Nate. “That’s why I brought this from home.”
From under his dirty barn jacket Nate produced a thermos and three styrofoam cups.
Herb and Donnie brightened.
“It probably tastes like raccoon piss, but at least it’s coffee,” said Nate as he poured out hot brew for the trio.
“Nate, you’re a saint,” said Donnie, toasting him with his cup.
“Saint this,” said Nate, gesturing with one hand and drinking coffee with the other.
A sound like a hundred dentist drills pierced th
e air. The pain in their eardrums made Herb, Donnie, and Nate wince.
Pete was shrieking “Coffeeeeee!” as a pair of fuzzy antennae he’d grown flailed in the air.
“Drink up, boys,” said Nate. The three of them chugged their coffee, then tossed the cups over their shoulders.
“That’s the worst coffee I ever drank,” said Herb. “Nevertheless I feel stronger and more cunning than I have in years, plus I don’t have to use the bathroom. Hey, look me over, lend me an ear...”
Pete’s glowing finger began to throb.
“Look out!” shouted Nate. The trio ducked as a ray of light shot out of Pete’s finger, passing over their heads and blasting a hole in the wall.
“I don’t think that’s Pete anymore,” said Donnie.
“Me neither,” said Herb.
“I hope the real Pete’s okay.”
The yellow thing that used to be Irene brandished her pen and advanced on the Three Musketeers.
“What do we do now, Nate?” said Donnie.
“Actually I do need the bathroom,” said Herb.
“Can’t it wait five minutes?” said Nate. “We gotta fight these things.”
“All for one — “ began Donnie.
“Oh, shut the hell up.”
They shoved the Irene-thing aside. It collapsed in a heap. Then together they charged the Pete-thing and jumped on it. Nate struggled with the arm and the glowing finger. Herb and Donnie each took two of the other arms.
“Donnie!” shouted Herb. “These arms are weak and bendy. You can tie them in knots.”
“Then do it,” said Nate. “And watch out for that yellow puke.”
Herb and Donnie tied the arms in knots while skillfully side-stepping a torrent of yellow puke flowing out of Pete’s mouth.
The glowing finger began to throb.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Nate. As the ray shot out of the finger, he twisted the arm around so it was pointed at Pete’s head.
There was a flash. When the dust cleared, all that remained of the Pete-thing was a pyramid of ash.
“Just like those black fellas,” said Herb.
Nate was holding the severed arm. The forefinger continued to glow.
“There’s still some juice in this thing,” he said.
The yellow Irene-thing was struggling to its feet.
Nate pointed the glowing finger at it.
Donnie pushed Nate’s weapon aside.
“Nate, no.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Irene is still in there somewhere.”
“Parp,” said Irene.
***
Nate had gotten to be a pretty good shot. He could aim the finger at an alien fifty yards away and shoot, reducing the creature to a pile of ashes.
Blam.
“Nice shooting,” said Herb.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” said Donnie. “It’s like there’s a mysterious source of power hovering above the earth, and the finger acts as a conduit.”
“Conduit this,” said Nate.
The yellow slime had eaten through the walls, revealing the desolate landscape beyond. Nothing remained of the town or the diner, save for Herb, Nate, and Donnie’s booth.
The yellow Irene-thing shuffled around them, performing a memory of a duty. Now and then it said “sarp.”
“We’ve been here an awful long time,” said Donnie.
“So what?” said Nate. “Where are we supposed to go? Our homes are gone.”
Blam. Nate picked off another alien.
“Oh, I got plenty of nothing,” sang Herb, “and nothing’s plenty for me...”
My Dead Muses
I run through Muses like a something runs through something.
See? I could use a Muse for that sentence right there.
I knocked on the bathroom door.
“Yo, Cecily.”
“What?”
“I need some inspiration.”
She opened the door. What a doll. Blond hair down to her shoulders, ample breasts spilling out of her robe. She always wore stiletto heels in case she had to answer the door.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Like a something runs through something.”
“Huh?”
“What is something that runs through other somethings?”
“Like a movie star runs through sports cars?”
“No.”
“Like a guy on Coney Island runs through hot dogs?”
“No.”
“Like somebody with a cold runs through Kleenex?”
I drew my gun and put a bullet in her brain.
Then I buried her in the basement with the other Muses.
I don’t ask for much, just somebody who inspires me while looking great in stilettos.
“Like a cat goes through hairballs?” said Delilah. She looked gorgeous in her pageboy haircut and little black dress. And stilettos.
I shoved her out of the moving car.
It was getting embarrassing. I’d already gotten a huge advance for my memoirs, and there I was, stuck on that first sentence.
“Like a cancer patient — “
I chopped off Theresa’s head with a machete.
Something was definitely wrong with my muse selection process. Maybe I was looking in the wrong bars.
***
It all started with Calliope. Not a calliope, but Calliope. That was her name, believe it or not.
My name is Derek Organ, so who am I to say somebody has a stupid name.
I like to write in bars. I sit at the bar with my notebook and pen in front of me. Sometimes I pick up the pen, but I don’t want to force it, so mostly I don’t pick up the pen.
“How’s it going, Einstein?” says Rudy, the only other daytime regular at the bar.
“Einstein wasn’t a writer,” I say.
“Yeah, and neither are you.”
Rudy slays me. He can sit there and nurse one drink for two hours. He’s no artist.
I like to order one or two or seven drinks. When I’ve downed them all, I’m ready. I go home and take a nap. The next day I return, ready to do some more writing.
One afternoon Calliope started talking to me from a few barstools away. “What do you do?”
“I’m a writer,” I said, dribbling my seventh drink down my shirt.
“I’ve been watching you. You haven’t written a thing in three hours.”
I replied, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the creative process,” I said as I slid off my stool and cracked my chin on the edge of the bar.
“I know more about creativity than you’d think,” she said.
I applied several bar napkins to my bleeding chin, and they stuck there.
“Is that a fact?” I said.
“That’s a fact. I am Calliope, one of the nine Muses.”
“Calliope? Like in the circus?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a ridiculous name.” One of the bar napkins went up my nose.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Organ. I can help you write a bestselling novel.”
“Yeah? And what do you want in exchange?”
“To be honored. To be a part of your life.”
I didn’t believe her when she said she could help me write a bestseller. Her nose was too big. It wasn’t big because she was lying, like Pinocchio. She just had a big long ugly nose.
“How about it?” she said.
I took a short nap on the floor. When I woke up she was still there.
“Okay,” I said, with no idea what I was agreeing to.
“Great. Let’s begin.”
She moved to the stool next to me and whispered in my ear. She had to whisper loudly because her big long nose prevented her from getting close.
> I listened. I nodded. I laughed. It was good. I wrote it down.
Next thing I knew I had a bestselling novel. (I’m skipping some steps here. I don’t remember them because I was drunk.)
Calliope would tell me what to write, and I’d write it. After she’d dictated six or seven bestsellers to me, I had to ask her:
“What’s in it for you?”
“I told you. I want to be honored. And I want to go to nice parties with you.”
“Let’s not get carried away. I think it’s better if I’m seen at nice parties with women who have shorter noses.”
“Oh.”
I’d hurt her feelings.
“Okay, you can come to a nice party with me.”
She brightened.
“Thank you, Derek!”
“But we’ll have to hang a beach towel on your nose so you look normal.”
“I understand completely.”
Well, she didn’t look normal, even wearing shoes that matched the towel. But what the hell. I owed her one, or many.
The party was incredible. It spanned several rooftops in Midtown Manhattan. Things were getting crazy. People were dancing, drinking, doing drugs, washing windows.
There was a giant ice sculpture of me, Derek Organ, and an ice sculpture of my detective, Derek Organ. You could call him my alter ego, if alter ego means I couldn’t think up a different name.
“Derek, this is wonderful,” said Calliope. “I’m so happy for you.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Lift up the towel when you’re talking.”
I had never seen so many beautiful women in my life. And they were all vying for my attention. Some of them carried copies of my books and were holding them over their heads to show how strong they were.
A stunning blonde in a red dress approached me. She looked amazing, with those big eyes and normal nose.
“Hi. I’m Ginger. Want to wash some windows?” She waved a squeegee at me.
“Uh, no thanks, I’m here with somebody,” I said.
“Thank you, Derek. I appreciate your loyalty,” said Calliope. But from under the towel I could have sworn she said, “Go have your fun, with my blessing.” (If that’s not what she said, too bad, I told her to lift the towel when she talked.)
I went off with Ginger, who was giggling. One thing led to another. Before I knew it we were scrubbing the floor in the men’s room.
“Ginger, I think I love you.”