Fifty issues... enough to make most fanzine editors feel old, but a webzine editor even more so! Ibn Qirtaiba was not the first SF webzine (it was the second), but at our half-century it is the longest running by number of issues published: thanks in large part to our faithful readers and contributors.
This issue, rather than the usual single serial, we have the commencement of two of them: the quirky and enjoyable Anti-Up by Mila Burton, and the fast-paced and intriguing Grave Singer by D K Smith. Yet another witty SF poem by Richard Stevenson concludes our fiftieth issue.
This issue's featured artist is Thomas Miller who is a Fine Arts graduate from East Tennessee State University. He has been doing freelance illustrations for about four years and is building a portfolio of 3-D animation working toward a career in that field. You can admire more of his work by clicking on the images in this issue.
Serial: Anti-Up, part 1 by
Mila Burton
The casino was crowded, which was okay by me. More people trying to win is just more people who can use my services.
I picked my guy soon enough and strode over to him. The fact that I was looking right at him must have thrown him off guard - that and the dress. I like the dress. It brings out all the right curves on me. A wise investment, that dress. Haven't had to pay for a drink yet.
And that's the first thing he offered, to buy me a drink. I don't like drinking while I'm working, though. I might have one later, after we've won, but I think alcohol affects my abilities adversely.
After we had gotten over the drink issue, I offered my services. He asked me if I was a dancer and I explained to him that he wasn't going to see me without the dress. So, he asked just what my services were and I explained. We worked out terms - my usual ten percent first time and twenty-five for repeat customers and headed to the black-jack table. Only card games. No chance game - not my field.
The moment we sat down, I felt the dealer start it up. Most of the dealers at this casino were that way, so my skills were needed here. I let him do his first wash, but the moment the cards were dealt I put up my field. The dealer wasn't concentrating on us yet, and started bidding.
"Ante up, ladies and gentlemen. Ante up."
That's usually my cue to start fielding.
I liked my client. He was a good player and didn't take stupid risks. Damn! he was a good bluff.
We cleaned out the black-jack table and headed off to five card draw. That's one thing about the dealers here - they rely to heavily on their talents, so when someone like myself comes along they show their true colors. They really are crappy dealers. I mean that. No pun.
My client had calmed down and it only improved his game. Now that the dealers couldn't get in his head, he was breaking them left and right. Usually, I can't find clients like that. I could see why he came to a casino and I'll bet in the old days he was a regular player. Not now, though. Too much talent out there for a guy like that to make it. Too much talent out there for him to stay afloat without a field like me.
Half-way through our stay at the draw
table, one of my old clients came up. The guy was no good, even with a field he lost.
"Jesse, I need you."
"Scram."
My client had been dealt his cards, but didn't pick them up yet. Yeah, I liked this guy. He was smart. He knew I couldn't keep it up with a sweaty shmuck breathing down my back.
"Jesse, please."
"You can't play for crap."
"I'll pay you twice as much as usual."
"I don't care. Fifty percent of nothing is still nothing. Get lost."
And that's when the slime-ball touched me. He put a spongy hand on my arm and tried to pull me from the table. I don't dig off on creeps touching me, period; but, especially when I'm in the dress and especially when I'm working.
My client was right there for me - protecting his own interests. He dug a thumb into the lard-ball's wrist and informed him in a calm easy voice, "The lady doesn't want you to bother her. Please refrain from doing so or I'll call security and have you removed."
A lady he calls me. Wow. The guy was a charmer and I adored every moment of it. I almost felt like one of those princesses that people fight over.
The creep backed off and split. My client leaned over to me and in a calm, smooth voice said, "Okay, the distraction's gone. Back to work, girlie."
So, it was really more like two dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. Oh-well.
At the end of the night, my client paid me my ten percent and I made my offer: "Now that you've seen what I can do, maybe next time you come by here, you can pay me what I'm worth."
He looked me up and down and sneered. "How about I buy you a decent dress, so you don't look like a painted whore."
Okay, that was it. First the girlie routine, then that. I took my cut, told him where to shove the rest, and got my stuff from Sandy, the coat-check girl. Sandy's a good girl - I like her. She's just trying to make an honest buck - no talent at all. Also, she got me the fake ID that let me into the casino. Eighteen and up only. Fascists. Almost as bad as my parents.
I changed in the bathroom and headed out to catch the last pub-trans home. I had to beat the curfew, so there wasn't any time to sit around. And homework, I had homework before class tomorrow. Pain. Nothing but crap that would never help me get buy. All my life-skills I learned at home. Screw school. They can't each you what I can do.
The client was waiting at the curb and offered me a ride home. I was amazed he could recognize me. One minute in a dress with long blonde hair - next I'm in boots and coat with short black hair. I bought the wig to match the ID. Makes me look older. Helps me get by.
I told him to shove it, I don't ride with peds. So he said, fine, whatever, and started to walk off. I made my way to the station and he swung around and pressed something into my hand.
"I'll make it worth your while."
I just stood there. Bastard had jumped me. He had. Freaked my shit good. Moved too fast. He had my wrist just like that. Made me open my hand by giving it a twist.
I watched him leave with clenched fists. I don't like being touched by creeps.
School went okay, I guess. Third period my friend Tom fried his machine. He does it on purpose, I think. Because he can. The week before that, it was the teacher's machine. One moment we're all watching the model and learning chemistry, next thing we're staring at a screen that says "no system files". We all knew it was him. They knew it. He's got talent.
There's a lot of talent at the school. There's a lot of talent everywhere. My parents were so unhappy when I tested negative. They were so hoping. They have special schools for talent. No schools for fields though. My brother has talent, not me. My parents like him.
Dad was on me the moment I came home asking about why a teacher would be calling. I had started fielding the moment I got home, so he only had half the story.
"Why don't you wait until the teach calls."
"I want to know now."
"Don't be so impatient. You can find out the way the rest of us do: when it happens."
"Wait until your mother gets home, young lady!"
Just for being a puss-ass I doubled the field so that he wouldn't know about the marbles in the back room. He had been home all day with my brother and hadn't found them yet. I knew that for sure. If he had found them, I would have heard about it.
Mom came home soon enough, but not soon enough for dad. He's impatient and twitchy and it drives me nuts. Things have to happen for him now - yesterday - the day before that - whenever. He's spent most of his life waiting for something to happen. He's fatalistic, too. Drives me batty.
So, Mom got home and Dad had to talk to her because I was fielding double-time. She tuned in on me and tried to pull it all out but she couldn't get past my frown. Then she tried to make me feel bad about the whole thing but I was drowning her out and it bounced and hit Dad. He was into his first half-hour of apologizing and Mom couldn't calm him. I made sure. That's what you get for playing god, Mom.
An hour after dinner, the call from the teacher came. Mom spoke with her and wouldn't tell Dad any of the conversation, which is why he knew she had called, but not why. He was begging her for the information, just to know if he was right. She said she'd talk to him tomorrow, she had to go to work, and:
"I'm very angry with you and you know why."
My parents are royal flakes. My dad works with investment bankers telling them where the market's going. Mom works this crappy-ass job in marketing selling dresses to over-weight women. When she's not at work, she's busy "volunteering" at the local Hypnogouge as a tela-prompter. It's bull-shit. It's like the new religion; everyone gets pumped full of psycho-reactive drugs and shit-heads like my mom plant suggestions in their head. The Hypnogouge in our area has five tela-prompters. Like they need to invest that much in broadcasting. I'm amazed the folks there haven't had their minds turned to mush.
I don't like anyone having that much influence over anyone. I might not do my homework, but I pay attention. I know history. I know what power like that can do. One of these days, they're going to stop preaching the happy peace love feel-good and find a scape-goat for all of society's woes. Maybe the clays; no-one likes them. I don't like maniacs like my mom putting thoughts in people's heads. My mom's a psycho.
Screw it, I'm saving up for my own place anyway.
So. Mom left for Hypnogouge and Dad had to go in the back room to get something for my creep brother. I guess it's a good thing Chip went with him and caught Dad before he hit the floor. What I don't understand is how Chip can catch something that big when he wouldn't be able to lift Dad by himself. Brain versus brawn I tell myself.
Chip set Dad down and came after me. More fielding. I've done it before. My brother has tamper tantrums like that all the time. I know I don't help situations, but if he wants to throw something at me, he better learn to pick them up. I'm not afraid of him. Not now. I'm leaving home before he reaches puberty, though. I ain't sticking around for that hell.
I grabbed the pub-trans and rode out to the casino. I went to the bathroom and put on my costume. Sandy was behind the counter at the coat-check and I gave her my bag and a healthy tip. I like Sandy; she's done a lot for me. We help each other out. It's in our best interests.
Anyway, a repeat customer came up and we headed for the tables. He got a few hands, but he had to leave early. His wife wanted him home for her birthday, he told me, so he paid me my share and split.
Then my client from the night before showed. I explained my price had gone up and it was thirty percent for a return play. He agreed and we started clearing out the black-jack dick again. Two nights in a row and the bastard hadn't learned. He wasn't a very good talent to begin with. I hate amateurs.
"Ante-up, ladies and gentlemen. Ante-up."
We cleaned that dealer good and walked over to the bar.
"I'm glad you made it tonight. I needed to talk to you about something," it was the client jabbering. "How would you like a forty percent contract?"
I told him I didn't play contracts.
I don't like games that go on for hours. Did it once before for a skinny guy who played
weekend poker with his friends. They spotted me right away and told him straight up no
girls allowed in the game. Contracts ask me to play, to, and I can't play poker for shit.
I'm no good at bluffing; never learned how to lie right. You can't lie to someone like my
mom..
"No, this isn't like that. It's a big game and you don't have to play. I'll pay you a flat fee to serve drinks, then add a percentage of the winnings. Forty percent's a good deal, considering."
"Considering what?"
"Considering the stakes."
I hate contracts like that. That's what the last guy had said to me. Sure, I had a high percentage but the winnings were too small and I couldn't get out of the game quickly enough. By the time I made it out, it was after curfew and I almost got busted.
"My chauffeur will drive you, so you don't need to worry about curfew."
I hate contracts. And I hate talents. This guy had been reading me the moment I let down my field. He probably worked for the casino as a stake-out for people like me. That's what I get for not fielding when I'm talking to a complete stranger.
"It will help you get more money saved up so you can get your own place."
I know I blanched. I was hot and shaky and felt the sweat forming on my upper lip.
"No, I'm not talented like that. I rely on something a little more old fashioned - observation."
"Okay, Sherlock," I was pissed. "Tell me how you figured that one out."
"Easy," he smiled. "You're too young - chalk that down to that fake ID - to be living in your own place. You're not on any drugs and you legally couldn't own a vehicle. What else would you be working so hard towards? I'm guessing you're coming up on a birthday here soon. You're saving up."
He smiled again, but I wanted to shove my fingers in his eyes. I was fielding triple time and he still caught my fist.
"I used to box. You pulled back to far for that punch and you thew your arm too slowly."
I was furious. He was humiliating me and everything I stood for. I'm a field for chrissakes! One of the best. No talent should be able to get past me.
He leaned back and crossed his arms. "How'd you get your talent anyway?"
"It's not talent."
"It's a talent. A talent I'm willing to pay highly for. How'd you get it?"
"I got tired of my mom getting in my head. I got tired of my dad always knowing what I was going to do. I got tired of being thrown around the room by my baby brother. Need I go on?"
He rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. "So you can counter-act all three forms, huh?"
I started to get antsy. "Look, mister. You're not playing. As long as you don't play, that's less in the end for me. Let's go to the draw-five table."
He dug in his pocket and pulled out a fifty credit coin. "Here, if it'll ease your mind any. "
"I don't take hand-outs. I get paid for services-rendered."
He grabbed my hand and forced it open with that wrist-twist of his. "Take the god-damn coin. That's your retainer fee. Do you still have my card?"
I rubbed my wrist and nodded.
"Fine. You call me tomorrow at five. My chauffeur will pick you and give you your instructions. And you can leave your silly casino costume at home. We don't deal with that kind."
He gave me my cut of the winnings and walked away. I felt I had done pretty well for the night and got my bag back from Sandy. Sandy got a good tip that night. I like her.
Pub-trans was running behind schedule and I almost missed curfew. If they want to give us hell about staying out late, they should at least make sure the stupid pub-trans will run on time. I think it should be free, too. Most kids don't have money. Well, not like I have money.
Mom was waiting up for me, the bitch. I could feel her ten feet from the door.
She started right on me the moment I hit the door. I wasn't doing my homework, I was failing my classes, I was acting up in school....
I could explain the acting up part easy. I'm honest, brutally so. I come from a family where there are no lies, no covering up. I don't go for manners and crap like that. "To be gentile," they say, "You must conceal and not reveal just how you feel." Yeah, right, like anything can be concealed from a talent like Mom.
Then she starts going on about how I'll never be successful. I'm no good in school and I'm not talented, according to her. How will I ever get by in life? She wanted to know.
So I told her. Mom, hey, calm down. I've got a job and it pays me well enough to get me away from you. I'm moving out in three weeks, so don't give me any more lip.
Move out? She asked. To where? You can't afford the double deposit they'll want from you.
Yeah, well, that's where you're wrong. I've been saving up for the past year and you can't touch it, I made sure.
I told her that to her face and she started to cry. My poor baby's leaving home. My darling little girl! Boo-hoo and such. "I don't know how I'll go on without you."
I had had enough. "Jeeze, Mom. You've got Chip. It's not like the house is going to be empty anyway. Anyway, what you want a no-talent trouble-maker like me around for?"
And she started to explain how much help I'd been and how wonderful it was to have me around. How I'd helped with the family budget, because I was the only one with a head for numbers. I was the only one that saved receipts and kept our access from being cut off. I was the only one who knew how to put out the fire that Chip had started in his crib. I was their godsend.
"Why, I was just reading the other day about how most talents will even hire people to take care of them. If you leave, that's what we'll have to do. I just know we can't take care of ourselves."
That's when I realized she'd been working on me the whole time, hoping I'd drop. That pissed me off. My own mother was trying to guilt trip me into staying and playing house servant to them.
"That's why you had me," I snapped. "You decided to have a no-talent to take care of you and dad and Chip. You had to have me first because you knew you'd never be able to take care of a baby on your own!"
Man, I remember that and I let the image form perfectly in my head, the way it had been ten years ago, when I came home from school to find my baby brother Chip screaming in his crib and my mom laying on the floor, unable to move because Chip was turning her stomach inside out. A hungry baby is a cranky baby and Mom and Dad were helpless without me to protect them. I dropped and I let her see that nice and clear.
She recoiled, then held her hands out to me and in her super-sad voice cried out, "I'm your mother! I love you. You know that. You know I love you, don't you honey? I would never do something to hurt my baby. You're the most important thing I have in the world. You're my little extension of me. You're my chance at immortality!"
Just that thought made me sick. I fielded hard enough to rattle her head.
"I'm going to bed, Mom. Gotta go to school tomorrow and work on being a successful member of society. Might be late coming back. Don't mess with my dreams while I'm sleeping; I wouldn't put it past you. "
I started off for my room and turned for my final blow.
"Let me know if you have an original thought any time soon. That must be why Dad likes you so much. You're so predictable."
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Sometimes it seemed like a damned game.
"Hey, Joey," I called from the news console. "The President's doubling the Regiment's offensive force. Doesn't that make you feel all warm inside?"
Thin Joey always looked funny, for he never removed his Red Tank headgear. Its information glass floated just over one eye, shooting electronic info right into his retinas. "It's just getting scarier, Frank," he answered, glancing at me. "But what else is new? He'll just draft more Martian boys like us."
I looked at the news console. The latest article read: "Scientists Desperately Trying to Determine Foe." The article quoted one scientist, "We still know next to nothing about the Phantoms. Who and where are they? What do they want?"
As usual, the damned scientists didn't know squat. I changed articles. My eyes strayed momentarily to the picture I kept by the monitor. No fancy chick, just a humble picture of my little brother. I hoped he was having fun.
"Hey!" Joey sounded tense. "I got something! Two thirty-four degrees and closing!"
"Ah, damn it." I keyed the intercom. "George? George, you there? George!"
"Wha-huh-oh, it's you. Can't a guy get some sleep?"
"You're supposed to be driving this damned thing, asshole. Get it off autopilot and grab the stick! Joey's got something."
"A Phantom?"
"What the hell else do you think
it is?" I shouted, grabbing the VR helmet from the dashboard and jamming onto my
head. Instantly my vision was scrambled, then I was floating in the air above the charging
tank, and in the distance were two black dots. I ordered magnification and the dots zoomed
into two black tanks.
Phantoms.
I cut the magnification. "Two thirty nine and closing!" Joey called.
"I hear you, I hear you!" said George, "Disengaging autopilot."
I felt the huge tank turn, I saw it twisting below my incorporeal body outside on the Martian surface, the huge, fifteen-meter red weapon of terror. The Red Tank was armed with mini-nuclear missiles, and a four-meter laser cannon stretching like a long phallus under the salmon sky. I could almost hear the whine of the hover fields as they floated over the Martian rocks, crushing them in brief bursts of electromagnetic instability. I almost got a hard-on looking at its sheer power. Not that it made any difference, though.
It made no difference at all.
"Two forty six and closing!" Joey said. "Wait - I got a lock on them!"
The black tanks on the horizon were suddenly encircled by red. Above them appeared ghostly letters against the Martian sky, the old tag sign, "UNIDENTIFIED." It was time to destroy some Phantoms. "Charge weapons," I commanded, my voice sounding like I was a big shot tank leader rather than some pimple faced kid who'd gotten drafted, "Steady, steady - fi-"
The black tanks vanished before we fired a shot. "I lost them!" Joey said.
I looked in all directions, the Red Tank's ionic sensors spreading far and wide and supplying the helmet with all available data, but the black tanks were nowhere, nowhere at all. I shrugged. "Secure from battle stations." I took off the helmet, the surface of Mars broke into static and then became the red helmet which I dropped carelessly onto the red command console.
George stabilized the tank's engines, Joey cleared his tactical display. Then the waiting began again. Silence hung like a drape. Abruptly I couldn't help but think of all our dramatics caused by an enemy that... just disappeared.
I broke into laughter.
Joey shot me a glance. Maybe he thought I was crazy. Joey failed to understand that I laugh when I feel really serious, or even better, when I feel like crying. Sweat beaded down my forehead. Been in this tank, I giggled to myself, too damned long.
This was supposed to have been fun, damn it. That's what all the Sergeants at Boot Camp had said. "You don't need a lot of training," they said. "Just think of it like those VR tank simulator games you play at home. After all, war's just like a game."
"Hey, hey," said Joey, as more strangled giggles escaped the hand I had over my mouth, "C'mon buddy - it's gone now, relax, Frankie."
His calmness seemed almost neurotic. I muffled my laughter again and looked to the news console. As I flipped through the channels, I chewed the insides of my cheeks, fuming. Relax, Joey said. "Scientists still desperately trying to determine foe," they said. Somehow life just seemed to get funnier and funnier. I looked at the picture of my brother again. In a few years he'd probably be in a tank, just like me.
"You relax, Joey," I said suddenly. "You try to relax."
Billy couldn't understand this any more than I did, just like Billy hadn't understood why I had to leave. He was nine years old and perhaps the person I was closest to in the world and he blamed me for getting drafted. "Billy," I had said, standing in the doorway to his room on that day which seemed so long ago, "Billy, I'm... here to say good-bye..."
"Why do you have to go?" Tears had been in his eyes. I felt like crying too, but I was supposed to be too old for that crap. "Why won't you stay and play with me? Huh? All the other kids beat me up because I'm a runt and now you're going away!"
He wouldn't stop sobbing. Billy was like that, he was real delicate, he was always getting colds and he was always getting beat up and it was my job to look after him, my job and no one else's and -
He looked up at me. "What if you never come back?"
"Hey," I said, my voice shaky, "Hey, it's just like a game, Billy. You know? I mean, that's what they all say. They're gonna ditch the whole tank regiment soon anyway, but while those Phantoms keep blowing things up they need us out there to protect the colonies and the domes - I mean, what if the Phantoms are caused by one of the other colonies or aliens, what if they're trying to kill us all..."
But Billy didn't understand all that. "What if you never come back?" he kept asking, "What if you never come back..."
"I'm taking another scan," I said, grabbing the VR helmet suddenly. It smelled like rubber and sweat as I pushed it over my head. A flash of static and again I saw the barren surface of Mars. It reminded me of blood.
I saw nothing, nothing anywhere. I couldn't believe that after almost a year of attacks by these mysterious Phantoms, the scientists still couldn't get a clue what the hell caused them. Month after month the casualties mounted. The Phantoms were almost impossible to fight, too, either they vanished or they tagged you...
Wait, what was that?
In the distance, I swore I saw a man on the surface of Mars. He was sitting on a red rock below the darkening sky, and the strangest thing was that he wore no EVM suit, he wore only plain overalls and a checkered shirt, his head was without a helmet and he looked like he was singing, of all things. There, in his hands was... a banjo?
"Joey, check for anomalies in the ionics, now okay?"
"Now? You know I check them regularly -"
"Now!"
"Checking."
He was bald, he had a cream white beard and he was singing and seemed to really enjoy it. I thought I vaguely recognized him, he seemed the slightest bit familiar.
He vanished.
"Nothing funny with the ionics, Frankie. What the heck's going on?"
Again, I cast the sensors far and wide, and discovered... nothing.
I removed the helmet slowly. Now I understood. I was losing it. Abruptly I looked around the tank I was in, the console, the screen, the helmet on Joey's head... and as if through the old man's silent song I saw my little world as it really was.
My world was red, sterile, and lifeless.
Could be worse, I guess. Could be dead.
The news console flickered, and "MNN" began flashing on the screen. I waved up the volume. "...incident near New China. A Chinese tank commander reports he spotted an unidentified blip on his screen, which within five seconds opened fire on him. The commander fired in response, destroying the target..."
"Good for him!" said Joey. "Scratch another Phantom."
"...which was later identified as American. All three American crew members were killed. The Chinese spokesperson professed there was no known reason why the Americans would open fire..."
"Holy shit," Joey said. "They shot at us!" I couldn't feel surprised. Tensions from the Phantoms had been rising for a long time now. "Haven't the Chinese been angry at us?" Joey asked. "About America interfering with their mineral rights? Maybe they're the ones responsible for the Phantoms -"
I shushed him. "...American representatives in the Martian Council have demanded that Friendly Fire reprimands be pressed against the Chinese Armored Legion. The Chinese representatives have reportedly become so incensed they have threatened to withdraw their name from the Martian Alliance..."
Loud buzzing emanated from Joey's console. "Incoming message," he said.
I tapped on the intercom. "You listening, George?" I heard nothing. He was probably asleep again.
"Incoming Orders for Red Tank 9," said an artificial and feminine voice, "From Martian C Sector Command, General Oliver Headly. As follows: 'You are to shift leg seven of your patrol 6 degrees Polar. Monitor any and all Chinese tanks. Be alert for Phantoms; two reported in nearby area. Proceed with caution."
"Headly's feeling nervous," Joey commented.
"Ah, screw 'em all," I muttered. The taste in my mouth was all wrong. Something was gonna happen, the taste of my mouth, the taste of my own teeth told me something gonna go very, very wrong and soon...
"I don't know," said George unexpectedly through the intercom. "Maybe he's just trying to protect us from the Chinese."
"The Chinese?" I said with
disbelief, groping for some explanation, any explanation, "They've been here for as
long as the Americans and the French! It's not them we need to fear. It's the
Coalition on Earth - yeah, it must be them. The nations on Earth don't like the fact that
the colonies here are agitating for independence. It has to be the Earthers, they're
the ones screwing us over."
"Just because they're stalling on Martian Independence?" Joey asked doubtfully.
"You bet." With a grin I leaned back in my seat and hit him on the shoulder. "Damn Earthlings -"
Joey interrupted. "I'm picking up a Chinese tank now. It's going along its standard route... seems to be ignoring us."
"Keep tabs on that tank," I said.
"We're all fighting the Phantoms, every nationality on Mars is," said George. "We've all had casualties, even the Chinese. It's a common enemy, c'mon, the last thing we need is to start fighting each other."
"That's why it's gotta be the Earthers," I said, "It's gotta be them -"
"I've got something!" Joey shouted.
"I told you, just keep an eye -"
"Two unidentified bogeys!"
"Two?"
"Phantoms! They're straight ahead of us - they got a lock -"
"Move it George!" I ordered, grabbing the VR helmet. Suddenly I was above the tank seeing the surface of Mars - small black dots danced on the horizon, but the ionics weren't getting a lock, the circles weren't coming - "I can't get a fix on 'em - they're jamming - hard right NOW!"
The tank did a fantastic ninety degree a turn - the Martian surface was fractured by an explosion of sand - George shouted a string of jubilant expletives at the near miss - "That came from the Chinese!" Joey exclaimed.
"Shut up and get me a lock!" I commanded.
"I'm trying, I'm trying - INCOMING MISSILE THREE O'CLOCK -"
I spun round and saw it, the huge radioactive nuke boring straight at us "FIRE!" I yelled.
A brilliant neon explosion polarized the air. Man, that nuke would have toasted us except for the Red Tanks' heavy -
"That blast just cut off half our armor!" George yelled.
"Radioactive shields holding!" Joey said, "- just getting a lock on target B - hold it -"
A red circle flashed into being, the massive tank guns began tracking the target. "- Almost got it -" George must have been going a good 200 KPH now, man those red rocks and dirt were flying by like a tornado - "Charge all ordinance," I commanded - "I got it - lock - FIRE!" The muzzles flashed like a tank in orgasm - "Say good-bye, motherf-"
Joey screamed, "INCOMING -"
"Lock onto -"
"Too close can't can't -"
Explosion fire darkness.
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If you think all aliens are nice,
that they come here to watch over us,
then I better burst your bubble
cos the water's gotten muddy, Gus.
The reptoid species and greys
may abduct yer yankee boys
to do lab tests and impress 'em
with their hi-tech probes 'n' toys,
but down here in the hills of Brazil,
a jungle away from pryin' eyes,
they got some wicked badass ways
that ain't about us gettin' wise.
Folks in this no horse burg are poor;
they ain't seen no fat cat in a Cadillac,
let alone intergalactic saucer folk
who wanna give their heads a whack.
They spend nights in hammocks in the trees,
waitin' for dinner on the hoof;
they got no time to speculate
or gawk at the skies for proof;
but what they've seen, if they're
lucky enough to tell the tale,
scares the purple jesus out of them -
don't make them hearty or hale.
They call 'em chupus, silent deadly
flyin' refrigerators with microwave rays.
They got no windows, just two lights,
but manage to zap 'em anyways.
The attack is always the same, it seems.
They come in low, just over the trees
bright stars, so bright they burn your eyes.
Don't make a sound, not a riffle or a breeze.
Suddenly, you can't move a muscle to leave;
you can only close or turn your eyes away.
They've spotted you, pinned you like a bug,
then a shaft stabs out, a deadly ray.
Hits you in the neck or chest always.
Never in the extremities a leg or arm.
Afterward, you feel weak, can hardly walk
and they say aliens mean us no harm!
Dizziness and headaches follow.
Anemia, with low hemoglobin count.
No nausea or diarrhea maybe.
Worse symptoms start to mount.
Red burn marks then turn black,
with two puncture marks inside.
Your skin turns deathly white.
Your hair falls out! You're terrified!
If you're lucky, you get to die!
But don't pay these "accidents" any mind
No. The E. T.s are just overzealous
they don't mean to hurt mankind.
Tell that to the poor peasant farmer
whose skin fell away from his bones
microwaved or evenly roasted.
Hear his terrible throes and groans.
Are you gonna tell me I'm mistaken?
These ETs are really nice boys?
They just got something new for Christmas
and wanna try out their microwave toys?
Or maybe they're just winnowin' the race
the way we thin a garden row
are givin' a few of us more space
so we can grow and grow and grow.
Brazil's so populous out here, of course
if you count the mosquitoes and gnats,
and there are just too many insects,
and way too many bats!
They're killin' us with kindness, of course.
Practicing good animal husbandry habits.
Their humanoid stocks have surpassed
those of our cattle and rabbits.
We cannot ever get to the stars
when we're bumbling and fumbling about.
We're too busy climbin' our dung hills
to turn the Beagle hard about.