humor science fiction

Bare Rump's Diary

I wonder what those beasties taste like?

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Martha and Gallo do not mix.

Ugh. I have such a headache.

This morning, we drove into the Los Angeles basin, the Rabbit's car dipping down into a yellow-grey blanket of smog. I hushed him every time he tried to speak. The ten-pound bag of ice on my head didn't help.

Last night, I remember him returning from the parking lot carrying two bottles of wine. He caught me mid-suck.

He held the bottles up for my inspection. "What do you think -- white or red? I've got a Chardonnay and a Cabernet Sauvignon."

"Don't know, don't care," I said. "I don't drink . . . wine."

"Har-har, very funny. You may not drink wine, but you do drink skank."

"What did you expect?" I hated him right then; he was making me talk with my fangs full. That is so inelegant. "You'd starved me all day, and then you held her out to me on a platter. And now look at me. I came to Earth to make friends with these people, not --"

"Not turn them into an all-you-can eat buffet?"

"At least I didn't have sex with her."

It was the meanest thing I could say, but he shrugged it off. "You had a nibble, I had a nibble. We're even." He unscrewed the wine bottles and emptied both into the ice bucket. Then he up-ended the bucket and took a long swig. "Want some?"

I punctured the side of the styrofoam bucket and drained the rest. He glared at me. "What. A. Pig."

"You offered," I said, and returned to my buffet.

He watched me in silence. This bothered me more than anything else. For all I knew, he could have been wired for audio and visual; the Benevolents might have been broadcasting this to the humans at this very instant. Worse still, perhaps they'd found my home planet, and were planning to blackmail me with this damning evidence. I could become a Benevolent stooge, not unlike the Rabbit.

On second thought, the scenario seemed unlikely. He'd gone renegade, after all. To do that, he had to have control of the flow of information back to the Benevolents. If they suspected the Rabbit of treachery, they'd come after him, just as they had sent him after me.

Ah, what a tangled web we weave, and all that.

"So how is she?" he said at last.

I burped up a few dozen baby summer squash, buds attached. Where had those come from?

"Initially piquant. Later, a delectable balance of cis- and trans-fatty acids, followed by a robust and delicious syrup of digested goo. Now I sense something odd. As if there were something rotten at the core."

"She was ruthless."

"Oh, really? I figured I was tasting you."

"Tsk, tsk. Remember, Rump, we have to get along. We're partners, now."

Groovy: me and the Rabbit, partners. We'll be settling in for the day, and then tomorrow, it's Studio City. Or Burbank. Wherever the big producers are. Oh, I don't know; I'm just along for the ride.


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