Bare Rump's Diary

You humans don't know the first thing

2005-11-06T20:33:00.000-08:00

about pleasing a female.

Why are my spinnerets in a wad? Let me explain. We had a spell of unseasonably cold weather in L.A., and I went into hibernation. So sue me. Perhaps all the recent excitement caught up with me at last; Oprah Above knows I needed a rest.

Anyway, first thing I do after waking up, I check my blog comments. And what do I find?

Anonymous said . . .
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Let me back up a bit. Remember how the Rabbit and I were staying at the Hyatt? (More about my run-in with the Crocodile Hunter some other time.) Well, I woke up not in the Hyatt, but in an absolute dump, some sort of low budget one-bedroom apartment. Next door, a horrid dog would not stop barking. I think that's what woke me up in the first place.

I saw neither hide nor hair of the Rabbit. At least he'd had the decency to leave me a note.

Rump,

I hope you'll understand that I can't haul three hundred pounds of dead weight, not when I'm this close to my goal. I'd hoped to have your help, but I can do this without you.

By the time you wake up, Keanu Reeves will be a dead man, and I, Keanu Reeves, will be a star.

I left a few chickens in the freezer. Call my cell when you wake up, k?

Rabbit

Haul three hundred pounds . . . ooh, he made my blood boil. Right then I couldn't have cared less that nanocyte blood might give me indigestion. If I caught up with him, I'd make a point of finding out.

Oh, well. At least he was thoughtful enough to leave food. But -- ugh. Frozen chicken. I managed to impale one on my fangs and transfer it to the sink, where I began thawing it under the tap. I was sooo hungry, and then, when a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses came knocking at the door, it was sooo tempting. When I opened the door, though, they passed out first thing. You know what? It just didn't seem sporting. Then that dog from next door got loose and couldn't decide whether to sniff their unconscious crotches or bay at me like some sort of quadripedal maniac. It was quite a scene, let me tell you.

Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to avoid creating an intergalactic incident. But this is Southern California. Charles Manson had a fan club. So does Matt Damon. See? I've done my homework.

I closed the door on those nice unconscious ladies with the pamphlets and fired up my computer. That's when I discovered Mr. Anonymous's enticing email. Sex, that much I understood.

Hmm. What to do while I waited for my chicken to thaw. I could try to transfer the other two frozen birds to the sink, but that first one had given me such a case of brain freeze. And I kept thinking, you know, about S-E-X. And it came to me. WWBWD?

On a planet with no eligible males, what would Bronwyn Webweaver do, indeed? She'd take matters into her own legs, that's what she'd do.

I found a directory near the telephone, and located a list of Adult Sex Shops. I phoned the first one on the list: Acme Adventureware, with a storefront only a few miles away.

"Hellooo?"

"Acme."

"Do you sell Adult Sex Shop Vibrators Vibrators Vibrators? Um, Vibrators?"

"Yeah, we got vibrators."

"Do you deliver?"

Wouldn't you know it -- the very first business I spoke with, and they delivered! The kind man on the other end of the phone read off a list of names and descriptions. I chose the Ron Jeremy Lifelike Intruder.

"COD, Ma'am."

"COD?"

"Cash on delivery. You need batteries?"

"I don't know. I suppose I do."

"Very good, Ma'am. No out of state checks. Is that a problem?"

"No problem at all." Then I thought of something. Human packaging can be quite a trial. "Um . . . I'm, I'm disabled. Yes, that's it. Might your delivery man take the Intruder out of its package and load it with batteries for me? It would be a real help."

"Ma'am, we don't indulge fantasies. We're strictly legit."

"I quite understand! I'm strictly legit, too. I promise you, I have nothing but the most honorable intentions towards your delivery man."

I heard him grumbling something to a colleague. After an extended argument, he came back on the line. "Boss says I need a credit card number."

This was much better. My champion, my love, Lord Valor had provided me with an American Express Card number. I had it memorized, so I recited it to the nice young man on the phone.

While I waited for my Intruder, I checked the chicken. Mostly frozen, still, and I could tell it wouldn't be juicy enough for my liking. Rats. I could hear them in the attic; if I could catch enough of them, I might regain a bit of strength. The main challenge would be that damnable dog. He was barking up such a racket, I wasn't sure I would be able to hear the rats.

Success! I entered the attic through an access panel in the hall closet. Oh, they were crafty opponents, but they were no match for me, barking dog or no.

The doorbell rang. I popped down from the attic and went to the door. Without opening it, I said, "Do you have my Intruder?"

"Yes indeedy," said a young male voice.

"Have you taken it out of its package and loaded it up with batteries?"

"Yes'm. And, might I say, it's a fine, manly product."

"I certainly hope so, young man, given what your employer charged me. Leave it on the step, please."

"Sorry, Ma'am, but you have to sign for it."

Drat! How could I sign for anything? I suppose I could open the door and scare him unconscious, but he seemed so nice.

"Please," I said. "I left my credit card number with your boss. Isn't that good enough?"

"Rules are rules."

"But I'm not presentable. I'm old, and covered in sores, and I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing."

This last was true. I heard him sigh. "How 'bout I slip the form under the door?"

Now it was my turn to sigh. "Fine."

With one fang, I punctured a bit of leftover rat and used the blood to scrawl a big sloppy X. I pushed it back under the door. "Now, please. Leave it on the step."

Before he left, I heard a high-pitched whine (Good, I thought. I don't think I could have managed some teensy weensy switch), but that was followed by renewed baying by my un-neighborly canine neighbor. A prescient shiver ran up my cephalothorax. I opened the door, and the dog bounded in, tail wagging with single-minded fury.

I'd watched enough TV to know what to say.

"Good doggy. Who's my good little boy? Drop the Intruder, boy. There's a good, good, good boy."

As I spoke, I edged closer. I swiped his haunch with my foreleg. He yelped, dropped the Intruder, and bounded out the door.

The Intruder's whine was maddening. I thought: You humans think this is pleasurable? Not that I would have used it. Dog slobber is such a turn-off.

Ooh, this is fun.

2005-08-30T21:50:00.000-07:00

1.	My ideal man would probably... be charming and suave think I'm a nut, but love me anyway see the warmth behind my tough-talking exterior help me kill my husband if I asked

I wouldn't need help killing my husband. I'm going to go with A.

2.	My friends consider me to be... a little odd, but quite nice funny and smart, sometimes a little arch competition...and they're right calm, sophisticated and reliable

Ooh. C. It has to be C.

3.	If I have an afternoon engagement, I would dress... to kill, in furs and diamonds I worked hard to get in a lovely ensemble, with matching hat and gloves trim and smart, but still look smashing in my own chic style

I am always dressed to kill.

4.	I have a real soft spot for... smart guys who treat me like an equal someone I can take care of dopes with big hearts who get themselves into jams married men and criminals

You mean I can't choose all of the above? I'll go with A. Skipping ahead,

7.	For my next vacation, I'd like to... travel somewhere expensive, so I can meet someone rich travel cross country by train, with hilarious hijinks ensuing take a world cruise, first class all the way go somewhere interesting and off the beaten track

B. Imagine me in the dining car, sucking dry some socialite's boy toy. Oh, damn, that's right. You value your men.

8.	My best friend was just murdered! I immediately... set about trying to find the killer in my own way faint dead away, and wake up in the arms of a private dick yammer about it with my buddies in the newsroom make sure no one suspects me

D. I've already been staked out for the mugwasps once in my life. I don't care to do that again.

9.	One of my biggest regrets is... letting my tough front get in the way of expressing my feelings standing aside and letting the boring, pretty girl get my guy regrets? I have no regrets a private sorrow, which I will keep locked in my heart forever

A. Really, though, I'm one hell of a softy deep inside.

11.	If I were alone on a desert island, I'd be... a little at a loss, but I'd make do queen of all I survey instantly devising a clever plan to get out of this mess thinking of ways to decorate my new hut

Very hungry, very fast. What, that's not an option?

13.

For a movie to have a truly happy ending, the heroine must...
deliver a clever closing line at the side of her leading man
help the hero solve the crime, and look smashing as he wraps things up
keep true to herself, even if it turns out badly for her
get away with murder, even if it's just figuratively

D. But you already knew that.

19.	My favorite foods are... found in the deli section or at the lunch counter a little strange when served together, but I like them that way expensive, but I make it a point never to pay for them whatever I'm served, I'm pretty easy and probably wouldn't complain, anyway

One inappropriate answer after another. My favorite foods squeal when I bite them. Oh, damn; I'll go with B.

As for the rest, I wouldn't want to bore you poor dears. And the Rabbit's getting edgy. He can't stand that I'm futzing on the laptop while trying to drive down the San Bernardino Freeway. "Keep your eyes on the road," he says. Like that would do any good?

Here we go. Press button and wait.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

This is soooo right.

Joan Crawford
You scored 45% grit, 23% wit, 19% flair, and 19% class!

You are one tough dame, as tough as they come. You've had to fight long
and hard to get where you are, but you always knew you'd do whatever
you had to do to get ahead. You aren't above committing crimes (or
seducing others to do them for you) to get what you want. You want to
be happy and comfortable, but you usually always manage to get the
fuzzy end of the lollipop. Even your kids are usually against you. Your
leading men include anyone you set your sights on, even married guys
that are never seen on-screen. Watch your back.

Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the
Classic Leading Man Test.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 90% on grit
You scored higher than 33% on wit
You scored higher than 3% on flair
You scored higher than 23% on class

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on Ok Cupid

Crikey, look at the fangs on this one!

2005-08-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

Note from Captain Argh:

Fragmentary transmissions continue to filter in from Tina (Bare Rump to you). I strongly suspect we're meeting with interference from the Los Angeles area's many cell phones, and I've been hard at work developing appropriate filters. I'm beginning to doubt Michael Kirby will ever arrive to give us help.

Today's fragment is remarkably intact. I'm delighted to find that Tina is alive and well, and making quite a splash in Hollywood. Transmission follows.

***

The Rabbit hustled me past Disneyland Security, using his famous face to clear a path. One of the Kingdom Kops tried to put up a body block.

"Hey! Isn't that the spider who --"

"Coming through," said the Rabbit. "Charlotte's Web sequel, special event, coming through!"

He barged past, and a human wave of teenage girls closed behind him, screaming, "KEANU! NEO! BILL! I MEAN TED! I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

At last, we dodged all the Kops. "You told me to stick to insects," I griped.

"Jiminy Cricket is not an insect."

"Then what was she doing hiding in an insect costume? I mean, dressed like prey, what did she expect?"

"She didn't expect a ten-foot-long spider to be tasting her ass, did she? Now come on. I'm getting you back to the hotel."

"But I didn't get to go on The Pirates of the Caribbean!"

Back at the Hyatt, I ordered out. (In LA, you can get anything delivered to your hotel room, no questions asked.) While I ate, the Rabbit stretched out on the bed, drank Old Smuggler, and watched Animal Planet.

"Hah!" he cried. "The Crocodile Hunter himself. I love this guy."

"Oh. My. God," I said. "Change it now. Quickly."

Steve Irwin had a tarantula crawling up his arm. I really didn't want to hear what he had to say about spiders. He and his ilk are a large part of the reason for me being here on Earth. He's one of the worst Disseminators of Disinformation, a fellow who spreads fear under the guise of truth.

But the Rabbit hogged the remote, and I could do nothing but watch.

"Lor! This here's the most dangerous eight-legged critter in South America, the dreaded Goliath King Baboon Bird-eating spider. This Sheila climbs up to the highest level of the canopy, then drops down on a silk parachute to nab the unsuspecting parrots below. Sometimes she lands on the back of some poor Bruce's neck --"

"AAACK!" I screamed. "Make it stop, please make it stop."

The Rabbit hit MUTE. "What is your problem? He's talking about spiders, Rump. Earth spiders. And he's the expert on wildlife here, not you --"

"That's where you're wrong. I've made a careful study of terrestrial arachnids. I intend to teach these Earthlings how little they have to fear from their indigenous eight-legged friends. And he's no expert, he's, he's -- a buffoon! There is no such thing as a Goliath King Baboon Bird-eating spider. There's a Goliath Bird-eater, who doesn't eat birds, and the King Baboon, who also doesn't eat birds, and they are both burrowing spiders. They'd no sooner fall on your neck than --"

The Rabbit let out an exasperated sigh and turned the sound back on.

"Crikey, Mate, look at the fangs, will you? I'll bet you wouldn't want to meet up with her on a dark night. Why, I'd rather wrestle the biggest, meanest crocodile than deal with this wicked little vixen."

"That does it," I said. "I'm going to pay Mr. Irwin a visit and teach him a thing or two about spiders."

He jumped off the bed and knocked between my eyes.

"Helloooo. Miss Ru-ump. He lives in fucking AUSTRALIA."

I knocked him between the eyes and he fell back on the bed. Synthetic he may be, but with a fifth of Old Smuggler in him, he was a pushover.

"Hellooo," I said. "Read Variety."

I opened it up for him and pointed my leg at the story on page six:

CROC BLOKE TO PUT PAW ON WALK OF FAME

"Don't you see, Rabbit? Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I shouldn't be trying to spread uplifting information about spiders. Maybe all I really need to do is put an end to all the lies people tell."

He rolled his eyes at me. "Will you listen to yourself? That's insane."

"The ceremony is this evening," I said. "I'm going. Are you coming with me, or not?"

"How do you think you'll get there without me?"

With my usual alacrity, I popped over to his trousers and plucked the keys from his pocket.

"You don't know how to drive," he said, but there was a question in his voice.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me."

Tag this.

2005-08-12T17:57:00.000-07:00

Captain Argh here. While I wait for the brass to decide what to do about Bare Rump, I have nothing to do but sit on my legs and eat can after can of Shiz Whiz. (Trust me, you wouldn't want to know.) Thus, this 'tagging' exercise of Debi's has come as a pleasant diversion. I won't be passing the tag on to anyone else; I simply don't know enough of your people. But I can at least do a passable job on my end of things. Here goes.

Ten years ago, I was a wriggly critter gnawing away at some fetid bit of road kill or another. Here's a baby picture of me and my brother Brek. I'm the cute one.

Five years ago, I graduated from the Junior Academy magna cum laude and matriculated at Mistress Ehchoo's Institute for Clever Little Buzzers, one of the most respected finishing schools in Achptuii. Little did I know that the only way to get ahead at CLB was to give the Mistress nightly abdominal spit-shines, *shiver*.

One year ago, my days at Nanosquash were numbered, but I didn't know it yet. I had just been named Assistant Project Manager on the Defenestrator 2004, the soon-to-be-released primo-bitchenest Lattice browser on the market. Too bad it ate hard drives for breakfast.

Yesterday I made myself a nice smoothie (I'd give you the recipe, but you humans are so queasy about such things) and reread all of Bare Rump's old posts. Oh, did I cry my eyes out. All 4,096 of them.

Today I gave my pectorals a good workout in the gym. Hard to stay in shape in the Moon's microgravity; you really have to work it. Stella from Dipteran Resources kept giving me the eye. She had heard that Drissi and I were on the outs, and she can't quite accept that I love another, um, lady. You'd think the 8 1/2 by 11 photo of Bare Rump on my desk would be a clue.

Tomorrow is Mom's birthday. Must call.

5 Snacks I enjoy: Shiz Whiz on pork rinds, Sugar Poops, McDonwald's Big Crap and Fries, Sheetos (they go crunch!), Decay's Cadaver Chips (you can't eat just one).

5 Bands I know most of the lyrics to their songs: Snow Patrol, Maroon 5, Keane, Madness, The Pogues. (Yes, Debi, those bands all got their start on Ephys.)

5 things I would do with $100,000,000: Commission Whizzer to make me my own corps of synthetic human servants -- then, Jennifer Lopez could give me nightly abdominal spit shines. Let's see: I would also buy my love, Bare Rump, a sexy hot pink silk nighty. She'd probably be critical of the silk, but she's enough of a sport not to show it. Oh -- five things? Must it be five things? I'd give the rest to my favorite charity, Miss Frumple's Home for Wayward Larvae.

5 Locations I Would Like To Run Away To: the Pleasure Pits of Omma, Sebastian's Joint on Vespa (great barbecue!), sand-skiing on Vora, bluk-bluk racing across the Screaming Plains of Patak V, razzing sand worms on Arrakis.

5 Bad Habits I Have: I have a hard time talking about my feelings. I've never confessed to Bare Rump what I'd really like to do in bed with her. I sometimes crinkle my wings at inappropriate times. I pick my proboscis when I don't think anyone is looking. And I buzz off way more than is healthy.

As Bare Rump's biographer would say: Oy! That's enough.

Good night, all,

Captain Argh

In case you're wondering where I am

2005-08-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

Captain Argh here at Moonbase B0nz0. That's at the northeastern end of the Sea of Fecundity, spitting distance from the Benevolent Moonbase Alpha in the Sea of Tranquility. Oh, blast. Here's a map. See for yourself.

We know they're there, but they don't know we're here. Got it? As usual, we're watching the watchers.

Moonbase Alpha is the Benevolent's primary relay for human exports. Everything goes through Alpha: DVDs, books, music, Cuban cigars, abductees, illicit colonoscopy videos. (What did you think those anal probes were all about, anyway? And you thought the British were rectally obsessed.) We Grith Lyssomes keep a close watch on everything that comes and goes. Not that we can prevent it, but it is psychologically helpful to know about the Next Big Thing before it happens. Sometimes it's even financially advantageous.

The Olsen Twins, for example. We knew that would end badly, and when it did, several hundred million Benevolents would suffer reactive depression. Years in advance of Mary Kate's flame-out, we set up thousands of pay-for-ping satellite channels to counsel forlorn Benevolent fans at 10 Pounds Sterling per minute. Ka-ching!

Perhaps you're asking yourself: Not one, but two alien bases on the moon, and we know nothing of it? Or has our government known all along, and kept it secret from us?

As for the first question: It's simple, really. We're underground.

As for your governments? We Grith Lyssomes have a saying that applies to the average Earthling politico: "eight hundred maggots short of a brood." Think about it. If half a dozen Grith Lyssomes crawled onto the floor of the United States Senate and proclaimed, "Klaatu barada nikto," what would happen? Nothing. They'd assume we were a promo for the latest David Cronenberg movie and arrest our fat abdomens for trespassing.

In the words of a famous Earthling, "You can't handle the truth." I mean, think about it. The only way you can put up with this blog is by telling yourself it's fiction -- am I right?

Face it. No human wants to know that his race is a rawhide chew toy worked over by giant flies on the one hand and big-eyed blue aliens on the other. Particularly when those flies use Earth as a limitless source of gourmet fecal matter, and the big-eyed blue aliens have, for the last six years running, given their Top Human Performer Award to Yanni.

Huh? My wife is on line two? The nerve of that, that --

Oh, very well. Put her through.

What we need here is a Special Forces man

2005-08-03T23:21:00.000-07:00

Captain Argh here. It has been eleven days since our last transmission from Tina -- erm, Bare Rump to you Earthlings. I never could bring myself to call her Bare Rump. That always struck me as not so much a name as a medical diagnosis, or perhaps a pseudonym for writing smutty literature. But as Tina, she's the spring that makes my heart tick, the twinkle in my compound eyes, the biz behind my buzz.

You may wonder how a silly fat-bottomed fly like me fell for a girl like Tina. We got off to a rocky start, let me tell you. Along with two other Grith Lyssomes, I had been sent to her planet to make first contact. Things did not go well and I nearly ended up as lunch. But Tina saw something in me, something special. Even though we did not yet have a means of communication, I like to believe that, even then, we shared the language of love.

Oh, Tina. I miss you so.

We received a fragmentary transmission from her a few days ago, so I believe -- I have to believe -- she's alive and well:

. . . many handprints, and none of them fit me! I mean to correct this as soon as . . .

We've tracked her down to Hollywood, California, USA. If you see her, please communicate with me via this blog.

In desperation, I thought of the only person I knew whom we could send to Hollywood without risk of causing much disturbance. We'd worked together on Tina's planet. He'd retired soon after that messy affair, but I thought perhaps he might consider a new assignment, particularly if it meant a honeymoon for him and his new wife.

First, however, I would need approval from General Huzzah. I got him on the phone earlier this morning. Half the galaxy away, and I could hear him plain as day. Isn't technology wonderful?

"We need someone who can go in and out cleanly," I said. "A fellow who can blend with the humans every bit as well as the Rabbit. What we need here is a Special Forces man."

"Man?" said General Huzzah. "A Special Forces man?"

"Someone with whom I've worked personally on, ah, Bare Rump's planet. He's an honest fellow with initiative to burn --"

"I knew it! You're talking about Whizzer's synthetics, aren't you? Those Barbies, Corbies --"

"Kirbys, Sir. And I only need one, Michael Kirby. And, um, Sir? To make him particularly inconspicuous on Earth, I thought we could send him in with his wife and child."

Then I did that trick you see in the movies. I crinkled my wings and rubbed my antennae together, making a dreadful noise, and shouted, "SIR! Some interference from a neutrino shower! I'm sending you a recent photo. Let me know soon, Sir! Times are desperate!" And then I terminated the connection.

With half my eyes on the phone, I threaded a recent press photo of Michael into the telefax. Michael, Michael -- had I told the General I needed Michael? For Michael was worth all the other Kirbys rolled into one.

And now I wait anxiously for General Huzzah's permission. I'm his fly in the field -- what else can he do but comply?

Martha and Gallo do not mix.

2005-07-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

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.

The Rabbit and Me

2005-07-20T22:44:00.000-07:00

This morning, I vowed I would go on a hunger strike rather than suck down another McDonald's vanilla shake. My pleas to the Rabbit and his surly blonde moll seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Martha leaned across the stick shift to nibble "Keanu's" ear lobe. He kept brushing her off, complaining that he had to drive, but she kept coming back for more. Poor me, I could do nothing but watch from the back seat, gagging on my own digestive juices. My legs were still bound -- all of them. Ever since my brush with Martha in the kitchen, the Rabbit has kept my forelegs securely tied.

They'd left my pedipalps free; not even the Rabbit is bold enough to get that close to my fangs. As a consequence, I've been able to communicate by stridulation*.

"Please," I said. "Anything. Find me a chicken farm. Or that emu ranch we passed west of Winslow."

Martha raised her head from the Rabbit's lap and grumped, "One hundred-fifteen in the shade and she wants to back-track two hundred miles. Stop for the next road kill."

"I'll pass," I said.

Later, the Rabbit asked me if I wanted him to stop at McDonald's. I growled.

"Suit yourself," he said, and drove on.

That night, we bedded down in the Motel 6 just outside Barstow. So close to Hollywood, yet it had gotten very late, and my two lovebirds decided they had better things to do than spend another hour on the road. Such a pity. For the last two nights, I'd had to listen to their frolics, which sounded like feline strangulation accompanied by the worst voice acting you can imagine:

"There," the Rabbit would say, his voice oozing an unconvincing simulation of masculine conquest, "how does it feel to take it from a real man?" And similar sentiments. I won't torment you as those two have tormented me.

I hesitated to point out that "Keanu" was neither real nor a man, that Martha was essentially making love to a rather expensive high-tech blow-up doll, but it didn't seem constructive. Instead, I feigned sleep, something I do quite well.

This night, too, I pretended to slip off into my own dreams. They had just begun to tussle with one another when the Rabbit stopped.

"What's the matter, Neo?"

She calls him Neo -- I have no idea why, but it seems to stimulate him to ever more exotic forms of perversion.

"I can't concentrate," he said. "You keep brushing me off about the papers. We really ought to straighten these things out before we hit Melrose Ave."

This was news to me. What was the Rabbit up to now?

"Now, Neo? Oh, baby, I'm so ready for you --"

"And I'll give myself to you like I never have before, my love, if only I can get my mind off the finances. Remember, they only gave me a thousand dollars in your currency --"

"But once you take you-know-who's place, you'll have all his money!"

"Maybe so, maybe so. But I don't know where he is, I don't even know where to begin. I feel so insecure here on Earth."

"Darling," said Martha, staring deeply into his alien eyes, "as long as you're with me, you'll never need to worry about money. I'll take care of you."

"Forever, sugar lumpkins?"

"Forever and ever."

"But you humans are so fickle," the Rabbit said. "You'll get tired of me --"

"Never!"

"Toss me aside like a, like a used-up thingie. No, Martha. It's now or never. I'm talking about a tangible sign of your love. A commitment."

Her upper lip curled back from her teeth. I wondered why "Keanu" wasn't striking a defensive pose. I would have. Instead, he leaned in closer to her on the bed, put his hand below the covers and did something unspeakable. (Well . . . I don't know what he did, but if I knew, I wouldn't be able to talk about it!)

"Just a signature, my beautiful, beautiful girl," he cooed. "Just a signature, and then I'll do that thing with my tongue --"

Martha moaned. It was all I could do not to retch.

"Damn it, Neo," she said. "Give me the goddamned papers already."

After she signed, he did everything he promised, and more. Oh, how I regretted my lack of eyelids. Thank heavens my vision is as poor as it is, else I'd have gone truly blind.

Some time later, the Rabbit began snoring. Martha, it seemed, had drifted off as well. I decided I might as well turn in for the night, too, and let myself drift off into slumber.

I don't know how much time passed before I heard a sharp, "Shh!", and felt the snick of a knife at my bonds.

The Rabbit spoke in a too-loud stage whisper. Amazingly, Martha didn't stir.

"You can't kill me, and you know it. But like I tried to explain before, we don't have to be enemies, Rump. I'll help you," he said, pointing at Martha's prone form with the knife, "if you help me."

I stridulated as softly as I could; fortunately, the rasper understood, and turned down the volume proportionately. "What are you suggesting?"

He shrugged. "You're pretty hungry, aren't you?"

***

*Why, I just rub one 'palp against the other and make beautiful music. The rasper translates it all into English. So much nuance is lost in the translation, but that can't be helped.

Martha and Me

2005-07-17T21:12:00.000-07:00

Late that afternoon, the Rabbit drove into town to buy supplies for our trip to Hollywood. Gasoline jugs, bottled water, Twinkies, hair gel -- that sort of thing. As soon as he'd left, Martha and I stared one another down. At last, I thought. This is my chance to make a break. A human female. A rather old human female, at that. How tough could she be?

How wrong could I be?

"Keanu is mine, you know," she said. "Keep your fangs off of him or I'll turn you into a delightful Halloween centerpiece."

I couldn't have been more flabbergasted. Keanu -- the Rabbit -- and me? Eeew.

"Oh, yes," she said, chuckling in a pinched, evil way, waggling her stubby little finger right at me. "I see you spread out on a mat of plaited raffia, your legs ringed with black and orange ribbons --"

I gasped.

" . . . stuffed with candy corn."

"In your dreams, witch!"

"Just don't fuck with me, Rump. I've got my eye on you."

Humming gaily to herself, she strolled off into the kitchen. I began to think about food, and how I'd had nothing to eat since those McDonald's vanilla shakes. She hummed louder still, then began singing,

So many dreams I kept deep inside me
Alone in the dark but now
You've come along
You light up my life --

"NO!" I cried. I couldn't help myself; her singing had wrenched the word from me.

"Hmm?" she said, oh so casual, as if she'd long since grown numb to her role as torturer. "What's the matter now, bitch?"

"I'm hungry," I said. Those words, too, were beyond my control. I was past hunger. My abdomen felt hollow. "What are you making?"

"A delectable cream cheese and water cress wrap. Would you like some?"

Heaven help me, all I heard was wrap. At some level, I knew this was too good to be true. Martha had no venom, no silk; and where had she found prey? Yet I wanted to believe.

"Dear me," she said, and came back out into the living room. "I simply can't do without an audience, even if it is a vicious, man-hungry fiend like yourself."

Cleverly she skirted my forelegs -- oh, I could have made an ample meal of her, let me tell you. She walked up behind me, and pushed me towards the kitchen. That's when I first realized the Rabbit had bound me to some sort of wheeled chair. How very strange!

After she'd pushed me into the kitchen, I looked around and didn't see a single wrap. The tease. She returned to her work, fussing with a white paste, some vegetation, and a large flat circle of thickish paper. Daintily she rolled up the circle and sliced the tube into squat disks. She offered me one.

I watched her with my forelegs. She held out the disk. Closer. Closer still. But not close enough. The hand bearing the disk swung toward me, then took a detour and found its way into Martha's mouth.

"Mmmmpf! Mm hmmph fmmph!" She licked her fingers. "I'm sorry, but this was so scrumptious I couldn't resist. Delicious, easy to make, and so refreshing on a hot day like this. Keanu will love them."

"Why do you keep calling him that? He's not Keanu Reeves. He's a very naughty synthetic who's on the run from his handlers."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "You can take it from me, Rump," she said. "Naughty is a very good thing."

She turned and bent over to lick white paste from the cutting board, thereby jutting out her bottom.

Yes! Yes! Close enough!

I lashed out with my forelegs, tearing into her terrycloth pants, slicing through her silk undies (silk! You humans call this silk?) , trying as best I could to sink my hooks into her fleshy rear. Alas, I'd miscalculated; my hooks tore through her skin but failed to find purchase in the layer beneath.

She howled and spun about. Before I could strike again she hopped back several feet. Her hand reached for a closet door. Without taking her eyes off me, she felt around inside the closet and pulled out a long-handled broom.

"You asked for it, wench," she said. "Let me show you what passes for a man at the Federal Pen."

She advanced on me. What could I do? Unless she came within reach of my forelegs and fangs, I was helpless. And as she turned the broom around, it became clear to me that she had no intention of coming anywhere close.

Just then, the front door creaked open, and I heard the Rabbit's voice: "Honey, I forgot your American Express card . . . "

Saved by the Rabbit!

The Free Agent

2005-07-15T23:05:00.000-07:00

"You and me, Rump," said the Rabbit, carefully removing his paste-on beard and moustache. "We're going to Hollywood."

"No way," I said.

"Way." He leaned in close. I could have swiped him then, wounded him at least, perhaps disabled him. But I wanted to hear this. He pointed his thumb skyward. "Up there? No one respects me. Down here, I'm a somebody."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"They like my acting here --"

"I don't understand. They don't get Satellite here -- how could they have seen any of your movies?"

"Not my movies." He stepped back and flared out his hands, as if putting himself on display. "His movies."

You're coo-coo, I wanted to say, but he was out of reach now -- and I was still mostly bound. So, instead: "Oh. His movies. I see."

He gave an overly deep stage laugh and struck a pose by the window, silhouetted by the late afternoon sun. In the distance, I could hear a car engine growing louder with each passing moment.

"Where do I fit in?" I said.

"The BCTA wants you dead. As long as I'm on your trail, they'll leave me alone. And as long as I can control where you are, I can tell them whatever the hell I want. Right now, for example? They think I've trapped you in an abandoned silver mine. I'm proceeding with great caution, naturally."

"A very clever plan."

He liked that. Smiling, he picked up a piece of fruit from the table, hefted it in his hand as if guessing its weight, then bit into it with a mighty crunch. "Ffenf oo."

"Don't mention it. So, you never did tell me -- who are we waiting for?"

That car I mentioned? It screeched up to our hideaway and spun about in a cloud of dust. A female human stepped out -- a human? A synthetic? It was impossible to tell. She looked fake, she acted fake, but she might have been real. Oh, I'm so confused.

"That's who I'm waiting for," the Rabbit said. "My girlfriend."

She slammed the car door, strutted into the room, and took hold of the Rabbit. He grabbed her, too, seizing great handfuls of her buttocks, and they kissed each other harshly, with tongues. Then they turned to face me, flaunting their love.

Captivity

2005-07-13T23:30:00.000-07:00

I've been here for what seems like days. What does the Rabbit intend for me, Valor? Surely he doesn't want to kill me -- he could have done that many times over by now.

Let me tell you what I know. My forelegs are still tightly bound, so I can scarcely hear or see anything from my surroundings. That the Rabbit hasn't bothered to cover my eyes tells me he has considerable knowledge of my shortcomings. He has tied up my legs, so he's clearly aware of my strengths, too. My fangs are free. If he would obligingly step under them, I might get something accomplished around here. Then again, if I did, I'd be stranded here. Indeed, unless you find me -- and soon -- I shall surely starve.

My plump behind, which you so dearly cherish, has -- sadly -- become slenderiffic.

(later)

It's a cabin of some sort. I hear animal noises -- muffled, naturally, but I am not completely deaf. He'd have to slather me with peanut butter to do that. (Oh, Valor: that's something we haven't tried!) The door creaks when he enters, and I can occasionally taste chlorophyll on the air. It's colder than I like, and since he hasn't bothered to set up the rasper, I can't very well ask for a blanket.

He's creepy, my love. Sometimes I sense him sitting there, perhaps five feet away, watching me. What does he want? What is he thinking?

(later)

This is progress. I heard the sounds of metal on metal, then a ticking noise, a scratching --

A rasping.

"You there!" I stridulated. The rasper squawked in reply. "I demand you answer me now."

"You're in no position to make demands. In fact, I'd say I have you at my mercy."

Part of me thrilled to the sound of his voice. Conversation, be it only with this beast, restored a modicum of hope to my despondent soul. Yet I sensed something unnatural, not in the rasper's translation, but in the human (synthetic?) voice itself. The voice of a child, a naif, pretending to be a man, realizing he'd made a muck of it, and overcompensating by deepening the timbre, intensifying the bluster.

"Why am I here?" said I. "What are you waiting for?"

"Be honest. What you really want to know is, who is this man who has defeated the great Bare Rump?"

Well, not really. But it seemed best to keep him talking.

"You're the Rabbit," I said. I recalled something I'd learned about him from my time on Ephys, chatting with Whizzer, that great craftsfly of synthetic humans. "You're a failed synthetic actor. So poor were your abilities, even the Benevolents hissed at you when you appeared on screen. You had no choice but to sell your services to --"

I felt a sudden strong tug on my forelegs as he ripped my bonds free. This is what I saw.

" . . . to the Benevolent Commerce and Tourism Association," I finished, my words trailing into silence.

He smiled his phony smile and stroked his beard between two fingers.

"You went to work for those demons," I added. "They want me dead. What's taking you so long?"

The reason for my boldness? He'd freed my forelegs! I was no longer defenseless.

"You're no good to me dead, Bare Rump." The rasper had begun to catch on to his personality; the translation dripped with bombast. "As for the BCTA: They may think they own me, but I'm my own man. I'm a free agent. And I have plans -- for me, for you. For Earth."

Will someone please help me?

2005-07-10T20:55:00.000-07:00

Biographer's note: after a long, tense silence, we received this fragmentary transmission earlier this afternoon. I've uploaded it to Lieutenant Argh (whom Bare Rump calls 'Lord Valor'), and he assures me he's hard at work triangulating on her signal. He's also 'calling in the cavalry', whatever that means to a five-foot-long fly.

I urge all of our many, many readers: keep Bare Rump in your prayers. She needs you now more than ever.

***

. . . childhood. Although I suppose all us females feel that way. Oh, well; I could have been born male. That's what I tell myself to build cheer in these dark times.

Are you out there, Valor? Are you listening? I've said this so many times I'm getting tired of hearing myself talk, but . . . . have to assume this connection is a poor one. Perhaps worse than that. Perhaps I'm not getting through at all. Oh! That way lies madness.

Here we go again. The Rabbit, he was at the water cooler, remember? He turned. He held something in his hands. I felt a sting in my abdomen, and then -- then nothing. Blackness.

When I came to, I found that I'd been wrapped in some sort of gauzy material. My forelegs are tightly bound . . . . can't see or hear anything. I feel vibration; I think we're moving. Perhaps I'm in another truck, like Marge's semi.

What you're reading is a transcription of my stridulation. I've tried to tear myself free, but the Rabbit has bound me too tightly. It's ironic, really. I've always been rather fond of bondage stories -- oh, you know the type, Valor; do I have to spell it out for you?

Very well. Let's say you've drugged me, and bound me with ropes of my own strongest silk. I awaken to find myself on an eight-poster bed, spread-eagled, with you dressed all in black leather, hovering above me, your wings a blur. You tickle the short hairs around my epigynum with your proboscis . . . oh, Valor, you are so cruel . . . tease me, Valor, tease me! And now: what's this? A candle?

I strain against my bonds to no avail. Here I am, lover: I am the wind beneath your wings! Take me, take me now --

But no. You float above me, your six legs tracing circles over my body while, with your proboscis, you hold a candle above me, dripping hot wax on my prone, helpless, naked form. I strain against my silk bondage -- What? Well, of course I'm naked all the time, silly. But it feels so right to say it: naked form. Naked, naked, naked!

Will this torment never end? My bristles tingle at your touch. What are you saying? You want me to worship you? Oh, Valor, yes, yes, you are my Lord and Master, simply satisfy my lust and I shall worship you forever . . . .

[signal break]

. . . . keeps talking but I can't understand a word he's saying. He's done something to the rasper. I'm in GREAT DANGER, do you understand? I don't know where the Rabbit is taking me, nor what he intends for me. I suppose it's a good sign I'm not dead, but the uncertainty is maddening.

Will someone please help me? Valor, if you're out there: I know you can't show yourself here on Earth, not without great risk. But perhaps you could contact our synthetic friend back on Ephys. You remember -- Michael. Maybe he could help me. I do hope so.

Now . . . however am I going to clean up this mess?

[end transmission]

I've gone to Graceland.

2005-07-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Biographer's note: I received the following message from Bare Rump earlier today, heavily encrypted and partly degraded. For all I know, this may be Rump's last message to our people. I include it here, incomplete as it is, to demonstrate the spirit of amitié which Bare Rump brought to our land. Ultimately, all she wanted was to be our friend.

The data packet she sent consists of the raw notes she takes between computer sessions. Her forelegs are equipped with a wide variety of nanoreceptors and nanoprocessors, including vibration and light sensors. Thus, she can tap messages to herself, 'take snapshots' with her forelegs, record this information digitally, encrypt it, and upload it to me via a stealthed Grith Lyssome orbital satellite.

If she's still alive -- and I hope to God she is -- she may yet be able to get messages to me using these devices.

***

3734 Elvis Presley Boulevard: corporate headquarters for Elvis Presley Enterprises. The pretty young black human female behind the glass desk has a name tag: Carlee Kravitz, Central Receiving. Marge holds a large canvas satchel in her hands. From inside the bag, she pulls out a paper and slams it down on Carlee's desk.

"Check the damn invoice if you don't believe me," she says.

I can see Tiffini straining to read Carlee' s name tag. (Fortunately, my forelegs' visual mapping ability has reached the point where I can 'read' English. Things keep getting better all the time!) Marlee's flustered -- I don't think she has accepted Marge's explanation about me, and an angry Marge is nothing to sniff at, either.

After more hollering, the door behind Carlee opens, and a male comes out.

"What's this?" he says.

"She says she has a shipment --"

"No. What's this?"

Meaning me.

Carlee rolls her eyes. "Animatronic spider for the new interactive wing."

His forehead wrinkles. "Animatronic --"

"You know," says Marge, "For the Harum Scarum exhibit."

"There weren't any giant spiders in Harum Scarum."

"Okay," says Marge. "I'll grant you that. How's this: I'll take the spider back, but you gotta take delivery on my shipment, just like it says in the invoice."

He picks up the paper and reads it slowly. With my legs up, I can see his lips moving. After a very long time, he says, "'Ten gross of lawn elves.' What would we want with lawn elves?"

Marge opens the satchel, pulls out a statue, and places it on the desk.

"Lawn Elvises," she says.

"Who you trying to kid?" says Carlee. "I've seen Lord of the Rings. That's no elf. He's too damned short, his ears are round, and he's not blonde --"

"Carlee Kravitz!" says Tiffini, finally managing to sound out Carlee's name tag. "Would you be related to Mr. Lenny Kravitz? Cuz my daddy says Mr. Lenny Kravitz, why, he's one hell of an American, a real patriot, even if he is half-black-half-Jew --"

"Ex-cuse me?" says Carlee.

All of this is making me tense. It seems like Carlee is about to strike Tiffini, and I can't have that. True, the girl can be annoying, but she is my best friend on Earth.

"Lawn Elvises," Marge repeats. "You know, like your Lord and Master? Haven't you noticed the sunglasses and the sideburns and the chubby cheeks?"

Tiffini, meanwhile, is jumping up and down, hands pursed together: "-- cuz if he is, like, your half-brother or something, do you think you could get him to sign something for me, like my --"

"Mr. Gruen," says Carlee, "do I gotta take this from a punk-ass kid --"

Marge rises to her full height and glares down at Carlee. "JUST WHO ARE YOU CALLING PUNK-ASS?"

"The problem," the man is saying to Marge, "is this signature is illegible. We've had a good deal of turnover in recent weeks. Perhaps if you took this down to Human Resources, someone there might be able to figure out who authorized purchase of your elves --"

"ELVISES --"

"Cuz some little miss needs her ass whupped yesterday --"

It's all getting too loud, too confusing. The rasper doesn't know quite what to make of it and neither do I. On a practical level, the important thing is, this Mr. Gruen has placed himself between Carlee and Tiffini, and I don't think Marge will let any harm come to her niece, either. Time for me to slink away and let these humans settle their differences amongst themselves.

Out here in the main secretary pool, the young females are oohing and aahing about me, the amazing animatronic spider. I wonder how they'd feel if I asked them for directions to the little girls' room? Oh, well. Best not tempt fate. I think I can find it for myself anyway.

Wait. That's not a young female human by the water cooler. He's holding something long and delicate in his hands --

"You're . . . you're the Rabbit?"

Transmission ends here.

It's okay, Cleland. Size doesn't matter.

2005-07-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

Such an eventful night! Before I get started, let me show you a photo this very kind person has let me use, on condition I provide attribution. This image falls under a 'share alike' Creative Commons license. Not like the other images on my blog, which my biographer has quite rudely stolen and bastardized. I shall have to give him a stern talking-to.

The noise began even before dark, with sharp pops, ghoulish howls, and nasty screams. With the fall of true night, booming explosions came from above. I hid under the horse blanket and tucked my forelegs beneath my cephalothorax. This had been a bad idea.

Marge rapped on the passenger-side window. I uncurled myself, pressed the button, and the glass scrolled down.

"You can come out, Rump," she said.

"But there are people all around --"

"Drunk off their asses. Don't worry, no one will ever notice you. Now, come on out and enjoy the fireworks."

"I'll stay here, thank you."

I believe I've mentioned previously my atrocious vision. My hearing is acute, thanks to the bristles on my forelegs, and this auditory information gives me a tactile-visual view of my world. It's quite effective, but it does exclude me from certain things.

Fireworks, for example. From the cab, I could see brightness in the sky above the lake and precious little else. The noise -- how to describe the horrid noise? Hmm. I remember Tiffini trying to feed me Jell-o while I was hiding out in her chicken coop. Imagine that your world is Jell-o, and someone just gave the bowl a mighty shake. Then imagine that same someone taking a pair of electric beaters to the Jell-o and beating the living crap out of it. That's how much I liked these explosions.

But Tiffini was crying, "Oh please, Bare Rump, please oh please oh please, it wouldn't be the same without you by my side, I know it wouldn't --"

I was beginning to understand Marge a bit better.

Oh, well, I said to myself, and allowed the two of them to talk me out of the cab. On an intellectual level, I knew the fireworks were far away. I might have a ripping headache come morning, but for now, I'd tough it out. The things we do for children.

Between explosions, I assessed my surroundings. Marge had parked her semi at a rest stop overlooking the lakes. Several other semis had stopped here, as well as a few dozen pick-up trucks and a gang of motorcyclists, too. I soon understood why Marge had judged it safe for me to come out. She'd parked at one end of the rest stop. Our nearest neighbors -- our only neighbors -- were a trio of rowdy males drinking from bottles.

"Rum and Coke," Marge told me. "Goddamn college students is what they are. No real man would drink rum and Coke."

Unfortunately, they weren't drunk enough. They did notice me, and they came around for a closer look.

Now: if you're paying close attention, as I know you intelligent readers surely are, you're going to wonder how I heard any of the things those boys said, what with all the noise. And you'd be right. Oh, I heard a word here and there -- "Cleland, have you ever --", and "-- ass on it --", and, "-- saddle on it and call --", but for the most part, their jabbering confused me. Fortunately, the rasper stored their words in its buffer. That, along with Tiffini's and Marge's accounts of the night's events, have enabled me to reconstruct the following scene.

"Cleland," said the first boy, "have you ever seen such a big effin stuffed animal?"

Effin, you understand, has another meaning, but with Tiffini looking over my shoulder as I type, I have to respect her wishes. She says the F word is the horridest nastiest word in the English language, almost as bad as the C word.

"Nosirree, Andy," said Cleland. "I'd call it a teddy bear, but lookit the ass on it! Hey, little girl, what is that thing?"

"That's Bare Rump," said Tiffini, "the fastest killer in the whole galaxy. Why, I saw her throw Mr. Charles Bronson himself to a herd of hungry gators."

"Ain't that sweet," said the third boy. "If it was up to me, I'd put a saddle on it and call it Sally."

The other two seemed to think this was the funniest joke ever. Soon after, they lost interest and wandered back to their truck.

More explosions came from overhead; I soon learned that the howling, shrieking noises came from the small fireworks the college boys set off. Added to that were the occasional crash of broken glass (something else they thought uproarious: tossing their empties over their shoulders), and the whooping of moronic laughter. Would this evening never end?

That's when something big exploded right behind me. Or perhaps under me -- my abdomen convulsed with pain. Later, Marge would explain that the boys had set off a string of firecrackers inches away from my spinnerets; at the time, I could only react.

An important aside.

When fighting mugwasps, here's the best killing move. First, grapple your prey with your mid-legs, pinning his wings and stinger against his body. Next, while rolling the mugwasp over and over with your mid-legs, use the claws at the end of your forelegs to slice all the way around the mugwasp's exoskeleton. (Hopefully, you've remembered to keep your claws razor sharp, just for such contingencies.)

It's easy as ringing a tree trunk. When you're done, their back end falls out and their guts spill out. It's delovely!

When I came to my senses, the three college boys stood before us, naked as guilaba pups from the waist down. Their pants lay bunched at their ankles, and they looked at one another with the most humorous shocked expressions. Tiffini howled with surprise and delight.

They were (as Marge explained later) checking each other out.

"Cleland," said Andy, "I didn't know you were circumscised."

Cleland looked down between his legs. When he looked up again, his eyes were very large.

"Neither did I," he said.

Born on the Fourth of Joo-Lie

2005-07-05T23:11:00.000-07:00

Just after sundown yesterday, we had dinner at the McDonald's in Meridian. I hid under the horse blanket in Marge's cab while Marge and Tiffini ate burgers and fries. I'd tried a Big Mac back in Jackson, but couldn't manage to derive any useful nutriment from it. McDonald's Vanilla Shakes, on the other hand, taste uncannily like fermented guilabas. They're a favorite cocktail snack among my people.

Immature guilabas, pre-fermentation

I'd been a tad apprehensive about the shakes. Back at her father's ranch, I'd tried sucking milk from a cow. Tiffini had suggested it; she'd hoped to find me a renewable food supply. All I got for it was a kick in the palps and hives.

"Tiffini," I'd said in Jackson, "I think I'm allergic to milk."

"Listen to you talk, Bare Rump. There ain't no milk in McDonald's shakes! They never saw the inside of a cow, not one drop."

And she was right. Last night, anyway, Tiffini bubbled over with excitement.

"Inside? The cashier lady? She reminded me it's Independence Day, and here we are in Meridian, where every year they hold one spectacular fireworks right over the lakes, what with music and food. It sounds so much more fun than Crawford --"

"We're making Tuscaloosa by nightfall," said Marge, and she spat out the window to prove it.

Tiffini's eyes became big as saucers. She bared her fangs and gasped, "But! But! But! But Aunt Marge, you know this is my birthday, I was born on the Fourth of Joo-Lie just like Mr. Tom Cruise, and you know how special he is! And, and, and I never not once missed a fireworks, not even the day I was born, cuz Daddy took Mommy down to the Fairgrounds, and her all crampy and bloody, all cuz Mr. Lee Greenwood himself was coming to sing his 'Proud to be an American' song, and Mr. Greenwood? Daddy says he's the Right Hand of God, right there after Jesus H. Christ and Ronald Reagan, all cuz he wrote a song that's holier than the pledge allegiance, and so Daddy took Mommy and me, me only a few hours old and all pink and soft still --"

Even with ten Vanilla Shakes in me, she was making me hungry for more. I imagined her tiny and pink and soft, just like a baby guilaba . . .

"And Daddy says the Fourth is in my blood, Aunt Marge. I have sparklers for nerves and Piccolo Petes for lungs. If I miss a fireworks I'll die, Marge, I'll surely --"

"Will you shut?"

Tiffini pursed her lips tightly and got a determined look on her face. Next thing I knew, she was singing:

And I'm proud to be an American or at least I'd like to be
And I'm thankful to the Republicans who made things good for me
And I'll gladly stand right next to you long's I know that you ain't gay
Cuz Jesus Christ he made this land, God bless the USA

And I'm proud to be --

"All right already!" said Marge. "Go to your damned fireworks. Just stop that racket."

Tiffini sank back in her seat, looking rather smug.

I wiggled around as best I could to face her. "Tiffini?"

"Yes, Bare Rump?"

"What are fireworks?"

"Oh, you'll love it, Bare Rump. All kind of colors and explosions. And the cashier lady said there'll be food and music there, and maybe Aunt Marge can buy us some sparklers --"

"Don't push your luck," said Marge. She slammed her map down and fired up the engine.

"Your first Fourth, Bare Rump! It's so exciting."

"And, Tiffini? Who's Tom Cruise?"

"Oh, he's a very important man, powerfully intelligent. Why, Daddy says he's a Scientologist. I wonder how many years a school you got to do to be a Scientologist. Do you know, Aunt Marge?"

Marge put the engine in gear and began edging away from the curb and into traffic.

"Have to finish Junior High, I imagine," she said. "At the very least."

TO BE CONTINUED

Urgent Post

2005-07-02T21:19:00.000-07:00

To: Ambassador Bare Rump Pulchra

From: Lieutenant Argh-pffff-uhh

Dearest Tina,

This is for your eyes only, all eight of them, perfect and lovely as black pearls on a jeweller's felt.

Kudos on your clever resolution of the Charles Ingalls situation, but I'm afraid you're not out of the stew yet. As he was being ripped to shreds, Ingalls got off a distress call to his Benevolent handler, P. Here is the transcript of the intercepted message.

Ingalls: You son of a bitch, if I have to rebuild myself from a smear of toe jam, so help me I'll do it, and I'll find you, and I'll eat your cold heart for breakfast --

P: Charles, Charles, calm down! Surely things are darkest before the dawn. Sleep it off. You'll be ever so much more chipper in the morning.

Ingalls: Chipper? I'm being eaten by alligators. It doesn't get much chipper than -- God damn that hurts. Seven-fold, P. I'll pay you back for this seven-fold if it's the last thing I do.

P: Alligators, you say? Charles, you mustn't put yourself in such perilous situations. Now speak slowly and explain to me why you're so annoyed.

Ingalls (sighing): Your brief. You never told me about Rump's capabilities. She's faster than I am, P, and she fires rope out of her ass --

P: Out of her -- out of her ass? I'm sorry. I could have sworn you just said she fires rope out of her ass.

Ingalls: That's what I srrggggggglh . . .

End transmission.

The transcript ends there, my love. I presume the alligators had made it to his larynx by then. Anyway, we subsequently intercepted P's missive to his supervisor, Z. That's the part that truly worries me, Tina. Pay careful attention.

P: Ingalls' telemetry has gone quite barmy. Why, it's almost as though he's scattered himself over an acre or more. I'm afraid we should assume the worst.

Z: Oh, really. You think so? You don't think, perhaps, that all he needs is a good night's rest, and all will be right as rain come sun-up, hmm?

P: Um.

Z: Oh, he's chipper all right.

P: I take it you heard our little conversation.

Z: I monitor all your transmissions, P. Now, look here: plainly, you've sent in a boy to do a man's job. Ingalls was an actor, for heaven's sake. We need a true button man for this one.

P: You don't mean?

Z: I do. We're sending in The Rabbit. Wait. What's this. P, you fool, you're transmitting on an unsecure line. Bloody --

End transmission.

I'm scurrying about, trying to find out what I can about "The Rabbit", but thus far I'm coming up empty-legged. Whizzer says it's not one of his synthetics. I know the Benevolents have been playing with the technology for several years, but the only products I've ever seen were pint-sized Barneys -- you know, for the little Benevolents -- and Pamela Anderson plug-and-plays. In short, nothing with any intelligence or finesse.

Do be careful, darling.

Yours eternally,

Valor

Mr. Ingalls really needs to get out.

2005-06-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

I found myself contemplating the future: I pictured dozens of hatchlings surrounding me by the fireside, clamoring for the end of the story. Flesh-hungry gators behind me, I would say, and a rifle-packing, well nigh indestructible, synthetic, not-quite-Charles Bronson in front of me. Worse, I had Tiffini on my back, so my maneuverability was none too good.No fast-spin, flying-kick, say-goodbye-to-your-piece, Mr. High-and-Mighty Hitman.

And my eager dozens would mewl: What did you do, Mama? What did you do?

Why, I --

That, sadly, formed the end of my vision.

"End of the road, Bare Rump," said Ingalls.

"What are you going to do, Ingalls?" I said. "Shoot me, you could hit the girl."

"My brief says I need to take you down. Doesn't say nothing about limitations."

"You son of a bitch," said Marge. I held up a mid-leg up to caution her.

Thanks to my raised forelegs, my world view was a glorious, three-hundred-and-sixty degree Surround Sound extravaganza. You humans might add, "My back was to Ingalls," but I don't think of it as a back. I think of it as a spinneret transport device. (I also think of it as the life support system for my warm, fuzzy pleasure palace, but amour would have to take a back seat to survival.)

In any case, I knew that even with his improved synthetic senses, Ingalls couldn't possibly match me for sheer grasp of the situation and all its tactical subtleties. He didn't know, for example, that our conversation had attracted the attention of the gators. Eventually, he'd see them lumbering near, but not yet. I still had a few moments.

I had an idea.

"Everything in good working order, Ingalls?" I said. "Last I saw, you were soaking up mineral resources in a pig wallow. Maybe you soaked up too little silicon and too much carbon."

"Huh?" he said, finger stroking the trigger.

"She means you're full of poo," said Tiffini.

"Why, you little --"

And then, my friends, Mr. Ingalls said the naughty C word, which Tiffini had told me was the worstest word ever, and that she had given Otis Plunkit such a slap when he'd said it to her, but she'd once said it to Kristi Tomasi when Kristi told everyone in P.E. she was such a snob --

Ingalls finished his sentence, and Tiffini dug her heels into my abdomen with admirable vigor. Looking back on it, I realize she merely wanted to dismount so she could slap that nasty man. But at the time, I didn't think. I reacted. I bucked her off, and realized as I did that my idea had damn well better work.

I splatted his rifle with a stream of my toughest silk. He fired, but not before I had knocked the barrel upwards. He lost his grip. With a second stream of silk, I hit him squarely in the chest; and then I spun, launching him towards the herd of interested gators.

Once Tiffini realized what had happened -- um, what was still happening -- to Mr. Ingalls, her anger at being pitched into the swamp subsided.

"How did you do that, Bare Rump?" she said.

"A fine move, Rump," said Marge. "I'm right proud of you."

"Thanks. Well, Tiffini, on the flight to Earth, I watched both Spider-Man movies. I figured that if some wimpy-looking human could do that with his wrists, I could certainly do it with my multitalented booty."

We hugged each other and laughed. It was just like the end of a Partridge Family episode, with Tiffini as Tracy Partridge, and Marge as Shirley Partridge, and me as Susan Dey.

Then we got back to the business of finding me a few straggling gators for dinner. I mean, jeez. A girl's gotta eat.

Bayou Blues

2005-06-29T23:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight was a warm wet night under a fat crescent moon. A thin mist rose off the swamp; I could taste it better than I could see it. Tiffini's overdramatic gagging noises told me we had to be close. Something big had died out here.

"I don't need helpers," I said. "I can manage by myself."

Marge walked alongside us toting her newly purchased rifle. "Just 'cuz you can French kiss those tame gators in the Hyatt don't mean you can get close to these sumbitches."

"Tiffini," I said, "please tell your aunt I can fend --"

"I'm not talking to you, Bare Rump," Tiffini said.

She sat astride the natural saddle between my cephalothorax and my abdomen. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind. She's light enough, and she did hold the rasper steady (that damned translator always chafes!) But I didn't appreciate the way she kicked my flanks to steer me left and right.

I said, "Are you still mad about that boy in the hot tub?"

"Hmmph."

"I think we've had a long few days, Rump," said Marge. "Let's leave it at that."

"Excuse me?" I said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Tiffini dug both heels in. "She MEANS, first you get us thrown out of the Hyatt --"

"I only wanted some Gatorade."

"And then you kicked hairs at the Ritz-Carlton piano man --"

"He played Feelings. I hate Feelings. Every last gin joint on the Road, you'll find some sentient or another hammering the ivory with his tentacles or claws, moaning about his bloody Feelings."

Again with the feet. If she kicked me one more time, I swore I would buck her into the swamp. I'd do it, too.

"THEN there was that incident at the Hilton bar," Tiffini said. "That poor, poor man."

"He was drunk," I said. "He fell on top of me. Accidents happen."

Just ask my last six lovers. Barring Lord Valor, naturally.

"And then, to top it all off, I almost died of embarrassment at the Holiday Inn Express --"

"I knew it," I said. "Tiffini, I did that for you. That boy in the hot tub was up to no good."

"He liked me!" she shrieked. "I wanted to play Open your mouth and close your eyes!"

"Hush," said Marge.

I'd heard it, too: a soft splash, the squelch of one heavy foot after another. When we stopped talking, the footsteps stopped. Marge gestured for us to proceed, but quietly.

We rounded a thick stand of mossy cypress. Marge held up her hand. "There," she said. It was more an exhalation than a word. She pointed, and I saw dinner.

I held up my forelegs for a better look. To me, the hill of corpses glowed with internal heat, and writhed at the fringes. Good, I thought. More Gatorade. But why should a hill like this exist in the first place?

This mystery would have to wait. Something clicked behind me, and a familiar voice said, "Don't move."

I didn't need to move. With my forelegs up, I could see all around me. And I made a vow: if it was the last thing I ever did, I would wipe the smirk off Charles Ingalls' face.

I'm comin' out!

2005-06-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

Well past sundown, Marge brought the rig to a halt. I got out of the cab to stretch my legs and heard something skitter and snap. With my crappy vision, I could only make out a two-dimensional object glowing hot against the warm night air. A sign of some sort?

"Rasper," I said, "initiate a full spectrum analysis and translation of that object."

"Ponchartrain Bye-d-Bye," the rasper replied. "Rates by the Quarter Hour."

"What's it mean?"

Just then, a door swung open, slamming against the stucco wall nearby, and a couple staggered out. A man exited -- hands bound at the wrist, balled-up pants held between his elbows -- walking funny. Funnier than usual, I should say. A woman followed, holding a whip. She snapped it and he yelped.

"Tangerine!" he said. "Tangelo! Yow!"

"Yer own damn fault you forgit the safe word," she said. "Back in there!"

"Pomelo! Papaya!"

"You git!"

As he turned, I saw the most curious thing.

"Marge," I said, "I didn't know humans have tails."

"They don't," said Marge. She looked over her shoulder. "Tiffini! Stay in the cab, hear?"

I felt the whip woman's eyes on me, raking me up and down. I suppose we didn't know quite what to make of one another. Finally:

"You from the Service?"

"Yes," I said, simply to see what she would do with it.

"Yeah, well, I work alone. Strictly dom and no fetishes. I figure you got the wrong motel."

"Marge," I said, after the whip woman disappeared back into her room, "why are we here?"

"Well, Rump, some folk think God put us here to serve some higher purpose. Like me, I'm here to make sure the good folk of Memphis get their shipment of Elvis lawn statues. Tiffini, she's here to look adorable. That gal there, she's here to torment N'Awlins' finest with whips and chains, and shove their service revolvers straight up their --"

"No, Marge. I mean, why are we here, in Lutcher? I thought we were going to New Orleans. Excuse me -- N'Awlins. This isn't N'Awlins."

"And it ain't the Belle Terre Country Club neither, Rump. This place takes pets and they don't ask no questions. Unless you want to sleep another night in the cab --"

"I'd had my hopes set on the Hyatt Regency."

"Hyatt Regency? Listen to you. One, we ain't got the money, and two, they ain't gonna let no ten-foot-long forgive me for saying so scarier-than-Jason-on-crack --"

After she said money, I zipped back to the cab, told Tiffini, "Tiff, we're sleeping in style tonight," fetched my satchel (the one where I keep my things -- rasper replacement parts, Satellite radio, hair spray, makeup, and of course pin-money), zipped back to Marge, opened the satchel, and showed her a roll of Ben Franklins. (That's what Lord Valor called them. "Tina, darling," he said, "If you want to be cool, call them Ben Franklins." Such a sweetie, so afraid I'll embarrass myself!)

"We have the Ben Franklins," I said. "Do you suppose they'll overlook their No Pets rule?"

***

I was right, of course.

We strolled right on up to the front desk of the New Orleans Hyatt Regency. Marge did the talking.

"My friend here." She nodded at me, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "A little slow. Thinks it's Mardis Gras. "

A few Ben Franklins later, they were willing to believe Marge, and before long, we had the entry cards to Room 1554.

On the way to the elevators, we passed the most curious thing: a big lagoon in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by a low plexiglass wall. A few rugged beasts swam in the lagoon, but many more basked near an artificial waterfall.

I said, "What --"

"Gators," said Marge, and that was that.

The room was stupendous. I would have a king-sized bed to myself, and Tiffini would share one with Marge. The television, a flat-screened set nearly half as wide as I, was tuned to a program showing a tour of the Hyatt.

Luxury differs somewhat for your people and ours, but they do have one thing in common: excess. A full-service fitness center! Two Olympic-sized swimming pools! Masseur on duty twenty-four hours a day! Sauna, hot tubs, wine cellar, beauty parlor, pedicurist!

I crawled around our room. The bathroom facilities would be a challenge. I thought it would probably be best to relieve myself in the hotel's swimming pool; it seemed made for the task, if you want the truth. Marge was showing something interesting to Tiffini.

"It's what you call a mini-bar," Marge said. "You take whatever you want, and they bill you when you leave."

"Cheetos?" said Tiffini.

"Sure, darlin', but we're in N'Awlins, for cryin' out loud. And you want to eat Cheetos?"

"Can I have the Abba-Zabba? The Snickers? The Gatorade?"

"I am a little thirsty," I said. So we had snacks and drinks.

I shared a Gatorade with Tiffini -- wonderful stuff! -- then sucked down more than a few of those little, colorful glass bottles with the screw caps. The rest was a blur. I felt warm and lovely. I could have used a male then, let me tell you. Instead, I went down to the lobby and got myself a perm-and-dye-job. Now I'm a lovely black.

I heard a delightful ruckus coming from one of the convention halls. Wouldn't you know it -- it was a cast party for All My Children! I couldn't help myself. I crashed it. I've been a big BIG fan ever since watching a few Satellite reruns on my way to Earth. And the girls, they were such sports. Can't you tell?

We danced the night away, and I worked up a powerfully big thirst. I could go back up to my room; after all, we hadn't emptied all of the Gatorade.

On the other hand . . . I stared out at the lobby's artificial lagoon. Gators. If Gatorade was such a delightful beverage, how much better would it be if I took it straight from the source?

Bloody Mary, a la Bare Rump

2005-06-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

Sorry to drink and run, folks, but New Orleans is too much fun. Everyone here thinks I'm dressed up for Mardis Gras. As I understand it, Mardis Gras was four months ago, or eight months later, but the wonderful folks of New Orleans are too drunk to care.

Here's the drink Chef Paul came up with in my name. It's a recharge, I'll tell you what!

1.5 oz vodka
1tsp grated horse (horseradish may be substituted)
1tsp Worcestershire sauce
2 dashes hot sauce
1/2 cup pig's blood (tomato juice may be substituted)

Garnish:
Several live nutria
1 medium-sized pickled pepper, skewered with sugar cane
Tiny umbrella

Add ingredients over ice, shake well, then rest in shaker. Pour over crushed ice and garnish with pepper and umbrella. Serve several live nutria in a popcorn bowl.

Huzzah!

Here I am, greeting Chef Paul in a lovely green field, clouds scudding the sky:

Tomorrow: I kick Emeril up a notch.

Ciao!

Bringing Marge up to date

2005-06-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

(Note: ordinarily, I would jump straight ahead to the tale of how I met Chef Paul Prudhomme and over-ate until I thought I would bust. I mean, those soft shell crabs are good! But my biographer's wife worries that many of you may be scratching your round furry heads in confusion.

"They need some back story, Rump!" she says.

"Darling, on my planet we have this expression. 'Show, don't --'"

"Horseshit. No one's going to bother listening to your tale if they haven't a clue what's going on. So some giant tarantula is going on a road trip. What kind of story is that? No wonder your blog only gets ten or twelve hits a day."

Good thing she's half a country away, the little bitch.)

***

Marge drove with the window down so she could spit her chew. The night air riffled my hairs in the most delightful way; curled beside me, Tiffini snored gently, her feet up on the head rest, her golden locks draped across my abdomen. Before long, I slept, too.

The rasper woke me, speaking to me with its reconstruction of Marge's voice.

"So, Rump. What's your story?"

I combed the sleep off my fangs and considered how best to reply.

"I guess I'm sort of a good will ambassador. We're new to the Road --"

"What, you never been drivin' before?"

"The Road, Marge. The Silk Road. There are lots and lots of intelligent species in the galaxy. Together, their planets constitute stopping points on the Silk Road. "

Marge spat. "Galaxy's a mighty big place, from what I hear."

I hoped I wouldn't have to explain the singularities. "Trust me. It's easier to get around than you might think."

"I still don't get it. Why'd you come here?"

"This must be very dull for you." Truth was, I wanted to get back to my beauty sleep. "And it would take ever so long to explain --"

"We got at least another hour before New Orleans, Rump. I'm all ears."

If I'd had the larynx for it, I would have sighed. "Very well, then. Reality isn't what you think it is --"

"You got that right. Before I met you, the biggest spider I ever met was yay big." She showed me with her fingers.

"That's nice, Marge. So, it happens to be true that every big thing in our galaxy -- stars, moons, planets, even some large asteroids -- is connected to every other big thing, but only in one direction. From Earth, for example, you could travel almost instantly to B547G-2C, the third moon of the second planet of a whopping big red giant. Not a very exciting place. And once you're there, you'd have nowhere to go but UY3302-1, and after that H-bar 87, and after that --"

"I get it. You're saying the Silk Road is a one-way street."

"Precisely! But it does branch a bit. From H-bar 87, you could go directly to SR7798-3A, but if you don't mind a few days' journey, you could fly instead to H-bar 87-1. That's H-bar 87's first and only planet, and a direct hop from it would take you to a lovely ski-resort-planet in the Akkaris system."

"Seems awfully inconvenient."

"It gets worse. I made up all those names. Truth is, only two species know the map to the Road: the Grith Lyssomes, and the Benevolents. For Grith Lyssomes, think of your Earth flies, and scale them up to, oh, five-feet-across --"

"Yuck!"

I ground my fangs against the dashboard. How would she react if she knew my boyfriend was a Yuck?

"They're terribly bright, the Grith Lyssomes," I said, "but they aren't people-people, if you get my drift."

"Still, I'd take them Benevolents over giant flies. Benevolents, that at least sounds nice."

"Oh, but they're nasty, EVIL creatures! All they want is to be loved, and they'll ruin everything in their path to achieve that end. You don't want to meet a Benevolent. Sadly, they control everything."

"Why them, and not the flies?"

"Like I said, the Grith Lyssomes aren't people-people. They gave the job of running the empire to the best administrators in the galaxy -- the Benevolents. Now, there's one thing you need to know about the Benevolents. They love you humans."

"Don't see how they can be so danged evil if they love us."

Marge, I thought, I hope you never do understand. "The Benevolents control nearly all tourism and trade on the Road. They also control Satellite, the galactic media broadcasting system. Over ten thousand channels, and I'll bet you will never guess what they show."

A look of pure horror darkened her face. "Please, God, don't tell me -- Maury Povich?"

"I'm afraid so --"

"Ellen DeGeneres? Court TV?"

She began to moan, and I feared she might drive us clear off the road. But she grabbed a hunk of fresh chew and gnawed it the way a spiderling works her first oriboe.

I continued: "Nearly all Satellite programming is material the Benevolents have pilfered from you humans. Now do you see the problem my people face? All those billions of intelligent creatures in our galaxy have, thanks to Satellite, absorbed humanity's fear of spiders. How will we ever take our place as full citizens of the Road?"

We drove in silence for several minutes. I could see Marge was chewing things over.

"That's why you think you need to see the Most Important Human in the world," Marge said at last. "You'd like to convince him that humans need to make movies about friendly spiders."

"That's right!"

"But Rump, you're going about it all wrong. You go to D.C., you'll never make it inside the No Fly Zone. There's a war goin' on, in case you hadn't heard, and everyone's scared witless about terrorists. Darlin', forgive me, but I don't think you'd pass muster."

This had to be my darkest hour. I said something I'd learned from Tiffini. "Marge, you're bumming me out."

She beamed at me the brightest smile I have ever seen. "Don't worry, Rump. I think I see the answer."

"Yes? Yes?"

"You had the right idea . . . but you had the wrong Coast."

Wherein I meet the Rainbow Coalition

2005-06-22T22:56:00.000-07:00

Marge edged backwards toward the cab. Norma Carter advanced on her, and close behind were her girls, all seven of them, each in her own primly starched white sheet and wooden cross necklace.

I saw Marge reach for a weapon that wasn't there; Tiffini saw it, too. She popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a mean-looking hunk of dark metal.

"Do you know how to use that?" I asked, panic churning inside me.

"Daddy just showed me his rifle," said Tiffini. "This here .45 is littler. It's a piece of cake."

I did some quick thinking. It was me they wanted. If I ran off, Norma and her girls shouldn't have any gripe with Marge and Tiffini. If I stayed, Tiffini might use that weapon -- and become a target herself. Not a tough decision. I checked to make sure I had the rasper securely lashed to my back. (Okay, okay, it's a cephalothorax. But I hate those clinical names. It's like epigynum, for example. I'd call it my honey pit, but you wouldn't know what I was talking about, would you?)

I'd made it out the door and had dashed twenty feet before Marge stopped me, cold hard command in her voice, the sort of steel I'd only ever heard among the hoariest college deans.

"Don't you move, Rump. Norma and her daughters gotta learn once and for all to tolerate the little differences."

A sudden stiff wind caught hold of Norma's hood, blowing it back, and the parking lot halogens highlighted her harshly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Marge," said Norma. "The Klan celebrates diversity. God created a rainbow here on Earth. It's bottom-dwellers like you who want to muddy the waters with your Satanic race-mixing."

Marge spat at Norma's feet. "You're talkin' out your pale white ass, Norma Carter. Bare Rump here ain't even an Earth spider. How do you know she can even --"

"But she will, Marge. Don't you see? Let one of 'em in, and before long there'll be a hundred, and then a million. And then they'll breed with our good Christian house spiders, and before you know it you won't be able to turn around in a public bathroom without bumping into one! Think about it, Marge. Would you want to sit on a toilet seat right after one of them?"

Marge threw me a sidelong glance. "How do you go poo, Bare Rump?" And she winked.

A wink! Tiffini had taught me that. I said, "Here, let me show you," and spun around. Marge dove to the side with surprising agility, and a good thing, too, because two seconds later all those white sheets were ruined. Yes, darlings. I can spray it with the best of 'em.

"Rump -- move. We're haulin' ass!" cried Marge. As Norma and her girls bellowed their rage, Marge ran back to the cab. I zipped over and squeezed in beside Tiffini.

"Can I shoot 'em Cousin Marge?" said Tiffini. "Can I? Please?"

"Gimme that." She yanked the gun away and stuffed it under her waist band.

Marge fired up the engine and crept forward. We still had the problem of getting out of the lot. Then Marge said, "Screw it," reached up, hit the horn a few times, and put the pedal to the floor.

Several not-so-white sheets jumped to either side of us. Next, I heard a stingingly loud crunch as Norma's KLANGAL truck became airborne. Marge sideswiped another truck and rear-ended a third before we'd hit the open road.

"Woo-hoo!" This, from Tiffini's corner.

And this, from Marge: "To hell with I-20! I'm cuttin' south."

"Cousin Marge, you don't mean --"

"That's right, darlin' baby girl. New Orleans, here we come."

The Princess and the Pea

2005-06-21T22:22:00.000-07:00

Tiffini and I huddled together beneath the horse blanket. One quick swipe from my left foreleg and I had us both tucked in. As long as neither one of us moved, we weren't at much risk of exposure. We didn't speak for a good long time -- each of us, I imagine, hoping Marge would conclude her negotiations with Norma Carter quickly and successfully.

Tiffini spoke first. "Can you hear anything?"

"I was about to ask you that."

"I just thought, with the rasper scritchin' away, maybe you was hearing everything."

"Nothing but static, Tiffini."

She shivered. "Them's Klan, Bare Rump. Daddy says they're just honest folk who want to protect their rights as a white minority but Mommy says Daddy doesn't know dick. Mommy says they're all a bunch of fashion-challenged Nazi-wannabes. I wonder what's taking so long?"

"I don't know, but Marge was pretty insistent about us waiting here."

"I wish we could pass the time. Do you know any stories?"

"Stories?" I thought about telling her of my adventures with Lord Valor, but I wasn't sure she was ready for intelligent, super-sized flies and hostile, cannon-toting boars. "What kind of stories?"

"You know. Like Cinderella, or Shrek, or The Little Mermaid."

I didn't know any of those, but I got the general sense that she wanted the sort of tale we tell our hatchlings. I realized I would have to change the words a bit; they call their males 'men', their females 'women', and so forth. Doubtless there were other linguistic pitfalls. I'd have to be flexible.

"Once upon a time there was a woman," I began.

"A princess?"

Princess? I flipped the rasper to interrogative mode so that I could query it without Tiffini's knowledge. "Princess," said the rasper. "Eldest daughter of a University Dean, thereby possessed of an unwarranted sense of entitlement."

I gave Tiffini a funny look, then continued. "Very well, dear. A princess. And this princess wanted ever so much to find herself a real man --"

"A prince?"

"Fine, darling. A prince. But, not just any prince would do. She'd met plenty of princes, mind you, and all they ever wanted to do was stuff her full of sperm and scuttle away before she could eat them. No, she wanted a real prince."

"But, what makes someone a real prince, Bare Rump?"

"Well, he would have to have a great, fat rump, for starters. That would show her he'd been well-fed as a child and hadn't succumbed to any of the latest food crazes -- you know, like those ridiculous eat-only-guntas-and-lose-ninety-pounds diets. Next, he would need a fine sense of rhythm. Why, her last prince had tapped out the most ridiculous melody:

No male wants to be defeated
Showin' how funky strong is your bite
It doesn't matter who's wrong, or who's right
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it

"On and on like that, Tiffini, with no imagination whatsoever. And when I finally went for him (I mean, he was giving me a leg-engraved invitation, for heaven's sake) he began this bizarre walk-backwards-through-the-tunnel business. I had to chase him a quarter-mile before --"

"You, Bare Rump? I thought we were talking about a princess."

"Oh. Quite. Well, so, let's see. Prince qualities. Big rump, good rhythm, and sensitive. I mean, tell me, Tiffini: would you want just any brute roughly shoving his palpal bulb up your epigynum? That can really sting. And they wonder why we fight back."

"Sensitive, Bare Rump. He'd have to be sensitive. And handsome?"

"Oh, yes. Positively dreamy. He'd need a great big starburst on his back, and red knees --"

"Tattoos?"

I thought about consulting the rasper, but it was far easier to go with the flow.

"Yes, dear. Tattoos from fang to spinneret. To get back to our princess, she simply could not find a prince who met the mark.

"And then, on one dark and stormy night, a male showed up at the entrance to the University --"

"University? You mean he's smart, too?"

"Oh, heavens no! He's not a student. He was topside, and a ravaging storm fell upon him, and then the sun set, and he was ever so fearful of the mugwasps --"

"He's afraid of wasps? What kind of brave prince is that?"

"You don't know these wasps, darling. Anyhow, the Princess's mother, the Dean, finds him at the door --"

Tiffini growled in exasperation. "The QUEEN, Bare Rump. Sometimes I wonder about you."

"Very well, the Queen finds him. He says, 'I'm a handsome, plump-bottomed, rhythmically unchallenged prince from a very wealthy nearby university. May I please spend the night in your burrow?'

"Naturally, the Queen is most interested. She invites him in and shows him to his quarters."

Tiffini screamed. "Except she's hidden a pea under his mattress!"

I was torn. Should I agree with her? If I did, I had no idea how to finish the story. I mean, what on Earth (literally) was a pea? Also, up to this point I had not seriously compromised my artistic vision. If I accepted Tiffini's course-change, I'd be in strange waters indeed. No, I decided, it's best if I stick to the original version.

"I'm sorry dear, but that's not how the story ends. The Queen shows him to his quarters and promptly eats him."

"She eats him? But what about the princess?"

"Oh, she found some other handsome starburst who tapped her a nice tune, stuffed her full of sperm, and then they lived happily ever after for, oh, about ten minutes."

I could feel her glaring at me in the darkness. "Bare Rump! That's a crappy story!"

"What's wrong with it?"

"The ending sucks, for one --"

"And your point?"

"Look. Don't tell me any more stories, okay?"

She sulked for a long time. Finally, I realized she wasn't going to say another word. I felt I somehow owed her an explanation.

"Tiffini, dear, among my people, that tale is considered a deeply insightful, allegorical treatment of the nature of power politics within present day academic heirarchies."

She groaned. "Oooh, I've had it up to here with you --"

The gesture happened too quickly for me to save the situation. The blanket flew off. With my forelegs raised, I sensed that several of the white-sheeted ladies had turned our way, and I could also hear much better, too.

For example, the very next thing I heard was the biggest white-sheeted lady saying, "Marge, you said you was haulin' a white spider. That looks like the biggest Nigra spider I ever done seen. You got anything to say about that?"

Hmm. Have I said Uh-oh lately?

Interstate 20, East of Ruston

2005-06-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

Can't write much. Too cramped here in the cab. Plus, Marge threw a horse blanket over me and Tiffini, making it difficult to breathe, let alone type*. Keep your heads low, Marge said, and don't move. That goes for all your legs, Rump.

We'd stopped at a roadside diner -- Tiffini and Marge for burgers, me for a few pounds of raw calve's liver. (It's okay in a pinch, but it's not bon eats.) Afterwards, our exit from the parking lot was blocked by a caravan of blithe-spirited youngsters in crisp, clean white clothes. Sheets, Marge called them.

Marge stabbed a finger at the windshield. "See that green pick-up? One with the license plate says KLANGAL? That's Norma Carter and her girls. Pure wood alcohol-and-sterno-steeped rat-poisonous nuts, every one."

Marge was calling them nuts. Suddenly, I was concerned for my safety -- and for Tiffini's.

They parked haphazardly, making it impossible for Marge to maneuver her rig. The exit was little more than a gravel path crossing a deep culvert. Nothing but rocky fields stretched out behind us and to our sides.

I said, "Perhaps if you asked them politely to move their vehicles?"

"Nothin' else for it, darlin'. Norma knows me. Used to date my ex, the chiseling son of a bitch. Man oh man, it's a small world, ain't it?"

She didn't need to convince me. I'd just spent the last six hours with my legs folded in.

"Gotta hide ya both. When they get like this, I don't trust 'em around a little girl. And you, Rump -- well, let's just say they don't like your kind."

And here we are. I wonder what's happening out there? It seems to be taking Marge an awfully long time.

And the blanket is slipping.

***

*You may be wondering how I type with these fat furry toes of mine. Very carefully.

A sad goodbye

2005-06-18T19:10:00.000-07:00

A prefatory note from Bare Rump's biographer:

I tried to persuade Ms. Pulchra to allow me some editorial control over today's post, but she's a willful person, disinclined to take advice from a human male. This is most unfortunate. As you will soon read, she has admitted here to actions which could result in her prosecution under several Texas laws, and a few Federal laws, too. She believes she is protected by diplomatic immunity.

I pray she is correct.

D.

***

He is such a stick in the mud. What did I do? Helped a fellow female, that's all!

Tiffini phoned her Cousin Marge, an interstate trucker who Tiff said was "cool". (This is a good thing.) Marge told Tiff she'd have room in the cab for me, provided I could scrunch my legs up really tight. Not a pleasant prospect, but I wasn't too excited about crawling 1400 miles, either.

Late last night, while waiting by Highway 81 for Marge to arrive, we said our goodbyes.

"You'll be going through Waco," Tiff said. Her voice glowed with an almost religious fervor.

"Waco?"

"My daddy says some great American heroes died in Waco. He says they should put up a shrine, like an Alamo or something, but Mommy says they was just a bunch of stupid you-know-whats with guns, only it was a shame all them kids getting killed."

"Uh-huh."

She gazed at the stars. I think I'm getting better at reading human moods; Tiffini seemed sad.

"Which one is yours, Bare Rump?"

"I can't see them, Tiffini. They don't make sound. Even if I could see the stars, they wouldn't look familiar to me from this planet."

"You ever get homesick?"

"Me? No. I just think about how I'll be home soon, and I'll have all kinds of stories to tell about the people I've met and the places I've seen."

"And the Mick Jaggers you've eaten?"

"And the John Travoltas, too," I said.

"No! You didn't! I was just kidding about John. He's not such a bad dog."

"No, he wasn't." She still seemed quite moody. "Tiffini, are you upset about the other night?"

She kicked dirt. "Well, duh. I mean, how am I gonna go back to school now? I feel so stupid."

"But I thought Otis's parents agreed not to press charges if your parents paid all his medical bills."

"Well, yeah, but --"

"And you told me part of the agreement was that Otis had to keep quiet about it, too."

"Like that's going to happen! Oh, Bare Rump, it was all so awful."

I patted her shoulder with my foreleg. "Why don't you talk about it, dear? I saw everything, naturally, but you haven't said a word about it since it happened. If you talk about it, maybe you'll feel better."

She sighed. "I did just like you told me. Everything was going so good. He seemed to really like the sucking part."

"How unusual!"

"Guess I never should have used my fangs," Tiffini said, her eyes downcast.

"Don't be foolish. That's what they're there for."

She began to cry. "I don't understand. The way boys talk about it, I figured he'd enjoy the whole thing --"

"That's a male for you, dear. The wanting is always better than the getting."

"But instead, he just started screaming and, and -- there was all this blood, and I kept trying to squeeze more out like you told me to --"

"Good girl. Now, listen: just because one got away doesn't mean you should give up on sex entirely. You're -- what, seven years old?"

"Eight and a half."

"See! You have your whole life ahead of you. Nothing to be upset about."

She heaved a wracking sob, wiped her nose on the sleeve of her blouse, and sighed. At last, she said, "I guess you're right. But it's all over for me in Crawford. No way Otis is gonna keep shut about this."

I wasn't sure I liked where this was going.

"What about your parents?" I said.

"After, you know, after it all happened, Daddy said, 'I don't know you.' And Mommy still won't talk to me." She seized my forelegs and did her best to give me a hug. "You're all the family I have now, Bare Rump. You and Cousin Marge. I'll just have to say goodbye to Crawford and Mommy and Daddy and all the awful memories. I'm going with you, Bare Rump. Please don't say no!"

I kept my silence after that. Surely Cousin Marge would veto this crazy idea. Marge would drive Tiffini home, the girl would make amends with her parents, and all would be well. I'd be on my way to the White House with scarcely a delay.

I didn't count on Marge being a total -- what did Otis scream at Tiffini? A total nut job.

Scott Savol is so tasty.

2005-06-17T21:26:00.000-07:00

Whew. What a nightmare:

I had burrowed in by the highway to get a good night sleep. Tomorrow, I'd hitch a ride to DC, just as Tiffini had suggested. Fitfully I tossed, troubled by visions of rifle-toting, mustachioed buffoons in tuxedos, and had just managed to slip away to dreamland (counting guntas at first, but they only made me long for my beloved Lord Valor) when a searing metallic shriek disturbed my slumber. Near my hole, a huffing, puffing something wandered near.

I swear it was self defense! He staggered and fell right on me. What else could I do?

And then it was like I couldn't help myself. An interplanetary disaster like this, and all I could think to do was suck, suck, suck. Oh, the shame.

Good heavens. I should never have stayed up so late watching American Idol reruns with Tiffini. By the way: the Tiffini-Otis debacle? I'll get back to it later, my dear humans. The memory is still too painful.

Advice for the lovelorn.

2005-06-16T21:59:00.000-07:00

It took me two days to find Tiffini. I later discovered she had been on an all-day field trip to the Smith & Wesson factory. When she got back home, we just missed each other -- Tiff busy shooting paper humans with her father's Model 320, me draining their neighbor's John Travolta. (Tiffini left me an exception in the 'no doggies' rule for John and other crotch-sniffers.)

Woof woof yiipe!

Next morning, feeling a tad logy, I crawled out of my burrow to find that Tiff's bus had already left. And I missed her again after school. Where was she now?

I tweaked the rasper so that my human voice would sound like Tiffini's best friend Melodi. Then I knocked on the front door and hid myself around the side of the house.

Tiff's mom opened the door.

"Who's that? What kind of game you playing?"

"It's me, Mrs. Thompson. Melodi."

"Melodi? Show yourself, girl. What's got into you?"

"I can't, Mrs. Thompson. I've got a pimple."

"A pimple? Man, you Steinitz girls mature fast."

"Ma'am? Where's Tiffini?"

"Why, Melodi Steinitz, you know very well Tiffini's at the Daddy-Daughter Ball down at the Grange --"

I'll spare you all my feigned stupidity; suffice to say, Mrs. Thompson gave me helpful instructions, and I was off to the Grange.

I must say, Mr. Thompson seems like just as big an ignoramus in a tuxedo as he did in his blue jeans and Budweister tee-shirt.

Apologies for the terrible image quality. There were so many men carrying weapons at that dance, I didn't dare risk approaching too closely.

That night, I tossed pebbles against Tiffini's window. After a few moments, she hiked up the window and fairly screamed, "Bare Rump! You came back!"

"Shh! Not so loud. Can you come down?"

We pow-wowed in the barn. (I'm learning so many new words from the girl. Interesting things, like Grrlz Rule and clitoris and biyotch. She's so wise.)

"Okay, Bare Rump. I'll tell you how to get to the White House if you tell me how to win back Otis Plunkit."

You could have knocked me over. Then again, maybe not. "Otis Plunkit? But you hate Otis."

"He won't talk to me or nothing. And now he's chasing Jennifer Calway, and she has boobs, but I think she stuffs."

"Uh-huh."

"And she's just a cheap whore anyway. You don't believe me? She's the one who told me about the clitoris. Said she read about it in her daddy's anatomy book, cuz he's a jinacologist, which means he sees all the cooch in a day any normal man sees in a lifetime, that's what my daddy says, so that means Jennifer must know loads about how her own cooch works, cuz her daddy's an expert, right? and I don't know nothing about my cooch, 'cept it sure scared hell out of Toby Spurls that day I showed it to him behind the Ecker Drug. Took off like he was covered in fire ants, 'cept that might have had something to do with me telling him I had my what's-it removed on my fifth birthday, and him about to turn five and all. So maybe I know something, but that don't amount to nothing next to Jennifer Calway, why, she's a sex encyclopedia! So how am I gonna compete?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well? How am I gonna compete?"

"Tiffini, I am not going to drain Jennifer Calway for you."

"Wouldn't help, anyway. Otis hates me. If Jennifer dies, he'll just chase someone else."

"And you don't want to lose him to Jennifer."

"Well, duh! Haven't you been listening?"

I sighed (a rather complex maneuver involving forced compression of my book-lungs). Tiffini was a hungry female, just like me.

I said, "Have you tried tapping outside his burrow? I mean, his bedroom?"

"Tapping what?"

"Your leg, dear. It's to let him know you're interested."

"Huh? How do you mean?"

I showed her.

"Cool! It's like dancing!"

I sighed again, and settled in for a long night of instruction. Tiffini had so much to learn.

Distasteful aspirations.

2005-06-14T21:01:00.000-07:00

I returned from the pig wallow to find Ingalls looking fatigued. Drained, you might say. Not much wriggle left to the old boy.

This was getting old. "One more chance," I said. "Who sent you?"

"Your plan will never work, Rump. They hate your kind here. You know --"

I swatted his shoulder. He swayed back and forth, his hair trailing in the chicken droppings. Not for the last time, I was glad of my poor eyesight. It would have made me vertiginous to watch him swing like that.

"Damn it! Think about it. How many days have you been here? If you'd thought you had a chance in hell, you would have announced yourself by now. But you know it's hopeless. The minute you show your fangs, the townsfolk will be out with their pitchforks and torches. Why in God's name did you have to land in Texas?"

"The Most Important Human in the World --"

"Lives in the White House, Rump! What kind of moron briefed you on this --"

"You, Sir, still have a bit too much spunk." This time, I chose his left flank. Oh, he howled and bucked, but not as strenuously as the first time. My silks held fast at his ankles and wrists.

Not long now, and Arthur Bishop would give way to Joe Valachi. Then Mr. Ingalls would talk.

One more trip to the pig wallow. I forced myself to regurgitate (how do you humans manage it? I shall have to request a personal audience with Britney Spears), wondering if I'd ever strike the taste of Charles Ingalls from my memory.

"You know, Mr. Ingalls," I said when I returned, "we are very much alike."

"We're both cold-blooded killers?"

"I'm quite warm-blooded, thank you very much. No, dear. We're both hydraulic. And, frankly, I think your tank is running dry. I may not be able to kill you, but what will you do without nanocytes?"

"All I need is the raw material to manufacture more. Silicates. Some organic matter. You can't get rid of me, Rump."

"No, but I can incapacitate you. "

He winced at that. He couldn't possibly relish the thought of hanging by his ankles until some human managed to cut him down.

"I know!" I said. "We'll play, 'let's make a deal'. You tell me who sent you, and I'll leave you someplace where you can eat your fill of silicates and organic matter. I'll make life easy for you."

He sighed. "Isn't it obvious? The BCTA."

BCTA: that's the Benevolent Commerce and Tourism Association, the galaxy's equivalent of La Cosa Nostra. I could feel Joe Valachi itching to break free.

"Names, Mr. Ingalls. I need names."

"It won't do you any good."

"That's for me to judge."

"Next time, Rump, I won't even try to kill you. That's too nice. You're so eager to meet the humans, I'll arrange things. I'll lead them right to you. How do you like them apples?"

A simple snick of my fangs and his loincloth fell to his forehead. I nuzzled him in his palpal bulbs (or whatever those silly things are called). "Apples? You flatter yourself."

"P -- I only know him as P! Damn it, Rump, that's all I know. Now, cut me down!"

P? P? That wasn't much to go on. I'd have to hope Valor and his crew could make some sense of it. Meanwhile, Ingalls had given me The Most Important Person's location -- some sort of White House.

I had already destroyed Ingalls' weapons, naturally, and his clothes, and I had drained him of most of his nanocytic reserves. After I cut him down, he didn't have the energy to crawl. I dragged him over to the wallow and left him there to restock on silicates and organic matter.

Then I went off to look for Tiffini, to ask her where I might find a White House.

Urgent Reply

2005-06-13T21:44:00.000-07:00

To: Ambassador Bare Rump Pulchra

From: Lieutenant Argh-pffff-uhh

Tina, my darling:

The hitter is indeed one of Whizzer's creations, but he comes to you by way of Xanadu and Sylvanon. I don't think we should hold Whizzer responsible for this one. He's a Charles Bronson automaton, initially commissioned for XP's Deathwish: Class Reunion series. Unfortunately, Class Reunion bombed horribly at the box office, and Papa released neo-Bronson from his contract.

He's calling himself Charles Ingalls, by the way. I haven't been able to figure out why.

As per protocol, Ingalls came loaded with Bronson's complete oeuvre. Once a free agent, Sylvanon hired him on condition he wipe back to '72; that means his uppermost templates will be Arthur Bishop, Chato, and Joe Valachi. I've attached a precis on all three films.

It's Bishop you have to worry about. He's a crafty, amoral, unfeeling killer, and if he's true to template, he'll have planned this hit to the last detail. If possible, he'll keep you under observation until it's time to make his move. I suggest you dig in.

You're in great danger, my fuzzy lumpkin. Do be careful.

Valor

***

I did as Valor suggested -- I dug in. I dug in, and spun my little heart out. I tunneled beneath and past him, punched through the topsoil behind the ranch house, and took his picture with the telephoto lens.

As Valor predicted, Ingalls -- I presumed he'd adopted the Chato mode -- kept me under observation the whole afternoon. Or, rather, he thought he had me under observation. I left the door to the chicken coop slightly ajar. Chato would see a hole in the floor, a rather modest pile of dirt nearby (nothing to suggest the full extent of my excavations), and two rather artfully spun forelegs peeking out above the hole's rim.

Oh, Valor, I thought, Chato really doesn't know me, does he?

I burrowed all afternoon, packing soil behind me, leaving only sufficient room along the tunnel roof to allow passage of air -- and my guy-threads. These I tweaked now and then, to give the illusion that my faux forelegs were animate and attentive. Such a delicious irony: he thought I was watching him -- and I was! -- but from thirty yards away.

Still, I knew I would only be certain of success when he made his move. Perhaps I had outsmarted myself; perhaps he knew my new location, and was allowing me to bask in overconfidence. Maybe I should have dug far in, as Valor would have wished, but how could that help? Ingalls wouldn't simply go away. No: I needed to take him down, harshly enough that his handlers would think twice about sending another.

He didn't wait until nightfall, the treacherous, lying beast. One moment he lay crouched on his rock, the next he was gone, quick as a gentleman caller (my gentlemen callers, anyway). But I saw him. Oh, yes. Boldness in the flesh, he went for the direct assault, leapt into the coop with his rifle raised, and he brought the butt down on a pile of my stickiest silk.

I came up behind him while he wrestled to free the weapon. He felt my approach, dropped to one knee and turned, his hand dropping to the rifle's trigger. I swatted the barrel aside and it became embedded in one of my silken faux-forelegs. He reached for the knife he kept under his loin cloth. I flashed my fangs.

Ingalls hesitated.

I'd left the rasper in the coop. He knew my habits, knew I kept the translator with me at all times. If I'd taken it with me in the tunnel, he'd have guessed my deception. Now that matters were well in leg, I was glad to have the rasper where I needed it most.

In the dying afternoon light, I moved slightly so that I could feel the sun's warmth on my fangs. Like any synthetic, he'd have amped vision; but as a Xanadu graduate, I figured he would appreciate a fine cinematic moment. I let a tiny drop of venom exude from each fang.

I said, "How about it, big boy. Knife fight?"

Urgent Transmission

2005-06-12T15:51:00.000-07:00

Valor:

Forgive my abruptness, but hello, someone is trying to kill me. I'm uploading a photo I snapped this morning. I would appreciate it if you would find out what you can and get back to me as soon as possible, preferably before I'm dead, or before I've been forced to commit some sort of interspecies incident. I really don't want future histories of this mission to be filed under Whoops, okay?

From what I can tell, he looks human but he certainly doesn't move like a human. He's far too fast, too clever. But Whizzer wouldn't make a killer synthetic, would he? I just know he wouldn't!

None of this makes sense. This creature, this villain, says he's here to kill me because I'm breaking the embargo. What, it's okay for the Benevolents to abduct any Tom, Dick, or Whitley, or cart away contraband by the megaton, but if I come to Earth with the open legs of friendship (as you so richly put it, my love!) that deserves a sanction? Talk about double standards.

Don't delay, dearest. One way or another, it ends tonight.

Uh-oh.

2005-06-11T19:52:00.000-07:00

Considering that brush with Tiffini's father, I've decided I should pick and choose my human contacts more carefully. Tiff* suggested I talk to the Crocodile Hunter, but then she showed me a map of Earth, and Australia looks dreadfully far away. I wonder if I could take an aeroplane. Lord Valor's people supplied me with stacks and stacks of American currency, so I don't think money would be a problem. Naturally, I'd have to choose a time when the airport isn't too crowded. Hmm.

Meanwhile, I've had no choice but to travel by night, clinging to the fringes of human settlement. I thought this would be a tolerable plan -- too slow for my taste, but no one ever said this would be easy. Then tonight happened.

I was raiding a chicken coop --

Oh. Let me back up. Before I left Tiff's ranch, she gave me the rundown on What Not to Eat. I've turned it into a little ditty to help me remember:

No kitties no doggies
No horsies no cows
No hamsters no bunnies
No humans no sows
Avoid most farm critters who walk on four feet
As for the rest, bon appetit!

Which brings me to the chicken coop. They're beastly creatures. I mean, I'm doing you people a favor taking them out. You should pay me. (Yes, yes, I've been leaving a few bills of currency behind to offset the damages. What, did you think I was a common criminal?) I had just drained my eighth chicken -- and oh, such a horrible ruckus they made; you'd think I was some sort of monster -- when a shaft of moonlight shone through the aluminum roof. Then a second shaft of light appeared, and then a third. I wouldn't have noticed the light, mind you. As I've said, I'm half blind. But with every new beam came a distinct plunk, the sound of metal punching through metal.

This couldn't be good. I scuttled outside, forelegs raised so I could listen for any motion. Almost immediately, something darted behind a metal shed. I raced after it, closing the distance in the splittest of split seconds, but there was no one there. Amazing! I'm not boasting when I say that I'm pretty darned fast when I want to be. Can't keep it up worth a spray of silk, but for short distances, I'm the one to beat. Maybe I had imagined everything.

I went back to the coop to fetch the rasper (I keep my nifty translator with me at all times -- you never know when it might help in a tight situation) and when the door swung shut behind me, I noticed the light beams yet again. I hadn't imagined that.

I loaded the rasper onto my cephalothorax, securing it with a few quick loops of my tougher silk. Then, acting from feminine intuition, I searched the filthy ground with my palps and forelegs, and found two divots. They were still warm.

A voice from outside -- the rasper translated: "Go home."

"Who's there?"

"You don't want to know."

A male voice. Male, human, adult.

"Let me guess," I said. "If you told me, you'd have to kill me." Remember, I've been watching Satellite TV for the past several weeks. I've learned a thing or two.

"Actually, I'm supposed to kill you. That's my job."

"Good gracious! Whatever for?"

"Embargo, Ms. Rump." He knew my name! "You're not supposed to be here, remember? Or didn't your shit-eating boyfriend mention that?"

Oooh, that crack about Lord Valor made my hemolymph boil! Not that it wasn't true, but he didn't have to put it so rudely.

"Why, you, you -- nincompoop!" Note to self: learn better English cuss words. "What makes you think you have what it takes to kill me?"

In response, another ping of metal on metal, and something white hot streaked across the top of my abdomen. My hind leg went up reflexively, probing for damages; I felt a smooth streak, dry, stinging. The projectile had cauterized a path across my poor backside.

"Ms. Rump, I imagine it's getting a little tight in there. You won't be so lucky on the next shot."

The door was closed. How could he see me?

Speed: that was my strong suit, that and my hearing. I had an excellent fix on the shooter's location and I knew I could get there in a fraction of a second. And, as Lord Valor has complained, I have an unreasoning faith in my own invulnerability.

"What do you want?" I said, but I didn't wait for his reply. I burst from the coop, crossed the chicken yard, zipped behind the shed, and pounced -- on air.

"Go home, Ms. Rump." The voice emanated from the roof of a ranch house over two hundred yards away. "Consider this a polite exchange between two professionals. Tomorrow night, if you're still on Earth . . . well, I guess I'll have to fulfill my contract, won't I?"

I had a few more things to say, not that it mattered. The voice was gone.

BR

*There were no hard feelings over Otis, by the way. That day at school, he'd shrieked at her, "Stay away from me, you crazy bitch!" and was overheard by Mr. Monobrow, the vice principle. Otis got two swats and three weeks of detention, and Tiffini is still giggling.

Shock and Awe

2005-06-10T20:25:00.000-07:00

Under a spectacular midnight sky, I followed Tiffini to Otis Plunkit's house. A bright light streaked downward, followed by a bass rumble, but Tiffini didn't seem concerned. (But it worries me. I can still remember the sound Lord Valor's lander made when he first arrived near my lab. This was different, but not too different.)

"Make a wish," Tiffini said.

"Huh?"

"It's a shooting star. You're supposed to make a wish."

I wished that the shooting star would be Lord Valor, coming to join me at last. "What did you wish?" I said.

"I'm not supposed to tell. It ruins the wish."

"Please?"

She bit her thumb and hissed. "Oh, all right," she said, and her face seemed to burst with light: I think this is what the humans call a smile. "I wish I'm gonna find Otis Plunkit's dried-up, sucked-out skin bag on my porch tomorrow morning. " Then she skipped off down the road.

I stood there on all eight, watching her skip away into the night, wondering how she hoped to pull off such a thing. After a while she turned and hollered at me to come on already.

A few minutes later, I understood.

***

I cornered him at the bus stop near his house. It wasn't difficult; Tiffini had told me, "He gets there fifteen minutes before the other kids so he can have a smoke."

"He'd get into trouble if the other kids see him smoking?"

"Naw, he's just a cheap son of a bitch who doesn't want to share."

By now, I was used to feeling baffled. I didn't know humans could smoke (how do they produce fumes? and why would they want to?) nor could I see how they could share such a thing. I decided to ignore it for the time being.

Otis Plunkit was reaching for a box full of little white cylinders when I crawled up behind him and snapped his picture.

He said, "Beh beh beh beh."

"Tiffini Thompson sent me," I said. "She says she wants you to stop chasing her at recess. She also says you mustn't kiss her when she's not expecting it. Never, ever again."

Actually, Tiffini had given me quite different instructions. Inexperienced little human that she is, she bargained poorly; as soon as I accepted her offer, she pointed out Mick Jagger in her farm's southern field. He tried to butt me when I snuck up behind him, and made a sound like this when I took him down: "Beh eh eh eh eheeeee!"

Now, my tummy full of Mick Jagger's juices, I was fulfilling my end of the deal -- although perhaps not to Tiffini's complete satisfaction.

"Beh beh beh beh."

If I took Otis down, he'd sound just like Mick Jagger. I wondered if Otis's tongue would loll out of his mouth, just as Mick's had done, but then I shook myself. Fantasizing about food: that always gets me into trouble. Back to the matter at leg.

"You need to promise me you'll leave Tiffini alone."

He hadn't blinked once since we began this conversation. Okay, if it was a lecture he wanted, a lecture he would get.

"Look. Why do you want to kiss Tiffini anyway? Say she lets you copulate with her. Don't you realize you have an eighty-nine percent chance of falling under her fangs? And then where will you be, hmm? Just another dehydrated husk of a male. Otis, it will happen soon enough. Why would you want to rush into sex?"

"But, but --"

At least he was making words now. "On my planet, we have a saying. You would do well to pay close attention, Otis. On my planet, mothers tell their sons, 'Just say no --'"

"Just say no?"

"'Just say no until your hormones kick in, you lose your sanity, and life is no longer worth living anyway.' It's good advice."

He started to back away from me. "Uh . . . yeah."

"And besides. I'll be watching for you, Otis. If you're so intent on being food, I might want you for a snack. How would you like to kiss me?"

As he ran the other way, I admit I felt a pang of guilt. I think Lord Valor would understand that I did what I thought I had to do, but -- oh, it simply doesn't feel right, to use my feminine charms that way.

Ah, well. I'm off to scour the nearby fields for more Mick Jaggers.

Her name is Tiffini

2005-06-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

I holed up in the barn (no, I literally holed myself up. I can burrow down in less than a standard minute, push comes to shove) and waited for the big human male to follow. He clearly meant business with that long, dark, hard-looking weapon of his.

Oh, I can hear your gears turning, you dirty creatures. You're saying to yourselves, "If your males have eight-foot leg spans, they must have simply HUMONGOUS penises." Well, guess again. Male Tromatopelmans don't have penises (peni?) It's true. They use a small appendage at the end of their forelegs to deliver a bolus of sperm to the female's genital opening. These things have technical names, naturally, but you couldn't pronounce them. I like to call the male's organ his groovy love knob, while the female's maidenhead is most appealingly referred to as her rubyfruit jungle.

I had only just managed to cover my hole with some of the straw the neee-hee-hees love so much, when Mr. I'm-So-Powerful-Because-
I-Have-A-Big-Steel-Phallus Farmer charges in. Too late, I realized that he could easily step on the straw and fall on top of me, and then, who knew what I might be capable of? A girl can only take so much bluster from a male. Fortunately, he snooped around here and there, saw nothing unusual, and stormed off into the night.

I waited. After what seemed like hours, I poked my forelegs up to get a good look around, and who do I see but Tiffini? She's that juicy little creature in the photo down below. I knew she'd come looking for me! Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to have the rasper in the hole with me, fully assembled and raring to go. I tapped out my message, and the rasper spoke to the girl.

Me: What's your name, little girl?

T: Tiffini. That's Tiffini with an 'i'.

Me: You have a very pretty name, Tiffini.

T: My daddy chose it for me. My daddy says it's his favorite car backwards, but my mommy says don't say that too loud, 'cuz Infiniti's not an American car, and you don't want the neighbors knowing you're driving Japanese, especially after we went and convinced 'em all it's really just a Ford, and you know we're on thin ice with 'em anyway after you saying the Mitsubishi TV was I-talian, and an American company in Italy at that, you dumb-ass bubba never even learned to tell a proper --

Me: Tiffini, are the neee-hee-hees intelligent?

T: Neee-hee-hee?

Me: You know. "Neee-hee-hee!"

T: OH! You mean Mr. Bojangles here and his wife Jemima. Why, they're my bestest friends in the universe. And intelligent? I defy you to find me two smarter horses. Just the other day I watched Jemima crouch down while Boji backed Daddy over her and he fell ass-over-teakettle, that's what he did, and Mommy said it takes one powerful intelligence to come up with a trick like that. Although the very next minute she goes, "Then again, a headless turkey could outsmart your father," so maybe Mommy doesn't think they're so smart, but if you ask me, they're plenty smart, smart enough to stomp Kevin's feet whenever he gets too close, Kevin, he's my good-for-nothing bro --

Me: So I guess you'd be upset if, you know, someone ate Mr. Bojangles?

T: I'd be mortified! But Mick Jagger, I sometimes wish someone would eat him --

Me: Um . . . who's Mick Jagger? Could you point him out for me?

T: Yeah, sure. He's that -- wait a minute. If I tell you that, are you really going to eat Mick Jagger?

Me: Who, me? No, no! We're dealing in hypotheticals here.

T: Because if you're gonna eat Mick Jagger, there had better be something in it for me.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Civilization at last!

2005-06-07T22:20:00.000-07:00

I hate tofu.

Tonight, I decided I needed to eat something animate. Something with a heartbeat. I found a tall wooden structure near an open field, and it was full of all manner of creatures: some on four legs, some on two; some went "buck-buck-buck", some went "neee-hee-hee". I tried the rasper out on all of the creatures, but none could understand me. As much as I wanted to devour the neee-hee-hee quadriped (I'm a big girl, you know), I opted for several of the buck-buck-bucks instead. Those neee-hee-hees looked entirely too intelligent.

Afterwards, I explored the area and found what must be a human home. I looked into every window and snapped several photos. One of the rooms was inhabited.

It's a little human female -- and I think she likes me! She ran out of the room, and I was positive she would come outside to say hello; but, alas, a big human male came out instead, holding what I took to be a weapon.

I disappeared in a hurry. It wouldn't do to have a confrontation this early in my mission. No, I'll wait until I have a chance to talk to the little human female alone.

Let's get a few things straight.

2005-06-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

You are not alone in the universe (duh!)
You aren't the brightest bulbs around. The Fulxa, mammoth beasts who make discount store bathroom rugs look tres chic, make you folks look like that Paris Hilton creature. What is it, anyway? I can't find it anywhere in the Catalog.
You aren't the most dangerous folks in the neighborhood, either. Ignoring for the moment my own people, you would have to contend with the Nakreans, whose poo is the hardest substance known to -- well, everyone who counts, and let's leave it at that -- and they can fire it directionally at one percent of the speed of light. That, by the way, is widely recognized as one of the great natural wonders of the Silk Road. (More on the Silk Road some other time, my darling humans. There is such a thing as information overload.)
You aren't even the wiliest critters on the Road. The Benevolents win that distinction, although sometimes one wonders if their reputation is deserved. The smart money may lie instead with the Laroptans, or maybe the Amanu. Or the Elkalept! How did I forget the Elkalept? Come to think of it, almost everyone is cleverer than you. Sorry, but there it is.
No, what you humans do par excellence is CREATE. Did you know the Benevolents have syndicated every Earth-based television program videotaped before a live studio audience? Every last one! And they don't pay a penny in royalties. Maybe they do deserve their reputation.

And that's why I've come to Earth. We're in a precarious position, my people; we're new to the Road, and we're encountering entirely too much prejudice -- all because human phobias have permeated Satellite TV programming. These spiders: Why do you fear them so? They're like the little people of our legends. Darling things, from what I've seen.

I'm here to orchestrate an image makeover.

Until I'm discovered by your media, this blog is my only way of meeting you, one by one. You can help me by rating this site -- use the pretty BlogHop icon, over there on the right. Like that nice human Michael Douglas says: GREEN IS GOOD.

And don't click on 'this sucks'. I know I suck, darling. Nature of the beast.

My first friend on Earth.

2005-06-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

My dearest Lord Valor,

We've been apart less than a full standard day, but I miss you oh so much. I still question the wisdom of your Chancellery, forbidding you to come with me. Such a foolish embargo! When will it end?

The GPS seems to be working, but somehow I got myself lost last night. That's right, I haven't found Crawford yet, just some dumb sign. The intelligence your people have gathered is undoubtedly correct, and I know I'll find the Most Important Human on Earth somewhere nearby, but for now I'm feeling frustrated and lonely.

I burrowed in for the night. It was ever so easy; the loam here has a much looser pack than the bedrock back home. I curled up with one of the Books on Tape my mother gave me as a going away present -- Bronwyn Webweaver's Web of Desire -- and, as always, I kept nearby my one photo of you:

Not that I can see a damned thing, mind you, but it feels good, just knowing you are close.

Come morning, I sprinted from my burrow and basked in this world's glorious yellow sun. In that moment I felt I could turn the world on with the flash of my fangs; that I could take this nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. I thought, Girl, you're gonna make it after all.

I'd been crawling for the better part of an hour when I chanced upon a field full of the most curious creatures. They didn't look much like humans (although one had eyes just like that Kirsten Dunst girl in the Spider-Man movies), and I was positively famished, but I thought it best to speak to them. You didn't say anything about other sentient life forms on this planet, but you and your people aren't infallible. Remember that near-fiasco back home? Now don't pout, Valor. Your proboscis will stay like that, and you'll crumple your glorious wings something awful.

I approached the first creature rather boldly -- no sense being timid, thinks I -- and she (I'm sure she's a she; a girl can tell these things) GAVE ME SUCH A LOOK, I had to take a picture. Then she turned, squealed something unintelligible, sprayed the field with something similar to that pate you're always noshing on, and ran away. How rude!

Silly me, I almost tapped out a greeting to the next creature I encountered. Then I remembered the rasper -- how you had programmed it to learn other languages, not just English. I set it up, this time keeping a prudent distance, and proceeded to engage one of the quadripeds in conversation. Poor dear could only manage a single word. As you know, Valor, it takes data to build a database; clearly I'd picked one of the idiots. I moved to the next quadriped, and then the next. Always the same word -- that, and the same funny squeal if I got too close.

Oh, well. I saved a tofu wrap from the shuttle and had that for breakfast. Until I can find a native guide, someone who can tell me what not to eat, I had better stick to sucking plants. You wouldn't want me to create an incident, after all.

Write soon. Kiss kiss.

Love,

Rumpty-Tumpty

This hussy wouldn't spare me the time of day.

Hello? Helloooo? Is this thing on?

2005-06-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

Wait, wait. Give me a sec to stretch my legs.

That's better. Did you know Earth is only three jumps down from Arupulis, and yet it took me six standard hours to get here? Nothing to eat the whole way except tofu wraps. Have you ever tried to suck tofu?

Arupulis, that's where I had my last warm meal. Port Gilligan, O'Erj, Desradka -- the southern continent -- where silver fantails float on the jet stream, their iridescent mantles trailing whips of jade bioluminescence. I had three for breakfast. Delish.

Lord Valor, he's such a sweetie. He made sure I had lots of inflight movies to keep me occupied: Earth vs. the Spider (so not good PR), Spider-Man, Spider-Man 2, Kiss of the Spider Woman. (That one did not live up to its title, no sirree.) Time passed. I'm getting used to this zero gravity thing; I was a good girl, and didn't kick hairs even once during the whole trip.

So: Earth. I mean, Earth. The very thought makes me shiver in anticipation! My GPS says I'm a bit northwest of Crawford, Texas. Here I am under the goofiest sign.

I wonder what the locals are like?