There I was, in my crocs and a sunhat and a pair of skimpy white shorts. I lowered my oversized cat-eye sunglasses to better gaze upon the pulsating curiosity that seemed to have sprung up overnight, right beside my prize-winning azaleas.
It appeared to be an egg of some kind, roughly twice the size of a football.
I knew to keep my distance. I’d seen the film Alien many times, and was pretty sure what was about to go down.
But I also desperately wanted to see that kind of action up close, so I called over my neighbor Jorge. Jorge resisted at first, it being his kid’s birthday party or something. “For Christ’s sake,” I said to him. “You got four kids, Jorge. It’s always somebody’s birthday.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean you got a point.”
“I just need you to come on over and take a look at something strange– NOT MY DICK,” I said, catching him off guard. We both had a good laugh about it. I concluded, “No, but it’s weird, man. It’s like… it’s really crazy.”
“Okay, man,” Jorge said. “Just show me… whatever it is.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said. “Now get over here, you big lug.” Awkwardly I helped Jorge climb up and over the fence into my backyard, grabbing first for his belt, then his ankles. He didn’t appreciate any of it. When Jorge finally reached the other side of the fence he said, “Fuck, man. Why didn’t I just come in through the gate?”
I didn’t answer him. I didn’t feel like it. I patted some dirt from his jeans. He stopped my hand. I smiled and said, “This way, good sir,” and showed Jorge to the garden.
2.
“Well?” I said. “What do you think?”
“Jeez,” Jorge said, staring at the glowing green mass. “What the heck is it?”
“It’s an egg, Jorge. Probably from outer space.”
Jorge laughed, leaning closer… but not too close. “No, but really,” he said. “What do you think it is?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you put your head over it and find out?”
“Uh… what? Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Uh, I don’t know, man,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what that thing is. What if it’s like… poisonous or something?”
“You know, you bring up a lot of good points,” I said. “The truth is, that’s a giant cucumber. I grew it with a chemical. Go ahead and see.”
“A cucumber?”
“They’re delicious. Perhaps you’d like to bring some back to your boy as a birthday present. God knows there’s enough to go around.”
“Okay,” Jorge said, relieved. “Thanks.”
The egg ate Jorge very quickly. So it wasn’t exactly like the movie Alien but it was still pretty cool.
I was halfway to panic about what the hell I was going to tell Jorge’s wife and children when the egg up and solved the problem for me… a smaller green egg in the shape of a lima bean emerged from the cucumber. About fifteen minutes later the lima bean had fully matured into a perfect replica of my old friend and neighbor Jorge.
“Wow,” I said. “You just helped me out of a jam.” I gave Jorge’s egg baby a friendly pat on the arm, which left my hand covered in strange green ooze. I smelled the viscous substance on my fingertips, its fragrance not unlike a kiwi. Naturally I gave the stuff a taste. “Hey, you know… you’re not too bad tasting,” I said. “I wonder if the rest of you is edible, and if there’s a way I can make money off it.”
But new Jorge was either unable or unwilling to speak. It seemed like all he wanted to do was gurgle lightly and stare into some faraway void. This, I decided, would make him easier to grind up and sell to the health food market. “All I need now is a meat grinder,” I said to no one in particular, and looked up some options on my phone.
3.
Later, Jorge’s wife came a calling. She was a short but terrifying woman who had never really forgiven me for that righteous dump I took in their bathroom one summer. In those days I wasn’t married or seeing anyone but after that dump Sheila refused to set me up with any of her single friends. I asked her a bunch of a times and she was like no.
Standing at my front door the rather peevish woman asked, “Is my husband still here?”
“Husband?” I said. “You’re married?”
“Cut the shit,” Sheila said. “You know me, you idiot.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. And I sure as hell don’t know your husband Jorge.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Look, I know he came over here. He’s missing Jason’s birthday party.”
“Jason will have lots of birthdays. Your husband probably just left you.” I closed the door in the crazy woman’s face, turning to the full-grown egg baby standing in my living room. “That was a close one. You better change clothes. Maybe grow a beard until this whole thing blows over.”
“Eeuuuuugggghhhhh!!!” Jorge said.
“Don’t say that,” I said. “She’s just worried. I would be too, if my spouse had just been eaten and replaced by an egg monster. But she’ll get over it.”
4.
While waiting for the delivery of my new stainless steel meat grinder I decided to put new Jorge to work. He was dumb, but seemed able to follow basic instructions. On only his second day of life the creature built me a tire swing. We were enjoying ourselves immensely, I assume, when one of Jorge’s stupid kids poked his head up over the fence.
“Hey, is that my dad?” he said.
“You shouldn’t look in people’s yards,” I said. “It’s dangerous and stupid.”
“Is that my dad or not?”
“Of course not. Don’t be an idiot. This man has a face full of beard stubble. Does your dad have beard stubble?”
“That’s my dad,” the kid said.
“Shut up,” I said, and quickly spirited fake Jorge back inside the house.
I could see the problem of the dead man’s nosey family wasn’t going to solve itself. And according to the latest shipping update my meat grinder wouldn’t arrive for another three days.
Clearly, drastic measures had to be taken.
5.
That evening I went next door and walked into Jorge’s house. Sheila turned to me with a startled expression and asked, “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s me,” I said. “It’s Jorge.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Did you kill my husband?”
Clearly the clothing and hair dye weren’t fooling her. I decided to split the difference. “Sweetheart, it’s me. I’ve had plastic surgery. That’s why I’ve been gone all week.” I walked into the TV room and parked my ass in Jorge’s favorite chair. “How was the rest of Jeffrey’s party?” I asked.
“Jason’s party,” Sheila corrected me.
“Fine,” I said, clicking on the television. There was a sporting match about to start that I’d been looking forward to for the better part of an hour. “What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” my new wife said. “It’s YOUR turn to cook, Jorge. Or didn’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember, you dolt. Uh, fine. Beef.”
“What?”
“We’re doing beef. In a pot. I’m going to boil up some beef.”
“That’s not a meal.”
“Beef,” I said. “It’s what’s for dinner.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“That’s all anyone ever does. I thought you’d be more creative.”
“You’re not my husband. And your goatee was clearly drawn on with a marker.”
“Please,” I said. “Not in front of the kids.” By now all four of our horrible little wretches had gathered together in the hallway, their snot-nosed faces full of terror.
One of them said, “Dad?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m your Dad.”
6.
Sheila shoved me into a closet and put a switchblade to my throat. “Okay, fine,” I said. “I can tell you and your family what happened to the old Jorge… but I’ll only tell you one at a time, and in my backyard by the azaleas.”
“Why one at a time?” Sheila said.
“I find it’s the best way to take in the magical splendor of my azaleas.”
Sheila, an avid gardener herself, understood perfectly. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m going first.”
“That’s fine,” I said, ushering her out the back patio door. “You kids just stay here, okay? And don’t look out the windows.”
7.
With Sheila eaten, the rest of the family fell like little children shaped dominoes. The entire family having been replaced with alien vegetable monsters, I now had a veritable treasure trove of delicious hybrid human/plant meat, and no grinder to grind it with.
It was one of the most trying weeks of my life. I quickly found myself the babysitter of six mutant invalids, none of them able to speak or feed or even clean themselves. Most of the time I kept them in the basement, where they wandered aimlessly, bouncing off the walls and each other like bumper cars.
The only upside to it was their delicious green sweat. I spent most of my days sopping up as much of that slimy goop as I could manage and squeezing it into mason jars. I began to eat it. Drink it. I brushed my teeth with it and used it for shampoo. The substance was simply delectable, its scent sweeter than honey. For a creative mind its practical applications were seemingly endless, such as for sexual lubricant, or regular lubricant.
But my God! The amount of wiping, wiping, wiping! I’d never wiped so much in my life! The family just wouldn’t stop secreting the sweet stuff and I couldn’t bear to let a single drop of it go to waste. And I was running out of towels.
This is why I never started a family, I thought. I mean this was completely ridiculous.
As I wiped clean Jason or Jeffrey or Jill I asked myself, what form of creature have I become? Am I like… some sort of goop guy now? Am I a man who collects and consumes massive quantities of goop?
What would my father think of me, who had always told me there was no future in the goop business?
By Wednesday I had become completely addicted to the stuff, and couldn’t wait to taste the real meat. If just the sweat of these abominable creatures had turned me into a pitiful goop slut, imagine how heavenly their insides would be…
Of course I tried biting the family a few times, but fake Jorge kept punching me in the face.
8.
At long last my meat grinder arrived. I said to the delivery boy, “Took you long enough, you fucking idiot,” and slammed the door in his face.
Then I got to grinding.
I ground up Jorge first, worried that he might be starting to turn. His sweat slime was bubblegum pink now, and ingesting it had already stopped my heart twice.
The rest of him came out the other end of the squeezer in thick ropes of vegetable meat, which was roughly the color of spinach. I sampled a spoonful of Jorge, and while not entirely without its charm, the meat did leave a somewhat bitter aftertaste, not at all what one expected considering the sweet nectar of the creature’s succulent glands.
I told myself this was probably due to the fake Jorge’s advanced ripeness, and began to grind up the children. Their meat was actually bluish in color, and tasted vaguely of almonds. It ended up selling quite well.
9.
After having sex with Sheila’s space clone I decided to keep her for research purposes, and to finally find an answer to that age-old question, “Can a man truly love a plant-based alien spawn?”
The answer of course is no, but I got a hell of a term paper out of it. No one has ever wanted to publish or read my thesis, but I will sell it to any number of college students for an exorbitant fee.
10.
As for the grinder itself, the machine was a beauty, and everything I could have hoped for in a home meat appliance. I simply must tell you, if you are ever in the market for a new meat appliance, or find a strange alien egg in your backyard, you could do a lot worse than giving a Shipley Brand Meat Grinder a go. There’s simply no better grind for your bottom dollar.
And no, I have not been paid a dime by the Shipley Home Meat Appliance Company to write this; this is my honest and unsolicited review of their damn fine (American!) product. (Years later, after my trial for crimes against humanity, the CEO of Shipley, Mr. Shipley himself, personally spat in my face. I didn’t hold it against the man then, and I sure as hell don’t hold it against his fine product.)
11.
Oh, also the egg eventually hatched some kind of crab monster. The thing scuttled up to me and asked, “Where’s the nearest bus station?”
I said I didn’t know. “I’ve never left this block.”
“That’s okay,” the crab-thing said, looking around. “You’re probably not missing much.” It began to scuttle away then, pausing only briefly to tell me, “By the way, I love your azaleas.”
“Thanks,” I said. “They once won a prize.”