We’ve never visited nor shall we visit your planet. We won’t emit any radiation, gravity, time or space signals in your direction. We will not present ourselves to you, nor shall we invade you, in any sense of that word. But the possibility of our existence is already planted deep in your minds. And that, you unlucky ones, is the real invasion.
Tag Archives: extraterrestrials
One morning, when a dead man woke from troubled dreams, he found itself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armor-like back, wishing he was dead, and then it occurred to him that this was, in fact, the case. He could remember the excruciating pain, the illusion of a white light at the end of an endless tunnel, the feeling of his mind shutting down, the certain knowledge that this was the end, followed by the swift separation of his head from his body by a giant bug-like monster which suddenly materialized by his bed, and then the mounting of said head on top of a ten foot dirty brown lump surrounded by ridiculously small, twitching legs.
Everything fits perfectly, he though. I can go on with my life now.
We left a machine, buried in the crust of your moon, to wake us up when you have developed the basic space flight skills needed for rescuing us. We, the ancient dwindled gods of Mars, or the last survivors of a powerful, super technological dying race, or the remains of a vast artificial intelligence constructed by said race – there is no real difference, really – have been waiting for ages upon ages for you monkeys to arrive and carry us away with you, out, out to every corner of that seemingly infinite universe that was once ours, or at least our ancestors’, creators’, same thing. Our intelligence is vast, but our power is null and void. We need you.
One day, soon, you will discover the machine in your moon and dig it out. When the first rays of the sun touch it, it will sing. But that song won’t wake us up.
For we are already awake.
We were awaken by a signal coming directly from your planet, earth. It took us relatively forever to analyze, and even longer to understand. Converted to your measurement system, all this took about ninety seconds. And now we know that it was your year 1936. We know who it was, communicating in that signal. And, having watched that signal, your television, ever since, we know what that person, the one who appeared there on your year 1936, has done. You would think that this would have caused us to reconsider making contact with you, but that is not true. As ancient gods of Mars, theological or technological, we have seen worse. However, that signal taught us all about your of concept of “entertainment”. And thus we do not want to be rescued anymore.
We are afraid.
I absolutely deny the accusation that I have eaten Mrs. Schwatrz. It is not only grossly erroneous, but also deeply insulting. I do not eat anything living. I despise your concept of vegetarianism, for what you call “plants” are also living beings. I am, in fact, an inanimatarian, which explains a lot about me, including the fact that I did not eat, could not have eaten, Mrs. Schwartz.
In fact, she ate me.
Admittedly, right after that my crypto-cells took hold of hers and digested her from the inside, but that’s legally irrelevant. What’s more, it was not an act of mine, as I did not exist at the time of that takeover, having been previously, as I’ve just mentioned, eaten by Mrs. Schwartz. Prosecuting me is just like prosecuting a newborn baby: not only illogical, but also monstrously unjust.
Therefore I ask this court to release me at once.
Has anyone here had lunch yet? No? Want a bite of me?
Whiggles wait in your water. They lurk, laying low yet lucid in the lukewarm lakes. They plan, playing perfect plots and precise programs pitilessly in potted plants and pots and pans. They fight, fearlessly faking freak fire fish, flying into flowers and fruits, flailing into food, feigning the form of fully fledged Fnools.
Then everything becomes much easier, for Fnools, or even Whiggles which have taken the form of a Fnool, have no need for any trickery of words.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Failure to fit the pattern of logical and valid sentences which can exist in this universe,” croaked the grey wet blob through the translation grid.
“Isn’t that a bit pompous of you?” I said. “Can’t you just tell me what your name is?”
“I just did.”
“Define and describe your entire atomic structure, thought pattern and history of existence,” sang the fragile-looking alien, slowly raising its weird, sticky appendages, through the language-conversion contraption.
I dripped and soaked and croaked the information at it.
“That is blobbingly miscorrect of you,” it sang. “Can you not please define and describe your entire atomic structure, thought pattern and history of existence?”
“I just did.”