Yours in Heaven by James Beamon

YOURS IN HEAVEN

James Beamon

Yours in heaven, you are the first person I wanted to contact cause I knew you’d appreciate the irony of it all. Aliens nabbed me on the Sudanese border like some B-movie and I’ve been on display most of this time. But I got a reprieve. I sold them on my ability to raise some serious hell.

Took a fluke to convince them, the Sarigel. You won’t believe it, but they’re the Roswell aliens with the big black eyes and little gray bodies. Their planet, Sarig, is fourth around a star in Orion, the lowest of the three in Orion’s Belt. The Sarigel, they got no eyebrows and these slit mouths so I can’t get a good war face out of them. Not very talkative neither. But despite that, I’ve turned the little bastards into top-shelf killing machines.

What I mean to say is that war has come to Orion. I know because I brought it here.

Before that, they had me living in a glass enclosure in an interstellar zoo. That enclosure was a fully furnished one-bedroom apartment with most of the walls removed. It was like living in IKEA. Big black eyes staring at me as I went from room to room, little slit mouths chittering amongst themselves while they looked. I generated a lot of chitters whenever I took a dump or rubbed one out.

So there I was, living on Sarig in the zoo in my IKEA half-house. Did my disappearance make the headlines? What’d they say, “Notorious Arms Dealer Believed Dead”? I hope you saved the clippings.

Anyway, I rose to notoriety throughout the universe thanks to a mix up at the zoo. I was getting regular conjugals from another abductee, a Belarusian brunette named Eleni. I don’t know where the malfunction was, but instead of a girl with the slimmest possible dating pool I wound up with a giant alien bigfoot in the middle of my IKEA half-house.

It was the worst kind of mistake. The bigfoot wasn’t even female. I know because there are no clothes for zoomates. I was dangling. He was dangling. At least one of us was upset. And the other was approaching me because he was either upset too or he wanted to take advantage of the conjugal despite it not being his standard fare. Either way, he wanted my ass to pay.

It was the perfect time to panic, but I didn’t. I guess all those tight spots I’d faced dealing with crazy warlords in Africa and crazy drug lords in South America had prepped me for a life and death struggle in an alien zoo. I showed rape ape my living space, starting with the IKEA dinette set. First the two chairs across the face that made him stumble back. Then I ran at him with the table, legs out.

The table was a circular three-legged unit built for looks, not for company. I ground the table legs into him with so much force that it pushed him into the wall. The legs buckled and snapped, causing me to drive the splintered leg remnants still attached to the tabletop into his chest and gut.

Bigfoot let out this loud, angry yell. I think that was his way of telling me the bromance was over.

I was largely out of furniture I could easily pick up by this time. But he wasn’t done, not by a long shot. He got to pulling the tabletop out of his body and yelling at me in alien bigfootese. I started flinging my dish set before he could finish pulling out the table. That shut him up. Nobody likes having their mouth open when ceramic plates are shattering in their face.

He closed the distance between us and batted me around like a piñata. I don’t know how many blows I took, probably just a few, but they all felt like Mack trucks. The last knockdown he gave me I managed to grab a salad fork, which I put through one of his eyes. I half limped, half scurried to the bathroom, him hot on my heels, where I took the porcelain top of my toilet tank to his face.

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  1. War Journal 74: Two to View | fictigristle

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