Foul
By Donna McCrohan Rosenthal, East Sierra Branch
The old, old, wiry, wizened, weathered prospector dragged himself along the hard Death Valley back road, lumbering slowly until finally spotting a rock at the mouth of a mine. He sat on the spiky surface and a friend emerged from the darkness of the shaft, looking pretty much identical.
“Hey Punchy, want some water?” asked the scruffy fellow joining him.
“I hate that stuff. Tastes terrible. But sure,” said the other, smelling it first, making a thoroughly disgusted face, and swilling it anyhow. “Stretch, you actually like this?”
“You get used to it,” replied Stretch.
As they relaxed, something resembling color returned to them. Less dusty and somewhat the hue of angry yet noncommittal carrot puree.
A third figure appeared over a mound, taller and beefier than either one of them by far and covered entirely by thick, matted hair.
“What brings you in from those Sierras?” asked Punchy, adding, “It’s too hot here.”
“Too cold there,” growled the hairy giant. “I had to get inside.”
“Water?” offered Punchy.
“No choice,” snapped the bushy beast. “But it’s even worse from those mountain streams. Tell me again why they sent us to these hellholes, and why I have to go around like this and you two some sort of mangy tramps like that.”
“You’re Bigfoot!” teased Stretch, slapping his thigh and laughing hard. ”You’re supposed to blend into the High Sierra like that, and we’re supposed to tramp around unnoticed in this gear, never mind that Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek haven’t seen anyone like us in fifty or a hundred years except for the last reenactment.”
“Our team did crappy research,” said Bigfoot. “When are they coming for us?” As he unwound, the hair subsided and his skin tone brightened, while the wiry guys seemed to plump up.
“What can I get you from inside?” asked Stretch. “The good stuff? I have a very little left. After all, it’s been a long time.” Bigfoot nodded a hopeful yes. Stretch extended his arm, reaching about 100 feet into the opening, retrieving very thick cigarettes. The three lighted up, greedily inhaling the smoke, pure pollutant, pure pleasure, deeply, right down to their stomachs, as it wrapped around their grateful smiles.
“How about a local lizard to go with these?” urged Punchy, eyeing his target underground. He punched his fist deep into the dirt, and from several feet below, plucked an unwilling reptile from its burrow.
“Again, again, again,” raged Bigfoot. “I can’t stand this. Have you seen the billboards on the highway for fresh alien jerky? It rips the heart plain out of you. They hate us and we hate them. How long do we have to stay here? We came to scout for habitable surroundings, but we didn’t find any. All the opposite. Crisp, clear water. Crisp, clear air. Our people would all die of nausea. I’m surprised the three of us haven’t wretched ourselves out of existence by now. They could never live here. I say forget it.”
“Correction, they eat us and we’ll eat them. Good news,” declared Punchy. “I’ve been watching those things they call TVs at the tourist shops. I bet most of our team must have landed and I think they have a foothold. I can tell because the laws are changing. Our guys must be behind it to turn the water to swill and the air to, you know, like home. Foul.
“Filth, muck, and crud everywhere. Paradise. The humans will be weak and sick, unable to defend themselves. Then the mother ship can settle down. We’ll feast on fresh earthling jerky, and then we’ll control their planet.”
Donna McCrohan Rosenthal
read this as her entry in the
Weird Weekend Storytelling Competition 2018.