Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth (6 page)

“Are you a
druggie
?!”

“Druggie?” asked Mr. BunBun. “I'm not familiar with that word.”

“You're a disgusting, filthy drug addict, aren't you?! That's why you were asleep on the floor of my kitchen, that's why you're out here in an animal suit
eating birdseed
! You're higher than a kite!”

“Kite? What? I—”

“You picked the wrong house to mess with, you reprobate!”

“Reprobate? Mess with? Sorry? I'm afraid I don't have the foggiest notion—you seem to be angry—perhaps we should back up and—” BunBun broke off, bemused suddenly. He'd been worried the object the old man was holding was another weapon like the one with which he'd first electrocuted him. But now he'd had a better look at it. “Is that can you're holding labeled ‘bear spray'? Do you think I'm a bear?”

“I know you're not a bear!!” screamed Mr. Coffin.
“Bears can't talk!”

“No, not unless they're Mindthling bears, I don't suppose.”

Mr. Coffin looked at him dumbfounded.

“You know it's kind of funny—back on Ith the natives thought I was a giant rabbit, which is ridiculous because lagomorphs don't have antlers. In fact, that's how I got the name Mr. BunBun. I don't really mind, of course; I mean, I'm not a child. I don't mind a little fun. But for a moment there I thought maybe you thought I was a bear! Imagine if I'd come to Earth before I went to Ith and I'd been given a bear nickname. I wonder if it would have been something like Mr. BearBear, or a play on—”

“So what is it?” interrupted Mr. Coffin. “Uppers? Downers? Speed? Horse? Reefer?”

“Sorry—again our vocabularies diverge. Or are you being poetic? I've heard of Earth's poems!”

“Shut up or I will spray you so hard you'll wish you were dead!”

“With the bear spray? Again, I'm not sure I understand. What is this ‘bear spray'? A deodorant?”

The old man's eyes looked like they might entirely bug out of his head. “I am not joking around here.”

“I'm thoroughly confused,” said Mr. BunBun. “Or is it
from
rather than
for
bears—like skunk spray? Do bears on Earth have scent glands?”

“What are you talking about? Of course it's not spray
from
a bear—it's spray
to stop
a bear!”

“But I'm not a bear. And why would you wish to stop one? Shouldn't one just let a bear go about its business? I mean you might make it mad if you interrup—”

“I know you're not a bear; you're a
drug-addicted burglar
!!!”

“What?” asked Mr. BunBun.

“Are you trying to distract me?! Get me to drop my guard?!”

“Sir, I am certain that we are simply misunderstanding each other.”

“Listen up, you costume-wearing psycho—we're going over to the neighbors' to call the cops and I don't want to hear another peep.”

“KOPs?” said Mr. BunBun, horrified. “You have them here on Earth, too? Already!?”

“I mean it! Just one more peep!”

“Peep?” asked Mr. BunBun.

“What?!”

“You said peep. I don't know what that means. It sounds like an onomatopoetic construction?”

“You're a dead man if you say just
one
more word,” said Mr. Coffin, gesturing with the can. “Now,
move
!”

“Oh, really, I'd love to join you but I'm afraid I can't—I have places to go, people to see. Speaking of which, can you kindly point me toward the nearest metropolis?”

“Shut
up
!” screamed the man, and shook his arms at Mr. BunBun with the unintended effect that he accidentally depressed the spray can's trigger. There was a terrific hissing noise as a jet of the powerful repellent arced out a dozen yards to Mr. BunBun's left.

“Jesus Christ on a stick!” screamed Mr. Coffin as he fumbled to control the stream and, in his panic, dropped the can to the damp ground. In less than a second he found himself deep inside a caustic cloud of bear repellent. His eyes swelled shut, and his nostrils and mouth exploded with pain.

Mr. BunBun was safely a few paces upwind but his acute sense of smell, coupled with his extensive chemical training, told him that the horrible compound the old man had just sprayed would have much the same effect on him. On the bright side, he could also tell that the man's physiological reaction to the spray—while terrible—was transitory. Capsaicin, the principal irritant in hot peppers—while highly painful—tends not to inflict permanent physical damage.

BunBun sympathetically regarded the fog-shrouded man as Mr. Coffin sank to his knees and wailed like a small, if very loud, child.

“I wonder if all the humans here are so volatile,” BunBun said, backing away as the man fell forward on his belly, passing out for the second time that morning.

BunBun stood a moment, observing the slowly dissipating vapor. His binky beeped and he looked down at the screen on his wrist to see that several RF transmissions were closing on him. He quickly surmised they must belong to the uniformed people he'd seen gathering around the light-flashing vehicles parked in front of the house to the west—the ones that had been making so much noise earlier when the man had been unconscious the first time.

The device indicated these nearby signals were not Ith protocol, but it had also picked up some distant ones that were. They might not yet be close, but Rex and his aspiring Deacons knew he was here. And they would surely be coming.

 

CHAPTER 12

Keeping Up Appearances

On reflection, the most surprising thing was how calm and reasonable everybody was being.

If the tables had been turned and a big-eyed, small-eared, makeup-wearing Kempton had arrived on the sidewalk in front of the Griffin home back in Hedgerow Heights, Patrick was certain there would have been a code-red freak-out.

Police departments, fire departments, and—if they'd suspected Kempton really was an alien—scientists in yellow biohazard suits would have been all over the place. Humvees bristling with antennae, quarantine tents, satellite news trucks, helicopters, protest marches …

Patrick reminded himself this was a dream and so logic was probably at least a little bit out the window.

The father reemerged from the house and stumbled down the front steps.

“It's okay,” he yelled, waving his cell phone at them, “I've got my binky!

“And,” he said as he got near, “I've received a message from the admins that we should introduce ourselves to our guest!”

“Some of us already did,” corrected Oma.

Mr. Puber regarded his daughter. It seemed to Patrick like he might be considering a list of potential replies and wasn't finding any suitable to say out loud. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Patrick.

“Well, we're the Pubers and this—” he said, gesturing behind him at the windowless house, “is our home. So, of course, I'm Mr. Puber, this is Mrs. Puber, and these are our children, Kempton and Oma. And
your
name is?”

“I'm Patrick,” said Patrick. “Patrick Griffin.”

“Well,” said the man, beaming with pride or, at least, self-importance, “welcome to Ith, Patrick Griffin!”

“Thanks, uh, for having me.”

“Tell us, honey,” said Mrs. Puber to her husband, “what do the admins wish us to do next?”

“Oh, umm, well they wish for us to—” The man's phone made a note like an electric cricket and he broke off, eyes widening and face turning scarlet even through his makeup.

“What's happened, dear?” said his wife. “You seem flustered!”

“Well, I should say I'm flustered!” the man spluttered. “I've just gotten a direct SMS from Deacon Sabrina Kim herself!”

“WHAT!!!??” shouted Kempton.

“And she has given us an additional and quite
wonderful
job ticket!”

“FROM DEACON SABRINA KIM—FOR
YOU
?!” asked Kempton. “A PERSONALLY DIRECTED SMS?!!? AND A
JOB TICKET
?!!!”

“Yes indeed,” said the man, beaming again. “Here, allow me to read:

Family unit coordinator at 96 Eveningside Drive, The Ministry of Awareness is aware of the arrival of a trans-world emissary at or near your residence. In the interest of full transparency, and to be entirely mindful of the comfort of this distinguished personage, you are hereby granted the profound privilege of providing board, shelter, and entertainment to our visitor. To the purpose of his orientation and greater comfort, you are to provide him a fully immersive experience.

•
Today, Sixday, Dodecuary 24
th
, you will entertain him at your residence so that on-boarding preparations can be made in the wider community. You are to keep him indoors and acquaint him with any and all residential systems and technologies.

• Tomorrow, Sevensday, Dodecuary 25
th
, you will have him join your own similarly aged children in any and all previously scheduled school and extracurricular activities.

The term of this request shall hold until superseding notice is delivered to you by an official of rank seven or higher.

“But what does that mean, dear?!” asked Mrs. Puber.

“Yeah, Dad—does that mean he's
staying with us
?”

“Yes—we are to show him all about life here on Ith, and the best way to do that is to give him immersive, on-site experience!”

“Wait, does that mean tomorrow—”

“Yes, he will be accompanying you and Oma to school for Lasters Day.”

“That's so totally awesome—my feed's going to go
viral
!” Kempton shouted, pumping his fists at the sky.

A windowless six-wheeled vehicle shaped like a giant brick—though bright green and bristling with antennae—trundled up the street and stopped in front of the house. A small-wheeled robot emerged from a hatch in its side and scooted up the front path. Kempton reached into a hopper on its back and removed a pair of purple five-toed shoes.

“What a wonderful color!” exclaimed Mrs. Puber.

“Yes, they'll go very nicely with your blue pants,” said Mr. Puber, referring to Patrick's jeans.

“And with your, umm, black-and-orange shirt,” said Kempton. “Now, here's your binky,” he said, handing him a fancy cell phone just like everybody else's.

Patrick examined its shiny, keyless surface. Letters and strange symbols wobbled across its wrap-around screen, and a large-eyed smiley-face emoticon lit up at the top.

“And here's your binky belt,” said Kempton, handing him a case for his phone attached to a shiny cloth belt. The garment was the same purple as his new foot-gloves.

“Thank you,” said Patrick, a little distractedly. He hoped wearing it was optional.

Kempton smiled contentedly as he lathered his hands with a fresh dollop of sanitizing gel.

“So now,” said Mrs. Puber, “we have to just take care of one other thing.”

“What other thing?” asked Patrick.

Oma broke into a musical laugh.

“Well, you need to reapply your cosmetics,” said Mr. Puber.

“What!?” asked Patrick. “I mean, I'd rather not—”

“You really
are
an Earthling, aren't you?” said Mrs. Puber. “Here on Ith, one simply doesn't go out in public with a naked face.”

“You might as well not wear any pants!” said Kempton.

The donkey happened to bray just then, and everybody but Patrick laughed; Patrick was busy pinching his arm and wondering what else he could try to wake himself up.

 

CHAPTER 13

Daughterly Support

Mrs. Griffin, oblivious to the drizzling rain, was out in the yard pulling at her hair with one hand, pressing her phone to her ear with the other, and screaming hysterically. Firemen in rain-beaded face masks and elephant-trunk respirators were trooping in through the front door.