Writings » Closure

Closure

By Shitwincer at 2007-10-10 | Printable version

"And that was no doubt one of the weirdest things I've ever seen." Fox said, curled up on the seat next to mine crafting some odd looking sculpture. Strange what a man will confess when sitting at a potter's wheel, but who am I to judge, especially when he's reenacting the movie ghost with some girl who looks remarkably like Patrick Swayze. Accept for the mustache she was sporting, of course.  
"You haven't even told me the story yet," I replied, hoping he wasn't already relying on a bedpan like a spouse on pancake Sundays.
    
He proceeded to tell me about what went on after the invasion scare, and how he went from crazy FBI spook to a ceramic class junkie with 40 year soccer moms in decay.  I figured it might be a long story, so I began to eat glass from the mosaic I was making. Top-notch work as epic installations go, Peter Lorre in a pumpkin patch eating children, or beating them with whiskey bottles depending on how you looked at it.  Damn, he was misunderstood.  Fox finally hit the right airwave, coming back from a radial diesel-like hum. Seemed in his off time, he had taking a liking to William Shatner's approach of dramatic pause.  Only this lasted about 20 minutes while he made sounds I could only imagine were personifying a lava lamp.
"Well, I can tell you one thing, we got it all wrong, deathly wrong."  He said calmly, with his hands at his hips, drawing near his holstered maracas.
"What the hell are you babbling about?" I asked. 

"The invasion deal, you know, the whole point of everything period." He replied. 
I then realized this man's life did revolve around flying saucers, and further wondered if he spent nights alone in a closet, with a red light, a camcorder, and some Lego men. The fetishes people have now adays, definitely a ruler depression for slap-happy nuns in this country.  This man should have been beaten senseless like a court jester, or a village idiot who wasn't jigging hard enough.  But we all voice are opinions in some way, and I had a feeling this was one of those moments.  It was like getting directions from some slack-jaw in a salmon sweater.  Maybe if it was 1986...

"I tell you, I don't know what pre-school sandbox they had deciphering alien rhetoric, but they must have been drunk at the pivotal moment." Fox proclaimed. 
"I'm still not following you," I said, growing impatient and cramming red flecks in my esophagus like it was free glazed donut day.
"The main point of everything hung on the balance of one super important primary word."  He said, "Colonization." 
"Oh yeah," I said, "What happened with that crazy jazz, dawg." I remarked. 
"Well, here's the shit kicker, colonization wasn't the right word, buddy, it was pollinization." He sprayed.
"What in the flying fuck is that supposed to mean?"  I retorted.

He proceeded to tell me that these aliens weren't coming here to exterminate the species of earth, but more along the lines of violate it.  It seemed that these aliens had quite a knack for same sex festivity, and the flamboyant bars and rainbows definitely drew a crowd in more ways the one. 
"So you're telling me this is like a big gay club med for aliens? I mean, I've never seen one," I pondered with bloated heavy breathes, "Where the hell are they now, they just give up and go with butt plugs?" The thoughts spilled like the blood leaking into my lungs, things we're getting a little disco dizzy in here.
"No, they are quite here, blended in just like the movie Philadelphia, I mean come on, you honestly thought a show like Queer Eye could be the work of anything but a tiny naked homo beast?" he returned, his voice shrill like a thirteen year old boy who just went castrato during chorus practice.  Both his voice and the matter proved every emo kid guilty as charged.
"Touche, my friend," I coughed, "And the black oil?"
"Lubricates the transition," he said.
"Bees?" I questioned.
"More symbolic of what's to come actually."  Fox said, now juggling egos he had removed from the pocket of his overalls.
"Hybrids?" I said in a shrill.
"A little foreplay."  He cackled.
"Are you wearing a one-zee under that dress?"  I said with a puzzled look.
"Damn straight, best 2 bucks I ever spent at a county fair."  Fox chuckled.

"Wow, I am freaking speechless," I said in defeat, "I think the truth just ruined my life."  Blood was foaming at the corners of my mouth.  Mulder quietly outstretched his arm, dipping a soggy eggo into the cheese clouds on the sides of my face.
"Truth is out there, man.  In the worst way," he said with a sudden sadness, "I'm lucky my suit wearing ass went unscathed, you have no idea how bad things could get."
I figured bad was like a Dutch sausage festival, only maple syrup and crying were involved, but by now I was just gurgling broken English. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, like watching a high school crush making out with the janitor in the boiler room...

‘What happened to the red-head?"  I choked out sizzling like Alka-seltzer.
"Oh, funny story." He said with lots of glee, "As you imagine, we were together through all of that like any other people would be." He began swirl with his finger with whatever he continuously took from my mouth corners.  "But after the invasion thing was botched, we kind of, I dunno, lost the magic."
"Come again?" I said with a tongue swollen like a pregnant wildabeast.
"Without the aliens in our lives, we were just two different people, I mean I couldn't even get a boner without taping an X to her forehead," He said remarkable proud, "We became much like the dining dead at all times, taking turns dragging each other through abandon hallways waiting for some supernatural love smack."

"This is fucking absurd!" I shouted spitting some of my teeth in his face, completely against believing the only fairy tale I had love growing up was actually as terrible as every Reese Witherspoon movie combined.
"Its true as the day reeks of Jersey City air," he said almost as if he felt sorry for me, "So I let her down as gently as I could."
"Why?" I squirted.
"She became a recluse and a germaphobe," he continued, "she was always getting sick with all this weird shit all the time."
"That sucks," I bellowed.

"Well, it wasn't entirely her fault," he clucked, " I had been injecting all sorts of fun stuff in her morning coffee, items I had been getting from some douche at disease control.  A few weeks before, he winked at me when I was in a turn-style, so I bought him a churro and we became Myspace friends.  Found out where he worked and figured I could get some free shit, like tee-shirts or a heart shaped pillow.  Turns out I had to continuously trade this dude cases from my blow-pop collection for grab bags of foreign contagions.  It really pissed me off, so I took him off my top friends list, and he just disappeared."
"What the fuck is wrong with you!"  I screamed, putting my hands in fisticuffs position which by now probably looked like a retarded mummy doing the electric slide. 
"Relax, she had it coming anyway, she wanted to be with that shitty dog again more then me."  He said rather hurt, "Besides the end was her own doing. After I gave her Figi love cocktail, she went on countless cycles of Gardasil, and got addicted like it was pink heroin.  Had her some nasty side effects, made her skin look like a haggard tetherball, and then she turned into some crazy incredible hulk shit!  I mean like jumping on cars and raping parking meters, and after that, I never saw her again.  Think she went to the pound, or the glue factory, who knows."
We both sighed, looking at each other like we had just taken 6 shots of rubbing alcohol together, and the diarrhea was about to hit like a Class five hurricane.

"Well, at least there's Mitch Pileggi," I squirted again.
"Yeah, Thank God for Mitch Pileggi." Fox replied.
"Helping the magicians sell themselves out, brosef." I laughed.
"Fuck Yeah!" Fox proclaimed, as we slapped high-five, "Now where'd I leave my gun?"