Taming the Alien

saying?’

The Alien hadn’t quite got into the sheer in yer face dialogue, as if they’d known you always. He answered, ‘Course I hear you … I’m not deaf.’

The cabbie took a look back. ‘English, right?’

‘How perceptive.’

Unfazed. ‘I love the way you guys talk, like Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone talks like that in England, am I right?’

Jesus! ‘Yeah … except for the taxis — they shut it.’

‘That’s like the cabs, right?’

Getting out at the Wharf, Fenton paid, and sure enough the cabbie said, ‘You have a good day.’

‘Whatever.’

Fenton went straight for a bar. He was wearing thin on American goodwill. The barman welcomed him effusively.

Fenton said, ‘Give us a beer, OK?’

‘Domestic or imported?’

‘Fuck.’

Fenton was the other side of three bottles of Bud. Not outta it or even floating, but feeling them, a nice buzz building. He figured he’d do three more then go buy the baseball bat.

An exaggerated English accent cut through: ‘I say old chap, might I trouble you for a light?’

Fenton turned. On the stool beside him was a guy in his bad sixties. Liver spots on his hands and brown shorts, top to accessorise. He had eyes that Fenton could only think of as stupid, ie eager, friendly and open.

Fenton shrugged. He was definitely feeling those beers. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Actually, neither do I–I heard you order your drink and thought I’d give my skills a try. Was I convincing?’

‘As what?’

‘Oh yes, the English humour! I have all of Monty Python, would you like to see my Ministry of Funny Walks?’

‘You’re serious … Jesus!’

‘You might have caught me on Seinfeld, I was the English cab driver.’

Fenton was suddenly tired, the beers wilted, the show winding down. He asked, ‘You’re an actor … act scared.’

‘Scared?’

‘Yeah, as if I’m going to put this bottle up yer arse.’

The man looked full into Fenton’s face and got a hearty slap on the shoulder, with, ‘Hey, that’s not bad, you look like you could shit yerself … I’m impressed.’

After Fenton left the bar, he was entranced by the traffic lights, blinking:

WALK

DON’T WALK

No frills, yer straight command. He kinda appreciated it — reminded him of prison.

A black guy in a combat jacket was handing out pamphlets, shouting, ‘Yo’, homies, see what de fat cats be doin’ wit’ yo’ tax dollars!’

Fen took the booklet. ‘Ain’t my tax dollars, mate.’

‘Say what, homey?’

He was about to sling it as the guy shouted, ‘Yo’ all gots de right to know they be killin’ folk.’

Fenton looked at the pamphlet.

A Study of Assassination.

(A training manual written by the CIA

for distribution to agents and operatives)

He said aloud, ‘No shit!’

And as he flicked through it, he gave intermittent ‘Wow’s, ‘Jeez’, and an outright, ‘I’ll be fucked!’

Under the heading Justification was:

Murder is not morally justifiable. Assassination can seldom be employed with a clear conscience. Persons who are morally squeamish should not attempt it.

Fenton said: ‘You got that right, guys.’

More: It is desirable that the assassin be transient.

Then: Techniques.

A human being may be killed in many ways …

Fenton muttered, ‘Oh really?’

The assassin should always be cognisant of one point — ‘death’ must be absolutely certain.

Call it serendipity or chance, but when Fenton stopped to take his bearings he was outside a sporting goods shop.

Went in.

The music was deafening and he had to recheck it wasn’t a disco. No, a sports shop. He asked an assistant, ‘What’s that noise?’

‘It’s Heavy D.’

‘What?’

‘Waterbed Hev.’

‘I’m going to have to take yer word for that. Why is it so loud?’

‘Most of our clientele are Afro-Americans.’

‘You mean black.’

The assistant ignored this and asked what he could do to help. Fenton said, ‘I want an old style baseball bat. Not metal or some brilliant new plastic or low fat — the basic slugger. Can you do that?’

Four hundred bucks later, he could.

London

Roberts was determined to tell his wife about the skin cancer. At the very least he’d get laid. So … so it would be a sympathy fuck, but who was counting? All the other ails:

dead bank balance

burnt car

nervous job prospects

he’d leave a bit. No need to tip the balance. He was almost looking forward to dropping his health bombshell. Move him centre stage for a few days.

A Big Issue vendor was sporting a spotlessly white T-shirt which declared:

70 % of Prostitutes are Convent Educated.

Roberts said, ‘What about the other 30 %?’

The vendor smiled. ‘They’re the education.’ Argue that.

When he got home he checked quickly to see if his daughter was home.

Nope.

He muttered, ‘Thank Christ for that’. Recently she’d been treating him as if he were invisible … no, scratch that — invisible and annoying.

His wife said, ‘You’re home.’

He was going to congratulate her powers of observation, but it wouldn’t be a loving start. Instead: ‘I have something to tell you.’

She hmphed and said, ‘Well, I certainly have something to tell you.’

Testily, he snapped, ‘Can’t it wait?’