Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter One of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
Sir Martin has been searching for Martin for quite some time, at the beach resort Brazi-air-on-sea, where the two friends are enjoying a summer vacation. Unfortunately, MEOP – the Mitochondrial Eve of Politicians – became infertile as a result of Sir Richard and his guests tramping around her womb and along her piping for days on end, while hiding from what they presumed to be zombies. Although the ceasure of clone births dealt a devastating blow to the people’s revolution, the event allowed Sir Martin and Martin a well-earned rest from their revolutionary calling, since they did not have to spend their time convincing newly born politician clones to change their allegiance and become revolutionaries.
Eventually, Sir Martin sees his friend standing in a dappled shade at the summit of a beach bar, with his legs comically bowed out to the side, one hand placed palm-downward upon an upward-facing thigh, and a tropical lady-lad-libation cupped gracefully in the other; the colour of which resonates joyfully with his skimpy, bright orange speedos.
“What-ho!” – waves Sir Martin – “have you filled your trunks?”
“No” – Martin responds – “it’s just the way I’m standing.”
“I mean; have you packed? We must leave tomorrow at nine sharp. And why are you standing like that?
Martin lifts a bowed leg, farts, and slaps a flip-flop’d foot against the compacted soil circumnavigating the bar. He lifts his other leg and repeats the procedure. He keeps repeating these actions until a frown appears on Sir Martin’s face, as though squirted from the bottom of a seagull flying overhead.
“Would you mind not doing that?” – Sir Martin asks, curtly, while flicking a stray fibre from a lapel of his crisply pressed safari suit. “One must strive to create an impression, and it seems you are creating the wrong kind.”
“You are right, of course. But we are on holiday, so one may relax one’s standards a little. I’m afraid the local food is playing havoc with my stomach, and I’m performing these aerobic movements in an effort to get my blood circulating. My whole body has locked into the position one adopts when seated on a barstool, because I have been seated upon one far too long.”
“Indeed” – Sir Martin sighs. “Anyway. We must leave tomorrow. Didn’t you receive my message?”
“The beeping sound? That was a message, was it? From you?” – Martin enquires
“Yes. Of course. Who else could it be? I am the only one with your number. Did you get it?”
“Only half of it.”
“Half? Which half?”
“The beeping sound” – Martin clarifies – “I didn’t check to see who it was from, in case it wasn’t from you. What did you write?
“That we must leave tomorrow at nine sharp.”
“But we have only just arrived!” – Martin wails. “What could have occurred that forbids our brief freedom from service to the Earth?”
“Double trouble, I’m afraid. Firstly; Sir Richard and his fogies have discovered we are responsible for the creation of Britain’s version of the CWO – the cwo.uk – and have foiled the revolution, and secondly; the Earth is being invaded by aliens. Or London is, anyway.”
“Oh no!” – Martin exclaims. “Which should we tackle first? The alien invasion or the sabotage of the revolution?” – he asks, as he resumes his flatulent aerobic routine.
“Well. It is a difficult choice. A true democracy may be of paramount importance, since the combined intelligence of the majority may be the only way to outsmart the aliens” – Sir Martin sighs. “On the other hand” – he continues – “there may not be enough time to form a true democracy, so it may be wise to tackle the alien invasion first.”
“What a conundrum!” – Martin exclaims, as the resonance generated by his persistent rocking from side to side and flip flop slapping encourages his arms to oscillate. Sir Martin regards his friend until the resonant oscillation becomes so violent that his arms are flailing wildly out of control.
“The aliens first?” – Martin suggests, as his arms knock him clean off his feet.
“Yes. The aliens” – Sir Martin agrees, as he watches Martin tumble head over heels across the dusty, parched ground surrounding the bar.
Chapter Two of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Why do you pour a drink on your trousers when we fly together?” – Martin asks Sir Martin, who sits beside his companion with his arms spread wide, beholding, with astonished disbelief, a dark wet patch slowly creeping across the crotch of his light fawn safari suit.
“Is it the fear?” – Martin comtinues – “do you pour a drink on your crotch to calm your nerves?
“No” – Sir Martin responds – “A sudden change in cabin pressure causes my ears to pop, and I raise my hands towards them, and there is always a drink in one hand whenever we fly anywhere, which spills, usually on my crotch. Although you always defecate in your trousers when we land, fear cannot be the reason because we are fearless revolutionaries. So, I assume the cabin pressure on landing causes your bottom to pop. Anyway. Let us consider the alien invasion, and how it may be foiled.”
Sir Martin withdraws a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his safari suit’s jacket, and begins to sketch as he talks to Martin.
“Do you remember the alien in that film .... um ....”
“Alien?” – Martin suggests.
“Yes, the alien in that film .... um ....”
“Yes, the alien in that film .... um .... what was it called? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, the alien in the film and the aliens invading Earth, or London, bear many similarities. Do you remember the alien in the film has a kind of telescopic mouth? A mouth within a mouth? A mouth coming out of a mouth? A mouth housing another ....”
“Yes; I remember” – Martin interrupts
“Well, now. Look at this drawing I have made. It is of an alien.”
Martin takes the notebook and tilts his head to one side. “It seems as though a bottom smoking a cigar” – Martin announces, after some contemplation. He frowns and twists the notebook back and forth, like a steering wheel – “Well. At least they are easily recognisable.”
“No! They are not!” – Sir Martin retorts – “they are humanoid in their appearance. They have knees, noses, elbows and belly-buttons, as most do, so they are very difficult to identify.”
“Then why have you drawn a bottom smoking a cigar?” – Martin asks, overcome with a sense of confusion, and distracted by a warning twitching from his posterior, since they are about to land.
Sir Martin begins to trace the lines of the drawing with a fingertip, explaining as he does so – “because it is a bottom. An alien’s bottom. It is their weapon. Within their bottom is another bottom. That’s the bit you thought a cigar. It emerges from their regular bottom in the same way the extra mouth comes out of the mouth of the alien in that film .... um ....”
“Yes, the alien in that film .... um ....”
“Yes. Well. Nevermind. From the alien’s humanoid bottom. And then, when the inner bottom is fully extended, it sprays a jet of toxic poo that can burn its way through the decks of battleships! Or emit guffs of such magnitude they could render a herd of wilderbeast unconscious! That’s the bit of the drawing you thought smoke coming out of the cigar.”
Martin’s eyes widen, as he slowly raises his hands to his face and begins to trace the contours of his lips with trembling fingertips.
“Oh dear” – he mumbles, at the very same moment the aeroplane’s wheels screech against the runway, encouraging a permanent skid-mark there, and in Martin’s underwear.
Chapter Three of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Ugh!” – Martin exclaims – “London smells of burning poo. I suppose the aliens are wreaking havoc already.”
“And look” – Martin continues – “it is raining pieces of tattered underwear, like confetti at a wind-less wedding. I suppose it is an alien’s y-fronts; torn to shreds when their inner-bottom rived through the cloth. Sir Martin?.... Sir Martin?.... Sir Martin?.... Sir Martin?.... Sir Martin?.... Sir Martin?....”
Martin scans the horizon, but Sir Martin does not appear there, as he did just moments before. He drops his gaze to scan below the horizon, and finds Sir Martin laying on the pavement, on his back, with his legs kicking frantically skywards, as though he were jumping upon an imaginary pogo-stick. A long, thin squared stick juts from his posterior and plumes of smoke rise from the seat of his tattered trousers.
“YA-HOO-HOO-HOO!” – Sir Martin yodels, shrilly – “a firework has sped up my bottom and exploded there.”
“Oh! How horribly unfortunate” – Martin sympathises – “but it is good news!” – he adds, upon reflection.
“It is?” – croaks Sir Martin.
“Yes, it is! It means the smell of burning poo is coming from you, and the shredded underwear too, which means London, or the world, is safe for the time being!”
“Hooray!” – Sir Martin screeches, sorrowfully.
“Hmmm. There is a note taped to the stick. Should I read it?” – Martin asks.
“Yes. Please do” – Sir Martin shrieks, pitifully.
“It says; remember, remember, the fifth of November, it falls precisely two months after the fifth of September, and it is signed Anonymous.”
“Anonymous?!” – Sir Martin exclaims, through tightly gritted teeth.
“Yes. Perhaps it is those hacker activists, suggesting we should foil the foiling of the revolution first, so the British people may unite in an effort to determine how the alien invasion should be handled?”
“You may be right” – Sir Martin agrees – “they may have hacked my email and know about the alien invasion. But we have made a decision and we should stick to it.”
“I agree” – Martin agrees. “It’s a pity Anonymous don’t have your number; they might have called or sent a message instead.”
“Despite the occasional inconvenience it causes, I only wish my friends to have my number, and you are my only friend” – Sir Martin sniffles
Martin bends to pull the firework from Sir Martin’s bottom and help him to his feet. He rests his head upon his friend’s shoulder and says – “you are the best friend I have ever had, Sir Martin. I understand you as others do not, and feel you understand me too.”
“I do understand you, Martin. We are friends, and a team, and I will never leave your side.”
The two friends smile warmly at one another, and begin to pat each other’s heads, shoulders and arms, while producing warm, loving, humming sounds, and sniffling like aged in a nursing home, who have had beads pushed up their nostrils by unkind staff.
“But enough of this sentimentality!” – Sir Martin announces in a gruff, manly voice. “We must consider how to foil the alien invasion, and I have a plan!”
Chapter Four of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Kancho? What is that?” – Martin asks.
“Well, Wikipedia explain it very well. They say it is, and I quote ’a prank performed by clasping the hands together in the shape of an imaginary gun and attempting to poke an unsuspecting victim’s anus, often while exclaiming ‘Kan-CHO!’ ”
“Oh! I think I have encountered it before, at school, when one of my teachers used to ....”
“Um, no, Martin. I think you will find that was a very different kind of Kancho. The version we will be employing is a perfectly acceptable and quite hilarious prank, and one that hides a cunning intent, which may prevent everyone from being annihilated by toxic alien käk.”
“Poking people in the anus will foil an alien invasion?” – Martin asks, somewhat bemused.
“Precisely” – Sir Martin replies. “I have received intelligence ....”
“From where?” – Martin interrupts, with a detectable note of suspicion.
“From Martin Sharratt. I have been corresponding with him, of late. I received an email. He told me of the alien invasion. He sent a drawing too; of an alien’s bottom and inner bottom, quite similar to the one I drew for you, except it was much better because he’s an artist. He said the only way to identify the aliens is by poking people’s bottoms, which would encourage the alien’s inner bottom to pop out and attack. I thought; one cannot go around poking people’s bottoms without good reason because they will get annoyed. That’s when I came up with Kancho.”
“Oh dear. Well, where did Martin Sharratt receive his intelligence from; the information he has passed on to us?” – Martin asks.
The usual sources, I suppose. God, or the Gods, or perhaps he is being used as a conduit to alien....”
“HA!” – Martin exclaims suddenly. “I thought you would say that! Don’t you see? Martin Sharratt can’t be a conduit to alien intelligence if aliens are invading Earth?”
“The aliens influencing Martin’s thinking may be from a different planet than those invading Earth.”
“Yes” – Martin agrees – “or they could be the aliens who have been contacting him all along, and have malicious intent. I have read some of Martin Sharratt’s other books, in which he states his thinking may not be influenced by an external force, and his thoughts may therefore only be his own. If this is so, it would mean the alien invasion may be nothing more than Martin’s mad imaginings!”
“It is so” – Sir Martin agrees – “but if he is right, aliens are among us, waiting for an opportunity to unleash their inner bottoms and melt everybody with noxious space poo.”
“And if he is wrong?” – Martin asks, before audibly swallowing a sharp intake of breath.
“We will be traipsing through London’s streets, and quite possibly over the entire planet, jabbing our fingers into the bottom holes of everyone we encounter for no good reason.”
“Oh deary, deary me” – Martin murmurs.
Chapter Five of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Why is it so difficult to find a hotel?” – Sir Martin wonders, as they lug their suitcases through late night London city streets in search of a room.
It is at that moment they realise it may be due to their appearance. The whisky Sir Martin spilled on his lap has dried to leave a urine-coloured stain on the crotch of his light fawn safari suit, and the seat of his trousers has vanished completely, leaving a charred hoop with a blackened bottom within. And Martin still wears the khaki chinos he soiled when landing at Heathrow.
“Oh! How silly of us not to realise at once; one’s attire is a reflection of character in the city more than anywhere else!” – Martin exclaims. “Let us try one more hotel before we change and search with renewed hope. What pity the aliens are invading London rather than Oxford. If it were so, we may have foiled the alien invasion from the comfort of home!“.
“A pity indeed!” – Sir Martin agrees, as he tilts his head backwards and examines a dilapidated hotel sign, dangling upon a rusty pole in an overgrown garden.
They make their way towards the hotel, down a path narrowed with foliage, and once there, they rest their cases upon the step and pull an old-fashioned bell pull, protruding from flaky brickwork enveloping the door’s ornate jamb.
After a considerable length of time, the door creaks open to reveal a wizened old man, who looks Sir Martin and Martin up and down as though they were giant gnomes, with their wedding tackle hanging out of their bright-red britches, before inviting them into a murky foyer, within which he scuttles until he is seated behind a reception desk, with a well-chewed biro poised over a piss-yellow guest book.
“A double room if you please, my good man!” – Martin begins.
“The double room has a double bed in it” – the wizened old man grumbles.
“Oh. That will be fine.”
“As you wish” – the old man mutters. “That’ll be fifty quid each. Here’s the key. Your room’s at the top of the ol’ .... the ol’ .... um .... nipple hairs. No .... wait ....” – the hotelier says, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“The ol’ apples an’ pears! That’s it! And if you need me, you’ll find me in that room, watching the ol’ .... you know? .... the um .... the ol’.... the ol’ .... the ah .... the ol’ .... smelly bastard. No. Wait .... the ol’ .... custard and jelly! .... the telly!”
“You mean; you will be through in that room watching television if we need you?” – Martin clarifies.
“That’s what I said, in not so many words” – the old man replies, with a barely contained note of sarcasm. “And are you sure about the room? It looks like you aren’t short of a bob or two, so you could have a room each.”
“Oh no. The double room with the double bed will be fine, thank you. We are very good friends. I mean; we’re not interested in each other’s bottoms or anything like that.”
“Looks like something is” – the old man says, as he observes Sir Martin, who is bending to lift his suitcase.
“Ah. Yes. Aliens, I’m afraid” – Martin explains.
“Scary, are they?” – the old man asks, as he grimaces in response to Martin’s poo whiff drift.
“Terrifying, as you can see. Well. We will bid you a good night, good sir, and retire to our room” – Martin announces, as the two friends begin to ascend the staircase.
“It’ll be another fifty quid each if I find a puddle of jam or Tim’s teats in the bed in the morning. No. Wait .... um .... I mean if you Jimmy Riddle or Tom Tit in it.”
“Very well!” – Sir Martin exclaims, cheerfully. “I can assure you, however, there is no danger whatsoever of that occurring”
“I’ll believe you; millions wouldn’t” – the hotelier replies, as he observes the ascent of their battered bottoms.
“What a strange little man” – remarks Martin, as the two friends lay side by side and fully refreshed and pajama’d in the double bed in their double room.
“Yes” – Sir Martin agrees – “his London accent seemed forced, and the cockney rhyming slang was flawed in the extreme. Altogether, he seemed quite fake.”
“Perhaps he is an alien?” – Martin muses.
“Well. There is only one way to find out” – Sir Martin replies. “After we have breakfasted, and before we make our leave, we should jab him in the hole.”
“Yes. We should” – Martin agrees. “And it is good our first suspect seems a likely one. Perhaps we have stumbled upon the alien’s leader, and all of this will be over in no time.”
“Let us hope so, Martin. Goodnight, dear friend!”
“Goodnight, Sir Martin!”
Chapter Six of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Dive, lo-cate, jab and roll!” – Sir Martin shrieks tunefully, in an army cadence fashion, as he rolls sideways, at some considerable speed, across the carpeted floor of their hotel room, with his hands clasped together in the shape of a gun.
“Poke the al-ien in the hole!” – Martin replies, as he tumbles bollocks over cranium.
“Kan-CHO!” – they screech, in perfect unison, as they engage in a renewed bout of sneaking up on their pillows and driving their fingertips into them before rolling away.
“We must learn to roll away quickly, because we do not know how long it will take for the alien’s inner bottom to pop out; it may be mere nanoseconds” – Sir Martin advises, as he twirls around the room.
“What if the aliens are women?” – Martin asks, as he trundles to a halt next to his friend, who grimaces audibly.
“Well. Let us concentrate on the menfolk until there are none left, with the hope we will find an alien before that time. Women are somewhat particular about their bottoms” – Sir Martin suggests – “and therefore less likely to find Kancho funny than men.”
“I have heard some women like it when one inserts one’s finger in their bottom.”
“Some, perhaps, but few when fully dressed, in public, and unprepared for what should be a pleasurable experience. No. I’m afraid the consequences would be frightening, whether an inner bottom were to pop out or not.”
“Don’t men mind if you jab them in the hole?” – Martin pursues.
“Well, again, there are men who do enjoy that kind of thing, in the right company, with some candles and faggot sounds, and such like. Most, though, will not enjoy being poked in the bumhole by a perfect stranger, and because of the cultural differences between Japan and the rest of the world; they may not find it funny either. There may be some, however, and a greater ratio of men than women, because men and women are clearly quite different in that respect.”
“What if I should poke a gentleman’s hole and discover he is not an alien, but has enjoyed the experience immensely?” – Martin wonders.
“You must say you mistook him for someone else, apologise, tip your hat, and make for a hasty departure”
“And what if he doesn’t enjoy it at all, nor find it funny, and becomes very angry and wishes to retaliate?” – Martin questions.
“You should either run away, or invent a convincing reason for poking his hole so. You may use the one we have already considered – that you mistook him for someone else – or you might say you’re looking for your watch or something.”
“Or one’s umbrella” – Martin expands.
“No. That would be ridiculous. An umbrella is too big. If the excuse is to believed, the object should be small enough to fit in one’s bottom. But let us hasten below stairs, to enjoy a petit déjeuner and begin our quest of saving the Earth, or London, by jabbing the hotelier’s hole.”
Chapter Seven of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“YAHOO!” - the hotelier shrieks, before dropping to the dining-room floor as if he has been shot.
“OW! My haemorrhoids!” – he shouts.
“YÄRK! .... my far more .... far more .... four more! .... firmer piles” – he persists – “no .... wait .... farmer Giles!”
“OW! My hole!” – he continues, as he writhes in agony, with his back arched and his hands covering his bottom, as though instinct warns him the same may happen again.
“Well. He isn’t an alien” – Sir Martin concludes.
Martin’s eyes are wide with horrified disbelief and his fingertips pitter-patter along his trembling lips, as though trying to cheer them up, while the hotelier continues to shriek pitiful lamentations.
“No. But I must say, I find this quite distressing. Isn’t there another way to ....”
“W-O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-O-W!” – the hotelier wails – “the stabbing pain worsens!”
At that very moment, the hotelier’s contortions cause his cardigan to pop open, revealing a bro-ssiere, from which two hideously elongated nipples spring.
“Sir Richard!” – Sir Martin and Martin exclaim.
The friends pounce upon the hotelier and pull off the wizened old man mask, to reveal the face of a wizened old man. Once Sir Richard is unmasked, his true height becomes apparent. Sir Richard begins to struggle beneath the two friends like a cat that does not wish to take a pill, before popping from betwixt them, scampering across the floor and diving headfirst through a cat flap.
Sir Martin and Martin rise to their feet. “Well, the hotelier was Sir Richard in disguise, and he has gone. There’s no point running after him because he runs like a nose. I wonder what he had in mind?”
“I’m not sure, but whatever it was, it would have been to prevent us from foiling the foiling of the revolution.”
“Look!” – Martin exclaims – “our breakfast! Hot crumpets and butter! He had planned to drug us again, and do with us what God only knows!”
“Yes, Sir Richard and his cronies may be trying to finish us off!” – enthuses Sir Martin. “We have no time to lose! We must search for aliens both night and day, so we may foil their invasion of Earth, or London, while avoiding our assailants at the same time!”
Before the friends vacate their hotel, they locate the real hotelier, tied up in the hotel’s cellar, and release him from his bondage.
“W-h-u-u-u-u-r-r-r-r-r-g-h! A kangaroo’s handkerchief!” – the hotelier mutters, and then – “I .... feel .... Moby .... Dick!” – a moment before creating a pool of bright yellow vomit.
“OooH! He has been drugged with butter! Sir Richard and his entourage are ruthless. We must take great care!” – Sir Martin cautions, as the two friends begin to climb the cellar steps.
Once they have collected their cases, they head into London’s leafy suburbia to find another hotel, while planning their day ahead of searching for aliens.
Chapter Eight of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Searching for aliens in your bottom, you say?” – PC Wattapipe asks a rather agitated young man.
“Yeah! He shouted ‘can show’ or something, when he jabbed my bumhole, and then, when I got angry, he said he was looking for his toothbrush. I said I didn’t believe him, so he changed his story and said he was searching for aliens.”
“The gentleman thought his toothbrush was in your bottom?”
“Of course not! What would a stranger’s toothbrush be doing in my bottom?”
“I don’t know” – PC Wattapipe ponders – “searching in vain for teeth? Thinking it came in through the wrong door? Maybe it thought oh! That wasn’t a beard after all, it was just a hairy old ....”
“Ha ha! Oh yes. Very funny! You’re supposed to protect the public, not make fun of them! Are you going to take this seriously or not?”
“Well. It’s a bit of a tricky one, you see. It’s hardly sexual assault if the assailant was looking for their toothbrush, now, is it? Perhaps it was a genuine misunderstanding.”
“A genuine misunderstanding? Someone diving at your feet, driving their fingers into your bumhole and saying they’re looking for their toothbrush or cheking to see whether an alien is in there or not?”
“Sounds like a genuine misunderstanding to me.”
“You’re bloody useless, you are.”
“Hoy! Less of your lip!”
“I’ll give you some lip alright .... you .... you .... filthy fuzzy copper pig!”
“Right! I’m taking that as a threat, now if you .... ah! .... ow! .... right! .... OOF!”
After a brief, and not too unpleasant struggle, PC Wattapipe handcuffs the complainant and drives him to the nearest police station, where he is detained over the weekend. In court, on Monday, he is charged for resisting arrest and wasting police time, and given a fine.
The press find the case worthy of coverage, since Kancho related assaults are on the increase, and television networks begin to broadcast information regarding the phenomenon on the daily news. Meanwhile, Sir Martin and Martin weave their way through London’s streets, jabbing their fingers into the holes of everyone they meet.
Chapter Nine of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Haven’t you got a sense of humour?” – Martin shouts over his shoulder, as he scampers away from yet another disgruntled citizen with a smarting hole.
“Don’t ever holiday in Japan; they will think you very boring!” – Martin adds, as he darts around a corner, where he collides with Sir Martin, who has a rather nasty looking black eye.
“Oh no! You have been assaulted!” – Martin shrieks.
“Not exactly” – Sir Martin replies – “I ran into a lamppost while running away.”
“Oh! This is hopeless and disheartening!” – Martin wails, pitifully – “we are serving humankind but our efforts are not appreciated, as usual! And I have staved my finger on an unusually fit hole. Can’t we use a carrot or something?”
“No, we must rely on our senses. Fingertips are highly sensitive. They will sense if something stirs within a prodded hole, and if this should occur, and an alien does not appear, we should prod the hole once again, with greater vigour, to ensure we do not overlook an alien in our haste.”
Once the friends have rested a moment longer, they resume their mission of trying to save Earth, or perhaps only London, from an alien invasion. And at the end of an exhausting day, they sit upon a double bed, in a double room, in their new hotel, and recount the day’s events.
“Well” – Martin begins – “I suppose my worst moment was when I probed someone who seemed to be wearing a suit, when he was, in fact, quite naked. He was a street artist wearing nothing but body paint. My finger vanished right up his ....”
“Well” – Sir Martin interrupts.
“And when I pulled it out it was covered in ....”
“My worst moment was when I jabbed a body builder’s hole. He clenched his buttocks with such force that my hand became trapped in his crevice. I could hear my knuckles popping. He wouldn’t let me go. He said he didn’t think Kancho at all funny, and found it highly unlikely that my pipe and tobacco pouch were in his bottom. After he had told me he didn’t believe in life on other planets, he twisted my nipple really hard. It’s still really sore. Look.”
Sir Martin undoes a button on his shirt and creates a window, through which Martin observes Sir Martin’s swollen, bruised teat.”
“Goodness!” – Martin exclaims. “That looks quite serious. You should put something cold on it. We have no ice, but I put a bottle of vodka in the freezer of the mini-bar in the morning, so we may enjoy schnapps this evening. That will do.”
While Sir Martin removes his shirt, Martin constructs a rudimentary brassiere from two triangular-shaped plastic sandwich containers and their least-favourite ties. He straps the brassiere onto Sir Martin, and places the frozen bottle of vodka into the cup corresponding with the injured teat.
“Ah” – Sir Martin sighs, as his hot nipple warms the cold bottle and the cold bottle cools his hot nipple, in an example of perfect mutualism. “Very soothing. Thank you, my dear friend.”
“Not at all!” – Martin replies. “The very least I could do.”
They regard each other silently for some time, in a manner only true friends may, as if they are reading each other’s minds, before each draw breath to speak. They hold their breath, as though each waits for the other to speak first, before bursting into laughter.
“Ha ha!” – Sir Martin laughs, as he reaches into his bra for the bottle of vodka. “How can we possibly probe everyone in London? There are millions of people! It is an impossible task!”
“Ho ho!” – Martin chortles, as he takes two glasses from the dresser. “Yes. There are millions of ass holes in London alone, and billions on the whole planet! Imagine them all – increasingly smaller the further away they are from us, with the biggest ass holes in the whole world right here, in this room!”
“I say. Steady on, old chum. That may be taken two ways; one of which I do not like in the least.”
“Can it?” – Martin asks, with all innocence.
“Well, Yes. The fact is; although most have one, there are not that many assholes in the world. Yet, perhaps, if one were to observe this world from a distance, as an alien might, one may assume everyone is an asshole, when observing the way humankind treat the planet, one another, and all the planet’s life.” – Sir Martin reasons.
“Politicians are the biggest assholes in the world” – he continues – “because they make humankind look like a colossal bunch of assholes. However; it may seem that we are the biggest assholes of all, since we think we will be able to save the world without any assistance. Saving this world from destruction, whether through an alien invasion or a scenario of humankind’s invention, such as climate change or a nuclear holocaust, is not a task for two people or even a minority. Humankind should unite in all matters of grave importance, such as the dilemma we are faced with at present.”
“Do you mean we should concentrate on foiling the foiling of the revolution, so the majority may unite in an effort to foil the alien invasion?” – Martin asks, earnestly.
“Yes. That seems the most sensible option at present.” – Sir Martin replies, with a note of finality. “Anyway, we have not considered what we should do if we were to locate an alien. More than likely, we would be dissolved in an instant by space poo, so all our effort would have been in vain. This is why collective intelligence is of such vital importance – so any plan is thoroughly scrutinised before it is implemented as a plan of action.”
Sir Martin and Martin sit upon the double bed, drinking strawberry schnapps, solemnly discussing the alien invasion, the unfoiling of the revolution and the plight of humankind. They consider the possibility the aliens do not know they are aliens; that anyone may have an inner, alien bottom without being aware of it – just as the host of the alien, in the film Alien, was unaware of the being within, which was demonstrated memorably when it burst from his stomach at breakfast.
In the morning’s wee hours, when the bottle of vodka is finished, they become convinced this is so, and begin to chase each other around their hotel room, guffawing loudly and shouting Kan-CHO! while trying to poke one another’s bottoms, until they collapse into a drunken heap and fall soundly asleep.
Sir Martin and Martin wake and rise from their bed. They stretch, yawn, and flop back onto the bed, where they roll from side to side and groan morosely for the rest of the day, as though sinners tortured in hell – pausing only to block the hotel’s lavatorial network with colossal hangover shits.
“Stop flushing it. You are making it worse. The bedroom is flooding” – Sir Martin gags, as an impressive faece sails by the bed, crowned with sails of toilet paper, as majestic as any galleon.
“I’ll do the next one in the sink” – Martin announces – “and then we should leave.”
“Yes. We should take a taxi to the train station and board a train to Oxfordshire, to The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen, and foil the foiling of the revolution!”
Chapter Ten of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
It is dark by the time a taxi drops Sir Martin and Martin off on the outskirts of the club’s grounds, and it is fractionally darker as they approach the club’s ominous silhouette, looming towards a blustery night sky. It is even darker when they peer through a window and into a room glowing with the flickering light of a candle, and it is as dark as the interior of a mole’s bum pipe when they think they may have been seen by the room’s sole occupant and scamper into some bushes.
“Oh no! Sir Richard is at home. Do you think he saw us?” – Martin whispers.
“He looked at us, but I don’t think he saw us. I think he only saw a reflection of himself in the window.”
“Why was he putting potatoes in his underpants?”
“Sir Richard has fallen on hard times again” – Sir Martin supposes. “There’s no electricity, so he is parboiling the potatoes in his underpants before cooking them over a candle. He doesn’t parboil them when alone, which means the others are here.”
Sir Martin and Martin hasten from their cover, and wade through just-above-the-knee height grasses until they arrive at a bathroom window they know will be open. They climb through it, and feel their way through the darkness of the club until they reach a wide staircase, which they ascend, before inching their way along a long corridor until they arrive at the door of their old room.
Once in the room, they light an oil lamp, which illuminates the method Sir Richard and his cronies have employed to foil the revolution. The six pc stacks, which Sir Martin and Martin had linked together to form Britain’s CWO, have been dragged from under the bed and the connecting wires severed.
“Oh, what bother!” – Martin groans – “it will take forever to rewire them.”
“Well, we have all the time in the world” – Sir Martin sighs.
“There’s no electricity.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
“There’s the generator in the basement” – Martin suggests.
“There is. Although, when considering Sir Richard does not even have a bulb, it may be the clone is unwilling to share his power with others” – Sir Martin begins – “and I wouldn’t like to meet Sir Richard’s clone again. He may not be too happy we took his generator without asking, and his lights and sound gear, and anyway; he’s not into revolutions so he may tell Sir Richard we are here. Our only option may be to pay for the electricity to be reconnected, and hope Sir Richard’s joy will override his suspicions.”
“Quite” – Martin agrees. “Sir Richard and his entourage will be expecting us to turn up at some point, especially when the press begins to report an end to London’s Kancho epidemic. Sir Richard knows we are responsible because we jabbed his bum. Until then, they will think we are in London, and they may not suspect us at all if we fill the larder with lashings of good food and wine, since they would presume we wouldn’t be so foolish as to announce our arrival by repeating what we did the last time we visited the club – especially when they take into account that we know they are chasing us.”
“What a splendid idea!” Sir Martin exclaims. “Sir Richard and his guests will surely assume the deed that of an anonymous well-wisher, who supports The Imperialist Club’s Revolution!”
“Time is of the essence!” – states Martin. “Let us make arrangements at once, so Sir Richard and his cronies will wake to think Christmas has arrived early!”
Chapter Eleven of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
Sir Martin and Martin are on their hands and knees in the club’s attic, peering through a hole into the dining room below, where Sir Richard and his guests are enjoying a surprise breakfast.
“Ah! What a delight it is to enjoy plenty after a time of dearth” –Lord Grup-phart declares. “I imagine it a sensation the poor feel every payday, so the lives of the majority cannot be so bad after all!”
“How incredible!” – another exclaims – “just as our quest to evoke revolution swallowed our last penny, we are rescued by the kindness of whom I suppose an anonymous well-wisher, who supports The Imperialist Club’s Revolution!”
“VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION!” – Sir Richard and his guests roar, with cups of tea and plates of cake held ironically aloft.
Sir Richard’s spoon clanks against his porridge bowl, and he rises to his feet upon his chair. The room falls silent, as the gathering of guests await a speech with bated breath.
“W-O-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-o-o-OW!” – Sir Richard begins, as his arms rise slowly ceiling-wards, and his focus adjusts to some indiscernible, yet great distance.
“P-R-O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w-ow-OW!” – he continues, while beads of sweat form upon his wide brow and his steaming nipple tips emerge from his bowl, dripping drops of piping hot gröt.
Sir Richard stands for a moment – wracked with pain searing from his boiled nipple-tips – before toppling forward onto the table, arching into a U shape, grasping his bottom and shouting – “YAH-HOO!”
The seat of his brand spanking new lederhosen becomes strangely animated, as though one were inside a drum, watching a rather floppy drumskin as a drummer beats some frantic rythym upon it, while pausing intermittently to poke the skin with their drumsticks, as hard as they might, before resuming the frantic drumming.
Lord Grup-phart faints, while another shouts – “it seems as though something, or perhaps someone, is trying to get out of Sir Richard’s bottom.”
At that very moment there is a loud ripping sound, followed by an eerie silence. The guests draw tentatively closer to Sir Richard, who is barely conscious, until they are gathered around him, peering into a smoking hole in the seat of his lederhosen.
A bottom, the size of a grapefuit, springs suddenly from the hole. Sir Martin and Martin grimace and cover their faces with trembling hands, as they await annihilation by a cloud of toxic space shit.
All of a sudden, two almond-shaped eyes appear on the bottom, which begins to rise from the smoking hole in the seat of Sir Richard’s lederhosen, revealing a slender body, upon which the arse-like-head sits. When the being has reached its full height of around one meter, it steps out of the hole and begins to fussily dust itself down, with arms as long and thin as lengths of string.
The guests frown uncertainly into the alien’s almond-shaped eyes, and wonder whether what seems to be an anus upon the alien’s bum-shaped face may, in fact, be a mouth. The guests lean closer, when the mouth begins to quiver and tremble, as though trying to form the first words of greeting to the peoples of Earth.
“H-e-e-e-e-l-l-o .... h-e-e-e-e-l-l-o .... h-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-o!” – an aged Lord croons.
“My, you are a cute little chap, aren’t you? You remind me of a .... uh .... well .... nevermind. Welcome to planet ....”
Sir Richard’s guests are knocked clean off their feet by an almighty, thunderous guff of fetid cosmic-flatulence.
“Ugh!” – Sir Martin exclaims, as he plugs the hole they have been looking through with a finger and pinches his nose.
Chapter Twelve of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
After some time, Sir Martin gathers the courage to remove his finger from the hole and peer into the room. He retches, puts his finger back in and says – “Sir Richard and his guests are unconscious, and the alien has gone. Now, although the electricity has been restored, we are forced, it seems, to deal with the alien invasion first.”
“So it seems, and our understanding of the situation has changed, since the alien is a separate being” – Sir Martin clarifies, as he thoughtfully rubs his chin betwixt thumb and forefinger.
“Yes. An independent inner bottom” – Martin observes.
“Why did the alien come out of Sir Richard’s bottom?” – Sir Martin wonders. “Will aliens come out of everyone’s bottom? Are we all unwitting hosts to an alien invasion, like in that film .... um ....”
“Alien?” – Martin suggests.
“Yes, the alien in that film .... um ....”
“Yes, the alien in that film …. um .... what was it called? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. A myriad of possibilities has arisen. For instance; we jabbed Sir Richard in the hole when he was the hotelier. Did we somehow impregnate Sir Richard with alien seed, together with all those whose bottoms we have jabbed? Have we been tricked, by intelligence far greater than our own, into fathering an alien race on Earth?”
Martin glares suspiciously at a fingertip.
“Shh!” – Sir Martin whispers. “I hear someone. Quick! Let’s hide!”
Sir Martin and Martin dive headlong into a mound of sackcloth, bury themselves within it, and create a gap so they may see who is climbing the stairs. A moment later a small, sorrowful looking bottom appears, followed by a slouched, slender body wearing nothing but a pair of crisply pressed white y-fronts, from which short legs protrude, with elongated feet, not unlike a rabbit’s.
Long arms trail behind the alien as it traipses sadly through the attic space, until they engage in the task of gathering a scattering of old clothing into a pile. The alien lays down upon it, closes its almond-shaped eyes, and begins to emit a deep, bassonic colonic rumble, followed by a silence of roughly the same duration of time.
“Is it farting?” – Martin asks.
“I think not; there is no smell” – Sir Martin assumes.
“Perhaps it is sending a message home?” – Martin considers.
“No. I think it is snoring” – Sir Martin concludes. “What should we do? Should we kill it?”
“n-o-o-o-o-o!” – Martin hisses. “We must formulate a planof action. Let us creep downstairs into the club.”
Sir Martin and Martin tiptoe past the sleeping alien and thunder noisily down the stairs, before sprinting along a corridor towards the club’s kitchen. Once there, they sit upon a work surface, swinging their legs to and fro, with their heads hung in solemn contemplation.
“The alien seems rather sad” – Martin says, sadly. “Perhaps we should try to cheer it up. Maybe it is hungry? I wonder what aliens eat?”
“But butts do not eat” – Sir Martin reasons.
“The bottom has eyes, so its face and bottom may be one, in a highly advanced state of evolution” – Martin counters.
“Possibly. But the alien farted in the faces of Sir Richard’s guests, so the mouth may only be an anus.” – Sir Martin rectalfies.
“You mean; eyes may be the bottom’s only facial features?” – Martin wonders.
“Yes. But then; if its face is nothing but a butt with eyes, why would it be wearing underpants?” – Sir Martin questions.
“Perhaps it has two bottoms?” – Martin suggests.
“Or maybe the rest of its face is in its underwear?” – Sir Martin considers – “or maybe it has two sets of facial features; one upon its bottom face and another in its underwear?”
“Yes. Maybe the underpants act as a kind of mask; a sort of balaclava?” – Martin deliberates.
“Possibly. If it is so, it may be the real reason Sir Richard puts potatoes in his underpants. Parboiling may be an excuse to hide a terrible truth; he may be eating them.”
“Do you think Sir Richard is an alien, rather than merely a host for alien seed? His face does not seem as though a bottom.”
“Yes .... well .... hmmmmm.”
“There may be only one way to find answers to our questions” – Sir Martin concludes. “Let us take some provisions and sit with the alien until it wakes, with the hope of communicating, and hopefully; befriending it. If we gain its trust, we may be able to convince it to refrain from dissolving humankind with toxic alien käk; if that is the alien’s intent.”
Chapter Thirteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
Sir Martin and Martin climb the stairs to the attic, with the kind of trepidation one might experience when one is about to ignite a sleeping gorilla’s bum hairs with a lighter, and position themselves some distance away from the snoring alien.
They push a selection of comestibles towards it, with the tip of a broom handle, until a smorgasbord of goodwill has formed, and shuffle backwards, on their hands and knees, into the pile of sackcloth, from where they await the alien’s awakening.
“It has been sleeping a long time” – Sir Martin calculates, during the afternoon of the following day.
“Yes. I expect it has been a tiring journey, from wherever it is from. Perhaps we should make a little noise to encourage it to wake” – Martin suggests, as he begins to produce a cacophony of squeaky farting noises by rapidly pumping his clasped hands together.
The alien wakes, sits upright, breathes into its cupped hands, from the bumhole on its face, places both hands inside its underpants, frowns, shrugs, and regards the gifts laid in a neat semicircle around its bed. It picks up a raw potato and puts it in its underpants.
“Oi-ee! .... oh-hoh-hoh-hoh!” – Sir Martin whispers hoarsely. “It seems we have proof that Sir Richard is an alien, or involved in the alien invasion in some way!”
The alien removes the potato and throws it over its shoulder, in a disgusted manner, before picking up a sandwich and putting it in its underwear. The alien tilts its bum-shaped head to one side, as though in contemplation, before removing the sandwich and raising it towards the anus on its bum-face, which opens to reveal two rows of pearly-white teeth, not unlike a human’s.
“No! Its bumhole is a mouth too, and I think its nose is in its underwear!” – Martin hisses as the alien chomps on the sandwich.
“How unfortunate!” – Sir Martin whispers – “but I think you are right. I hope you washed your hands before you made the sandwich? Aliens may be sensitive to Earth bacteria”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely” – Martin whispers reassuringly. “I’ve been digging my bottom overly, of late, and I never do that with dirty hands.”
The alien spits a mouthful of sandwich onto the attic floor, before forming a tube with one hand and retching into it.
“What is in the sandwich?” – Sir Martin asks.
“Cheddar cheese and raw potato” – Martin replies. “I added raw potato to everything we prepared.”
Sir Martin and Martin observe the alien as it passes from one culinary oddity to the next; placing each in its underwear before tossing it away in disgust.
“Well. Let’s hope it likes raw lemon” – Sir Martin hopes, as the alien reaches the last item on the menu.
Once the alien has thrown the lemon sorrowfully over its shoulder, it stands dejectedly, for a moment, before reaching into its y-fronts and pulling out a small cube, upon which sits the sort of mouthpiece one sees on inflatable beach balls and the like. The alien takes some deep breaths and blows each into the mouthpiece, until the cube has inflated to form what appears to be a rather sporty looking moped. It sits astride the contraption, flicks a kickstart from its side and pushes down upon it with a foot. There is a blinding flash of light. Once Sir Martin and Martin’s rods and cones have recovered, they see the alien has gone.
A mere nano moment later, there is another blinding flash of light. It takes some time for Sir Martin and Martin’s eyes to readjust, and once they have, they see the alien nodding off amidst a great mound of what seems to be strangely designed take-away wrappers, with the alien’s mysterious space craft nowhere to be seen. After a minute or so, the alien is snoring soundly once again. Sir Martin and Martin sigh with resignation and creep downstairs, to see if Sir Richard and his guests have roused from the alien’s pump-induced stupor.
Chapter Fourteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Have you farted?” – Sir Martin asks Martin, as they approach the dining room’s door.
“No. I always smell like this” – Martin replies.
“Then the aroma must emanate from within the room. The space fart has yet to disperse, so it may not be safe to open the door. Let us peer through the keyhole to see what has become of Sir Richard and his guests” – Sir Martin suggests, as he crouches to look through the lock.
“Yes, it seems the alien guff has placed them in some kind of coma” – Sir Martin announces, while dabbing at a watering eye with a handkerchief. “If one alien’s pump is so powerful, I shudder to think what damage many aliens might do. And I dare not contemplate the consequences if they were to start firing solids.”
“What should we do, now our plan to befriend the alien has failed?” – Martin wonders, as they make their way through the club to their bedchamber, where they sit side by side on a bed, lost in a contemplative silence.
“I do not know what we should do, and I have no idea how much time we have left to do it in” – Sir Martin announces, eventually. “We do not know what the alien is planning to do, or when they are planning to do it. Neither do we know how long Sir Richard and his guests will remain in their guff-induced coma, nor how long it will be before the press report an end to London’s Kancho epidemic.”
“Yes” – Martin replies, simply, as his jaw sags in response to seeing the alien standing in the doorway of their room, with one hand raised in a gesture of universal acknowledgement. The alien’s almond-shaped eyes arch lovingly, and its bum hole mouth adopts the shape of a lower case u.
“Greetings, Earthlings!” – the alien announces cheerfully, and somewhat predictably.
Sir Martin and Martin shriek with terror, defecate loudly, and flop onto the bed in a faint.
When they recover, the alien is snoring peacefully, yet very strangely, on the other bed. Sir Martin and Martin turn to look at one another; their eyes wide with horror.
“We live!” – Sir Martin whispers.
“Yes, but perhaps not for long” – Martin whimpers – “what shall we do? I’m really scared. I pooped when I saw it standing there.”
“Yes” – Sir Martin hisses. “You may have observed the sound of it occurring seemed as though stereo. But perhaps it is a blessing.”
“I would be more than amazed to find my opinion of the event has changed” – Martin replies, almost inaudibly, as he adjusts his position, nuancically, in an effort to determine the scale of pantfill.
“Nature may have provided us with a weapon, and a manner of determining the alien’s intent! If my understanding of quantum physics is as sound as I consider it to be; if alien poo is lethal to humankind, the opposite will be true” – Sir Martin reasons, behind a cupped hand.
“You mean we would be able to dissolve the alien with our poop?”
“Yes; but only if the alien’s poop is dangerous to us. Let us sit up, as quietly as we are able, and begin to hurl poop at the alien on the count of three” – Sir Martin mumbles, as he rises to a sitting position.
“What?” – Martin whispers urgently, as he tugs a sleeve of Sir Martin’s suit – “I didn’t catch that. You were mumbling.”
Sir Martin reclines and whispers – “let us sit up, as quietly as we are able, and begin to hurl poop at the alien on the count of three.”
“Oh. I did catch it after all. Must we?” – Martin questions, his whisper trembling as though a snake singing while cycling down a cobbled street.
“Yes. We must. It may be our only hope” – Sir Martin replies, with a note of duty strong within his voice, as he rises to a sitting position while dragging Martin with him. Once they have removed their soiled pantalones, they spread their legs.
“Ready .... one .... two .... ”
Chapter Fifteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
He sails upon the indigo seas of Sansine. Rays of sunlight weave amongst a myriad of rainbows overhead; a shifting pattern of indescribable colours upon a backdrop of an infinity one may see, and understand, for it draws one into it – a sky one should not look at too long, for to do so may drive one insane.
He passes towering steel columns, rising rusty from the sea to sparkle stainless in this beautiful madness, pumping plumes of fluffy white clouds, with the vague hope a cloud cover will form to shroud heaven’s torment.
A gentle rain begins to fall. His eyes blink involuntarily whenever a raindrop lands upon his face. The rain intensifies. An unusually large raindrop splats in his right eye .... and then another ... and .... he .... wha .... hraph! .... fargook!
The alien’s eyes spring open and close immediately thereafter, when a hunk of jobby spladges upon its bum face.
“We’re running out of ammo!” – Sir Martin shrieks.
“There is a fresh supply on the way!” – screeches Martin, who began to panic when the alien rose to a seated position.
Once the ammunition is exhausted, the alien is almost unrecognisable as such. Only a mound of poo, with the questioning, almond-shaped eyes of an alien. A small, pink tongue pops out of the mound and utters a series of sorrowful cougharts.
“The alien lives!” – Sir Martin hisses, directly into one of Martin’s ears.
“Ooh .... eh-heh-heh .... ooh! .... that felt funny!” – Martin replies, as he begins to click his tongue upon the roof of his mouth and twist an index finger back and forth within the ear, in an effort to dispel a strange, itchy itch within.
“Welcome to planet Earth!” – Martin says, as he performs the action.
“I thank you kindly for the welcome, Earthlings” – the alien says, in a voice with a relaxed, yet passionate timbre. “Although I come in peace, I am unable to mirror your greeting since my ears are in my underpants, so returning the salute may seem somewhat odd.”
“It is of no importance” – Sir Martin smiles. “What is important is that you come in peace, and your presence is welcomed with the same quality, despite how it may seem. Please allow me to show you the bathroom, where you may bathe and change.”
“Let us venture into the garden” – Sir Martin suggests, when they return to the bedchamber after bathing and are hit by a smell of shit.
“Is this quite normal?” – the alien asks, while frowning at Sir Martin and Martin’s attire of polished brown brogues, black, knee-height socks upheld by sock garters, and white, crisply pressed y-fronts.
“I don’t know; is it?” – Sir Martin replies, as he frowns uncertainly at the alien’s white, crisply pressed y’s. “We chose our wardrobe to express respect and goodwill.”
“Oh. There was really no need. When I left my planet, I was wearing a finely tailored suit, which would have coordinated perfectly with yours, and I had packed a spare too. Unfortunately, both transformed to underpants during teleportation. Equally; my humanoid appearance has altered dramatically, as you can see. Actually, I am a rather handsome fellow. The art of teleportation has been mastered, to some degree, but we have no control over manifestation at our destination, so it always comes as a surprise. This manifestation is not so bad. I have arrived as worse. Once, when travelling to participate in a swimming tournament, in the Inter-Galactic Olympics, as a giant arse, and my swimming trunks; a pink thong.”
“How awful! Were you able to take part?” – Martin asks, as the trio wade through the tall, lush grass towards the riverbank.
“No. I just sat around, watching the games” - the alien replies, with a note of disappointment.
“Neither are we able to choose the precise location of our arrival” – the alien continues – “it is dictated to us. It is the consequence of our calculations, rather than a desired result. We were able to determine I would arrive in The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen, where I wished to be, but in Sir Richard’s colon, where I did not.”
“Well. That would explain why you popped out of Sir Richard’s bottom” – Sir Martin considers – “but why did you wish to arrive at The Imperialist Club, of all places on Earth?”
“I came here to assist with the revolution, which I hope will be peaceful, with not a drop of blood spilled!” – the alien replies, earnestly.
“Oh! You are here to help! What fantastic news! We had some idea you would be coming because I received an e-mail from Martin Sharratt, saying he had received a message of some kind, but he assumed there would be many aliens who would destroy the Earth! How could he have got the facts so wrong?” – Sir Martin wonders.
“Martin Sharratt is only human” – the alien supposes. “The films humankind create of contact with alien life mostly portray hostile encounters, so Martin Sharratt may have assumed a real life encounter no different, as a result of conditioning.”
“But how did he know as much as he did? Have you been communicating with him?” – Martin asks.
“No. I really don’t know how he knew I was coming. Perhaps he is sensitive to the thoughts of others, especially if they are powerful. The whole universe knew I would be travelling to Earth to help with the revolution, so it would have created a powerful thought force, which Martin Sharratt may have received as a message, of some sort, albeit somewhat scrambled during transmission and interception.”
“I see” – Martin says, while rubbing his chin and glaring intently ahead, as if trying to focus on something very small or far away.
“I agree wholeheartedly that the revolution should be peaceful” – Sir Martin elaborates – “and you said you come in peace; but what about the noxious bottom belch that rendered Sir Richard and his guests unconscious? Was that not violence?”
“The guff was unavoidable, I’m afraid; an unfortunate consequence of space travel. One’s stomach is in a terrible mess after one has travelled millions of light years, and the effects were worsened because my anus and mouth became one during teleportation. No permanent damage has been done. Sir Richard and his guests will recover.”
The alien stoops to bend a flowerhead over and into his underpants, before releasing it to spring upright and skipping on ahead – delighting in sensations the peoples of other planets must strive to generate, since they do not occur naturally. A passing cool as a cloud drifts over the sun, shining kindly in a peaceful sky, and the welcome kiss of a gentle breeze when the clouds are gone too long.
The alien is so overcome by the Earth’s beauty that he becomes lost among long grasses, towering over his head. He responds to a growing sense of distress by panicking, and taking a deep breath of England’s delicate, fragrant air. The alien converts England’s delicate, fragrant air into a deafening fart blast; an alarm call which resounds around the surrounding hills and vales.
“Yoo-hoo! Over here!” – Sir Martin and Martin shout, as they wave their arms and jump up and down.
The alien jumps up and down and waves and shouts – “I see you!” – before making his way towards them, while trying to ignore one splendour after another; leaving each to be examined when there is more time.
Once the trio are reunited, they stroll to the riverbank, where they rest themselves at the roots of the weeping willow. Sir Martin and Martin recount their adventures of jabbing the bum holes of the people of London and listen to the alien’s teleportation tales, and of a universal wish for a revolution on Earth, leading to a peaceful, harmonious paradise, which would allow the rest of the universe to stop worrying about the fate of this beautiful little blue-green planet and all its precious life.
Chapter Sixteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
Sir Martin, Martin and the alien wander back to the club and pause at the dining room’s door, to ensure Sir Richard and his guests are still soundly asleep, before ascending the staircase to their bedchamber. The bedchamber is covered in shit, so they carry the pc stacks into another room, where they sit upon beds, with the stacks standing on the floor between them.
“The first thing we need to do” – the alien begins, as he shuffles conspiringly towards Sir Martin and Martin until he drops off the bed – “is create the global version of the CWO with these pc’s, and a CWO site within each of the world’s one hundred and ninety five countries.”
“With six pc stacks? – Sir Martin questions – “there was barely enough RAM to create Britain’s.”
“Oh. There will be more than enough ” – the alien says, as he stretches the elastic waistband of his underpants over the crown of his head – “with a little modification” – he adds, while peering through the y.
The alien’s legs and body withdraw into the underpants, which metamorphose to become perfectly spherical and greatly enlarged.
“Goodness! Let us hope they are clean!” – Martin exclaims, as the y yawns open and the alien’s arms reach from within to drag the pc stacks inside. Many hours pass, with Sir Martin and Martin’s attention transfixed upon the underpants, which seem alive with innovation. A silhouette of the alien hurries back and forth against a backdrop of constantly fluctuating colours and intensity of light.
“It seems the alien’s underpants have transformed into a workshop of some sort” – Martin remarks, as the silhouette shrieks a shriek and sucks a thumb.
“Yes. So it seems” – agrees Sir Martin, at the precise moment a dull thump shakes the club, as though a bomb has landed some distance away, and the underpants billow to fill the room. A wisp of smoke drifts from the y, as the underpants deflate, and a fit of coughing erupts from within.
Sir Martin and Martin rise from the bed, onto which they had been pressed by the expanding alien undergarment, before laying back upon it and falling asleep.
A deep humming sound, not unlike an elderly monk having a shit, rouses the revolutionaries from troubled dreams, and a beam of greerie grorange light, shining from the yawning y of the alien’s spherical y’s, suggest they have yet to wake. They are convinced they have already when six pc stacks slide from the gaping y and onto the floor beside them, and the alien emits a – “YOW!” – of injured surprise, when the underpants snap back to their original size.
The alien’s almond eyes close to form the shape of lower-case n’s, and his mouth, v, for he is extremely pleased with his handywork.
“There!” – the alien announces proudly – “A global democracy!”
“Wow! Those are some underpants!” – Martin says, admiringly – “may we take a peek inside?”
“Um .... w-e-l-l .... eh-heh-heh-heh! .... heh-heh-heh!” – the alien stutters, as a deep red flushes through his avocado green complexion, colouring him kä-kää khaki – “I suppose we are all men, so yes, take a peek if you wish.”
The alien stretches the waistband of his underpants outward as Sir Martin and Martin crane their heads over them.
“A rather elaborate workshop fused with a pair of underpants during teleportation” – the alien explains, as Sir Martin and Martin marvel at what appears to be another dimension of time and space within the alien’s y’s – “you can climb in and take a look around, if you like.”
Sir Martin and Martin clamber inside the alien’s pants, and begin to walk around what has become a giant, cylindrical workshop, with all manner of hitherto unseen tools adorning the walls and benches.
“What is this strange green tube protruding from the wall behind the y - it seems almost organic” – Martin asks, as he grasps the tip and stretches the tube until it is quite taut.
“LET IT GO AT ONCE!” – the alien commands, before screeching – “YOI-HOINKS!” – when Martin obliges, and the tube twangs from his grip and thrashes hard up against the wall.
“Now may be a good time to climb out” – the alien squeaks. “On the way, could you grab three of those small cubes from the box resting on the bench over there .... yes .... those .... beneath my cubicle sack .... with the sort of mouthpiece one sees on inflatable beach balls and the like.”
Chapter Seventeen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Yes, the space-hopper is rather like an Earth moped. There are six gears – one down and five up – with the sixth being interstellar-overdrive” – the alien gasps, between taking breaths and blowing into a cube’s mouthpiece – “you’ll soon get the hang of it.”
The trio blow until each sits astride inflatable, single-use space-hoppers, with one foot resting on the kickstarts.
“Don’t forget; you will be cocooned inside an atmospherically controlled environment, within which one may communicate with another as one normally does. So, are you ready?” – the alien asks.
“Yes, we’re ready!” – Sir Martin and Martin reply.
“LET’S GO!” – the alien shouts, enthusiastically, as the three kick kick-starts and open throttles wide.
A blinding flash of light leaves a dull, pulsating glow in its stead, and Sir Martin and Martin kangarooing haphazardly over Oxrordshire’s cloud cover with their eyes tightly closed. Shortly thereafter there is another blinding flash of light, when the alien returns after spending a week surfing the liberté ring of Neptune.
“I should have said; it is almost exactly like an Earth moped, so be gentle with the clutch and throttle, otherwise it will stall” – the alien advises. “Less throttle .... y-e-e-s .... and release the clutch slowly .... that’s right .... now! .... let’s get high!”
The trio ascend from the familiar troposphere to a cloudless stratosphere, and through the mysterious mesosphere to thermosphere, where they ride the tides of space, amazed by the twisting shapes and colours of the aurora borealis and Australis, before accelerating towards the exosphere, within which they idle, marvelling at the majestic Earth beneath, through the ultra violet haze of the geocorona, until they are sucked into the slipstream of a meteoroid shower travelling at one hundred thousand miles an hour.
“OH! ... SORRY! .... I SHOULD HAVE WARNED YOU ABOUT THIS! THE SECRET IS TO STAY UPRIGHT!” – the alien shrieks, as he vanishes into a swirling funnel of churning sparks, ice crystals and space debris.
“W-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-H-H-H-H!” – Sir Martin and Martin reply from their upturned positions.
They manage to struggle upright and stand upon the foot pegs of the space hoppers, to ride upon the meteoroid’s thundering wake, as though teenagers racing mopeds through scrubland surrounding their housing estate.
The meteoroid shower cuts through the thermosphere and mesosphere, and touches the Earth’s stratosphere, when the slipstream ignites, and Sir Martin and Martin speed towards the Earth, pulling wheelies on the tails of shooting stars.
Once the shower’s tail is shed, they swoop back up towards the stars, to touch the ceiling of the thermosphere, before racing to the skin of the stratosphere, upon which they bounce until the three space travellers are reunited, when they slow to freewheel above the Earth below.
Sir Martin and Martin have never seen anything nearly so big in their whole lives, or as beautiful. An incredible magical orb, rolling majestically in time and space, cooled by seas and oceans and tattooed with a design of clouds. Stars wink as though the lights of curious neighbours, in a silence that smells of pure awe.
“Whumph .... farble .... twirpel .... narps” – Martin remarks, after some time.
“Bimf! Snordli-pop .... catarango hoop” – Sir Martin agrees.
“Oh no. They are losing it” – the alien mutters, as he presses two red buttons on the dashboard of his hopper, which correspond to a mechanism designed to stir space travellers from a hypnotic state.
Sharp spikes shoot from the saddles of Sir Martin and Martin’s space hoppers and into their unsuspecting bottoms, before withdrawing without trace – encouraging them to jump and shriek and vigourously rub their behinds, as though in a desperate attempt to summon genies from them.
“The Earth is known throughout the universe for its beauty” – the alien says, as he tilts his head to watch a stray cloud passing a clandestine infinity.
“The Earth is of great importance to the universe. It is a symbol of hope and fuels our dreams. The climates are all hostile, to a greater or lesser degree, on the constellation of inhabited planets throughout the universe known to us; perhaps as the Earth was millions of years ago. An incalculable number of machines have been built upon countless planets, with the vague hope of being able to generate an atmosphere comparable to Earth’s, for the peoples of all worlds wish their planet were like your world.
The skies of my planet are so mind-boggling that we have built machines to pump clouds into the sky, both night and day, with the hope they will create an obscuring blanket of cloud. Although we may never have skies like the Earth’s, perpetually cloudy weather is preferable to a sky that will drive you mad if you look at it too long.”
“I suppose so” – Martin agrees, uncertainly. “I had no idea the Earth was so blessed.”
“How long have the peoples of the universe been observing Earth? – Sir Martin asks. “And what does everyone think of humankind?”
“Yes! and have aliens visited the Earth before?” – Martin wonders.
“Races, many millions of years old, upon innumerable planets throughout the universe, have observed the evolution of Homo sapiens during the past two hundred thousand years. Aliens from other worlds visited you in the early days of your development, before you existed, and they visit you today, for not only is the Earth known for its beauty; it also hosts the youngest species of intelligent beings in the known universe, which has encouraged a belief, among some, that the Earth is the last creation of the Gods.”
After some time of deep contemplation, Sir Martin asks – “why do most visit the Earth? I mean; for what purpose?”
“Most only wish to enjoy the Earth’s tranquillity and beauty. To pick berries, fruit and mushrooms, and take seeds back to their planets, with the hope turbulent climes will settle sufficiently to allow their growth, or that we will one day learn how to manipulate the climate to achieve the same. In the meantime, we grow plants in climate-controlled greenhouses, although they are often destroyed by nature’s forces. At this moment in time, farming is quite dangerous for the inhabitants of the universe beyond the Earth.”
“Wow! It’s hard to imagine farming as being dangerous” – Martin reckons, with a boggling mind – “although sheep have been known to attack if one meddles with their turnips.”
“There is one tree on my world, growing naturally upon the windswept plains of Alabaar, so there is hope. There is a path leading to it and a gathering of people forming a circle a respectable distant from its roots, to shield it from the harsh, driving winds. We observe nature fighting its own battle – striving for evolutionary perfection against overwhelming odds – as we do. We respect nature, for it is life and allows life. We wish to help it, if we can, as it wishes to help us.
Most of our time is spent trying to create a permanent societal infrastructure within a destructive environment. A meteorite shower may destroy a creation, or the sea or a sea of lava, wash it away. All we know is creating in the face of destruction. Creating a civilisation in the face of such odds requires teamwork, and climate control is a universal quest too, so there is only cooperation between the peoples of the universe. Therefore; human warfare is a concept the universe cannot grasp, for upon our worlds, to destroy that which has been created, in the shadow of destruction, or those who participate in construction is absurdity in the extreme. The deliberate destruction of creation, and life, is a concept alien to us, for all may be destroyed in an instant by nature’s forces. Our environment renders us fragile. Nature often reminds us of our mortality and the random, unpredictability of life, yet, we respect it nevertheless, as we respect one another.
Neither do we understand the divided nature of humankind. We all wish to live comfortably, in homes that will not be swept away by forces beyond our control. To live in peace, educate our young and care for the sick. We wish to create the foundations of global civilisations on planets with hostile environments, and teamwork offers the only hope.
We imagine how our lives might be, if we were to live on a carefree planet like the Earth, with little more inconvenience than a winter that arrives each year as if by clockwork, and a summer which might be slightly too hot. A planet where one may create civilisation unhindered, and lay in the sun when the working day is done. Most imagine that if our planet’s climes were as graceful as the Earth’s, our time would be spent creating in the light of creation. We imagine the buildings we would design, that would stand forever as milestones upon the path of our evolution, and working as though there is no border between work and play, because creation would be a joy, rather than an arduos, unrewarding, uncertain task.
We imagine listening to music playing with silence. Of dancing and laughing upon golden beaches and falling in love under starry skies. We dream of discussing everything from the trivial to the nature of existence; from the lives of the smallest creatures to the deeper meaning of our own. We dream of having fun! Drinking wine from vine ripened in the sun, and thinking up jokes to make the whole universe laugh. Yes; we imagine our lives would be perfect.
So, the universe observes the Earth with slack-jawed disbelief, I suppose. We do not understand why you do not do as we would do, for we see our desire is humankind’s desire too. We do not understand why you have created a world that prevents you from living freely, when you were once free to build whatever you wished, wherever you pleased. We cannot comprehend why you have created a divided, hostile environment upon a free world. The universe finds it astonishing that the threat of destruction looms over humankind, and it is your own creation. Yes, we observe you, creating a world in the shadow of destruction, as we do, while wondering why your lives seem unfulfilled, as we wonder the same of our lives.”
The alien sits astride his space hopper, with his head bowed in thought.
“If ....” – the alien sighs.
“If what?” – Martin asks.
“Well. ‘If’ is a little word with a big meaning, as my mother used to say. I might say – ‘if our planet were as the Earth, all our problems would be solved’ – while wondering whether the claim is true, as others do. Many believe climates comparable to Earth’s will form naturally on every planet, some day, and there are those who wish the day will never arrive.”
“But why not?” – Martin asks, sorrowfully.
“Because they are afraid the peoples of the universe may encounter problems similar to humankind’s, and end up in a mess too; if there is no need to work together, as there is now. Although most speculate an entirely positive change would occur, should our climates settle, no one is certain regarding what would happen, so it is a hot topic for interplanetary philosophical debate.”
“The universe must hate us” – Sir Martin supposes, grimly.
“Far from it. We love you all very much. We don’t understand humankind, that’s all. Once, that didn’t matter. Once, we only observed you as one might monkeys, frolicking over the landscape, enjoying the fruits of the Earth and delighting in every discovery made. However; a universal fear for the Earth has grown during the past hundred years or so, as a result of humankind’s advances in weaponry technology and disrespect towards the Earth; each of which may lead to the death of all life and even the destruction of the planet. Universal debate has decreed that some kind of intervention is required, which is why I came to help with the revolution. I brought you up here to remind you of the scale of the task you are faced with, and what humankind have and stand to lose” – the alien announces, as he begins to accelerate back towards the Earth.
Chapter Eighteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
As Sir Martin and Martin throttle steadily through the stratosphere, they think of all the people on the Earth below – each leading their own separate, unique life. All at once, the notion of humankind gathering in an effort to fulfil a common dream seems an impossibility, and then again; only a natural task to perform.
There is no visible evidence of the Earth’s division until they drift over the Great Wall of China, snaking below. A symbol of man’s fear of man, and a divided world, with each country gathering what they are able, with no intention of sharing it fairly, and often guarding what they have as though wild animals with no sense of altruism.
“The only sharing is trade, and the greatest reward, money” – Martin murmurs, in response to a sudden sense of shame.
The three space travellers land in the Imperialist’s Club’s garden, when Sir Martin and Martin’s space hoppers vanish suddenly from between their legs with a blinding flash of light and a rubbery ‘thwack!’
“Oh! .... yes .... I should have warned you about that!” – the alien begins, as Sir Martin and Martin writhe in the long grasses, cradling their thwacked knackers and shrieking like alpacas with their pubes entangled in a thorny thicket.
“One should close one’s eyes and dismount the space hopper immediately, when one lands” – the alien continues, apologetically – “otherwise, one might encounter temporary blindness and an injury comparable to landing astride the crossbar of an Earth’s bicycle. The space hopper self-destructs seconds after returning to the point of its departure, and the elements of its construction are attracted to the nearest recycling centre, at the speed at which your knackers were thwacked.”
“Which would be?” – Sir Martin shrieks.
“The speed of light” – the alien admits.
Once Sir Martin and Martin have recovered sufficiently to vomit and retire to bed, they vomit and retire to bed, where they groan, roll around and retch until morning breaks.
“That thwack fair blacked the knacks” – Martin concludes, while viewing his injured testes on the screen of their laptop.
“Must you observe your testicles in that manner?” – Sir Martin complains – “why don’t you use a mirror, like any normal person? I’ve told you before; anyone can hack into the laptop and steal data. Privacy and Anonymity are just meaningless words, these days, along with many others.”
“Why would anyone steal such footage?” – Martin asks, as he untapes a small camera from a knee and slaps his thighs together.
“One never knows what becomes of data that has been stolen by those creepy hackers of the public domain, who give the honest hacktivist a bad name” – Sir Martin assumes.
“You know; the Earth’s problems, and solutions to them, seem simple when viewing everything from afar; from space” – the alien muses, as he strolls into Sir Martin and Martin’s bedchamber, with the thumb of one hand hooked onto the waistband of clean, freshly-pressed y’s and a fingertip of the other resting upon what one might suppose a bum’s chin.
“Yes. You are right, since ‘one cannot see the forest for the trees’ as the old saying goes”– Sir Martin agrees.
The alien frowns. “One cannot see the tree from space is the only comparable saying I am familiar with.”
“That is what I mean, in a way. I mean; few are lucky enough to view our world from space. One may watch footage of the Earth taken from space, but it is not the same as being there, in space, with the Earth towering beneath one’s feet, so it is difficult to view humankind, and the civilisation we build, as though an object.
And it would certainly help if we could. Humankind are only just beginning to see global civilisation as a whole – as an entity – and ask questions regarding its development. We are beginning to wonder what the world would be like if our history would have a different story to tell. We know we cannot continue as we are. We know we have reached a dead end, and the destruction of the planet and all its life is but a careless step beyond.
And we know this situation may end too, because the aggression of the world’s political climate is not evidence of human nature, and neither is neglecting the planet’s health to the point where all life may die. These scenarios only reflect the nature of the minority who govern humankind today, and have governed our kind for thousands of years. I suppose we can only hope the arrival of the CWO will rouse everyone from their intellectual slumber, and allow a sense of empowerment, which may be employed to overthrow governments and create a world that does reflect humankind’s true nature.”
Martin hunches over the laptop, connected to the six pc stacks, and searches the forums of the world’s CWO websites, but there is almost no evidence of activity.
“That’s odd” – Sir Martin says, once he has observed the phenomenon. “Let’s watch a news channel, to see if there are any reports about the CWO.”
An image of a hospital appears on the screen, a reporter standing in front of it, and a number of people meandering amid the scene, all of whom seem to be grimacing and clutching their bottoms.
Sir Martin and Martin sit transfixed as they watch reports regarding a leaked e mail, spreading throughout the internet, and rumours of an alien invasion, which has resulted in global hysteria. Within no time, bending over on the street has become as hazardous as bending for soap in the showers of a prison incarcerating bum bandits. Some are jabbed many times in a day, resulting in a shortage of doctors and surgeons trained to deal with anal trauma. The danger of a stranger jabbing one’s hole is rife; it is as though a strange civil war has broken out, or Kancho has become a new, planetary craze.
“Oh .... n-o-o-o-o-o!” – Sir Martin wails.
“Well. At least they are outside in the fresh air, away from their computers and getting some exercise” – Martin adds – “although wear and tear on the hole may outweigh the health benefits somewhat.”
“No! It is only the most terrible irony!” – Sir Martin groans. “We have foiled the revolution! Everyone should be in the CWO’s forums, but we have driven them into a Kancho frenzy on the streets! We must leave a message in each of the CWO’s central forums, to say the alien invasion is a misunderstanding!”
“But they won’t believe a word we say!” – Martin retorts – “we didn’t tell them of the alien invasion in the first place. Everyone found out because our email accounts were hacked, and that’s not democracy. That’s the kind of thing they have to do to politicians, to see what they are hiding. They won’t trust us! They will assume we are politicians, rather than revolutionaries, and abandon the CWO altogether!”
“OH .... NO .... WE .... ARE .... FUCKED!” – Sir Martin sobs.
“Why does everything go so horribly w-r-o-o-o-o-o-n-g??!!!” – he continues, as his head stretches towards the ceiling and he claws at the collar of his shirt.
“W-r-o-o-o-o-o-n-g!!!” – he expands, while dropping from the bed and rolling head over heels around the room, pausing only to slap his bottom and expel gusts of gas.
“W-r-o-o-o-o-o-n-g!!!” – he persists, before rolling back to the bed and seating himself upon it, at which point he lights his pipe and enters a state of deep, melancholic thought.
“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” – the alien suggests. “Would it help, do you think, if I broadcast a message on the CWO? I could tell everyone that I am the alien they are searching for, so they may stop jabbing one another’s bottoms. I could tell them there is life on other planets, and the universe observes the Earth with love. Perhaps it would encourage the majority to revolt against those who have led the world into such a dark place, if I tell them everything I have told you and more besides?”
“Well .... that would be .... FANTASTIC!” – Sir Martin and Martin cheer.
Chapter Nineteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Alien Uprising
“Ugh!” – exclaims the alien.
“Ah” – Martin responds, as he taps the laptop’s escape key. “I was thinking about making a short film about dismounting disposable space-hoppers safely.”
“I see” – the alien replies, with hazelnut-shaped, almond-shaped eyes.
“Are you ready?” – Sir Martin asks, while offering the alien a warm smile.
“I’m ready!” – the alien confirms, as he rests his delicate, elegant hands over his heart, and closes his eyes to n’s and mouth to v.
“There should be a camera around here somewhere” – Martin says, as he trundles around the room on his hands and knees searching for it.
“Is this it?” – the alien asks – “with the curly antenna?”
“Ah yes, thank you” – Martin replies, as he takes the camera, blows a hair from it, and mounts it upon a tripod.
“Are you quite sure about all of this?” – Sir Martin asks, with a note of grave concern. “I mean; I know you came to help us, but is it okay for you to talk to the peoples of Earth? You’re not going to get into any trouble, are you?”
“Oh no! Not at all. I won’t get into any trouble. Although the inhabitants of the universe thought it best if I remain incognito, and the peoples of Earth revolt without assistance, it was agreed I should announce my existence if the need arises. Of course; things would have turned out differently if I would have encountered hostility. As it is, although the welcome was somewhat odd, you have both been very kind and friendly towards me, so I feel confident I am making the right decision. Once I have created the film, I will send a message to let the intergalactic community know I am safe and well, at which point universal contact with Earth will begin.”
“Wow!” – Martin exclaims – “I suppose this is an awe-inspiring moment in the history of the universe!”
“It most certainly is!” – the alien agrees, while patting his bum-face-cheeks to bring a little colour into them – “the inhabitants of the universe will be overjoyed to welcome Earth into the inter-galactic community!”
The alien regards his kä-kää khaki flush on the screen, smiles, and says – “okay, Martin. Press record.”
There is a thunderous roar as Martin presses the record button, and the alien’s head explodes, leaving a brief bloody shower to rain down upon his Earthly friends. The alien’s headless body flops forward onto the laptop, where it pumps blood as red as a human’s onto the keyboard until the screen turns black.
Sir Martin and Martin slowly turn their heads, which have almost vanished into the collars of their shirts, and see Sir Richard and his entourage standing in the doorway of the room; one of whom cradles a smoking shotgun.
“That’s taken care of the alien!” – an aged lord sniggers, as others march into the room with sledgehammers and begin to smash the pc stacks.
“And that’s taken care of your stupid bloody revolution!” – Sir Richard shrieks, maniacally, before they march from the room and out of sight.
Once their footsteps have receded into silence, Martin asks – “do you still have that big cigarette? The one you found in the clone’s pad?”
“Yes. It is in our old room, in a Cuban cigar tube in the wardrobe.”
“Should I fetch it?
“I think you should, and then we should go to the river to smoke. This room is rather distressing.”
Sir Martin and Martin leave the club, and stroll through the wild, overgrown garden and down to the riverbank. They rest themselves at the roots of the weeping willow, where they had been sitting with the alien some days before, and light the spliff.
“Well. The people’s revolution is in tatters” – Sir Martin sighs sadly – “and everyone is too busy poking one another’s bottoms to care.”
“How simple it seems to destroy” – Sir Martin remarks, as he senses his troubles and woes drifting away within the rolling billows of smoke he exhales.
“And what bother to create” – Martin expands, as he leans forward and takes the joint from his friend.
“I wonder if there can be one without the other” – Sir Martin wonders – “can there be peace without war?”
There is no answer, for both have ceased to care whether there can be or not.
They sit for hours, hypnotised by the river’s transparent turbulence, until a chill, evening breeze encourages them to stand and stretch, in an effort to bring blood to their stiffened limbs.
“Look!” – Martin exclaims, as he stoops to pick up something from the tree’s roots. “Two cubes! Space hoppers! They must have fallen out of the alien’s underpants! Oh! Let’s go for a spin in space and observe once more the majesty of Earth, and remember our dear alien friend!”
“We do not have time today” – Sir Martin replies – “we should return to the club and pack our things. We are not welcome there anymore. We must find another club of some sort, from where we may resume our attempts to evoke revolution. Our quest has an even greater calling now, for if we do not succeed, the death of our alien friend will have been in vain and the universe will continue to be disappointed by humankind’s behaviour. Let us keep the cubes for some other day, when the world’s problems seem overwhelming, and we are overcome with a desire to get away from it all for a while.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right, Sir Martin. In the meantime, we should try to keep our spirits up, and use our good energy to encourage the world to revolt, so a paradise on Earth may form, some day!”
As they head towards the club, they are disturbed by a wet, ploppy sound. Sir Martin offers Martin an expression of disgust, while Martin’s eyebrows arch in an effort to project an air of innocence.
The sound occurs once again, which encourages the two friends to turn and face the river, from where the wet, ploppy sound eminates. A rowing boat is passing by, crammed with the clones of politicians. The clone of Sir Richard mans the oars. He smiles warmly at Sir Martin and Martin, who smile back and wave cheerfully.
“Goodness!” – Martin exclaims.
“Ha! Our teaching has worked! Politicians are warming to the notion of a true democracy!” – Sir Martin exclaims, gleefully.
“VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION!” – the clones shout, with fists raised in solidarity.
“VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION!” – Martin yodels, passionately.
“POWER TO THE PEOPLE!” – Sir Martin screeches, from the deepest reaches of his soul.