Aliens

"Where were we, Mr. Fisher?" Dr. Emma Monroe glanced at her watch.

Good, enough time to shower and change before Wade arrived to take her to dinner.

Mr. Fisher regarded her with his red rimmed eyes.

"Let's see if I follow you so far — "  Emma looked at her neat, detailed notes.  " — the Aliens are after you because you know they're here and have been since 1938."  Emma smiled encouragingly.  "Why don't you explain the necessity of throwing eggs and singing, "Blue Suede shoes"?"

Paranoia.  Border-line psychotic.

Thorazine.

"I told you!"  Mr. Fisher tried to stay calm.  "Eggs are poison to them and they can't stand Elvis Presley."

She smiled her "Doctor-Knows-Best" smile.  "I'm going to prescribe something to help you sleep. You need rest to battle the enemy."

Mr. Fisher rocked on his chair.

"I'll be by tomorrow. You'll behave for the interns, tonight?"

Mr. Fisher muttered, "Yes."

Dr. Monroe buzzed so he could be escorted back to his room.

"Wait!  I want some eggs, for protection."

Dr. Monroe sighed. She finally agreed to allow him to keep a dozen eggs under his bed.

Thorazine.  Blessed Thorazine.

Dr. Monroe picked up the phone in her office.  "The Lobster's in the pot."

"And the water's boiling."

"Mr. Fisher will be incapacitated in about two hours.  I've prescribed a large dose of Thorazine. Be cautious, make sure he's out before you move.  He's armed with eggs."

"Lord Almighty!  Cain't even get my dishes done without some darn — "  Zoe muttered under her breath as she went to answer the insistent knocking at the front door.  Althea Mae was always looking for an excuse not to do her household chores.

"Look, Althea — "  Zoe broke off, her mouth fell open in surprise and she blinked, but the creature on the door step was still there.  " —  you ain't from 'round these parts are you?"  Zoe finished.  A suspicious scowl forming on her brow as she regarded the squat, deep purple, many tentacled thing standing on her stoop.

Two eye stocks rose up equal with her own face, politely.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my good woman, but my ship is disabled.  Might I use your satellite dish to call for help?"  The alien did not speak with its own mouth,it didn't seem to have one, the voice came from a complicated little piece of equipment, disguised as a broach holding an orange cloak about its squat body.

Zoe frowned but she allowed the alien to enter her immaculate, white, clapboard cottage.  Zoe prided herself on her hospitality.

"I suppose . . . you will put it back as it is?  Don't wanna miss the soaps this afternoon . . . Don't usually watch 'em mind . . . but today's special."

"Ah, yes.  I never miss Days of Our Lives."  The alien said, eye stocks waving about.

"Yes, well . . . dish is in the backyard."  Zoe bit her lip as she escorted the alien through to the mud room at the back of the house.  "Don't mess up my laundry.I jest spent an hour hanging all of my sheets on the line."

"I will endeavour to avoid your laundry, Madame."

"Can I get you any refreshment?" Zoe asked politely.

"I am partial to your earth turnips . . . If you happen to have any."

"Of course, I do!" Zoe said with a definite sniff.  Zoe left the alien adjusting the satellite dish and descended to the cold cellar to grab a generous amount of turnips for her guest.

Zoe watched in amazement as the alien absorbed the turnips into itself.

She gasped in horror as the alien suddenly vented flame and her sheets immediately caught on fire.

"I beg your pardon, Madame!" The alien moaned in embarrassment while Zoe calmly fetched the extinguisher from the kitchen and put out the fire.

"You should have warned me that turnips give you gas."  Zoe reproached, looking at her charred, ruined laundry.

"I ate much too fast! I will, of course, make restitution for my flammable accident."  The alien's tone was rueful.

Zoe nodded, smiling gently. "Not to worry, they weren't my best sheets."

"I insist upon replacing them."

Zoe's smile grew.  He may be a stranger to these parts but he was polite.