You know, I really hate people. They’re selfish, Ignorant, loud-obnoxious pricks, with basically no redeeming quality what so ever. I mean really look at all they achieved, genocide, global warming, reality tv. It’s just a never ending parade of failures and f#%* ups. They are without question, a complete write off a species, & HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME CARE ABOUT THEM -- Anon Guest
An alien was living in Lower Widdlington. All the conspiracists, true believers, and people constantly watching the skies completely missed it. So did Lower Widdlington. They dismissed the parked spaceship as one of those "modern architecture things", and figured that the resident was probably a billionaire seeking authentic exclusion[1].
Urean Hans had not intended to settle on pre-Shattering Terra, but one micrometeor can change anyone's plans for the worst. The hole was in a very strategic position and getting back off Terra again may well take the rest of their life.
In the meantime, there was a need to conserve power, create supplies, and otherwise survive. All this with definitely-not-Human features and some injuries from the crash.
Fortunately, Hans had some weird hobbies, including language skills. And a neighbour who was nearly blind. His name was Don, and he was seventy-five and "still going strong." Hans' introduction to the man was care of the security alarms sending a proximity alert whilst the Med Unit attempted to fix them up.
"Where's the door on this newfangled nonsense?" Don hobbled around the entire landing site. "Think they'd have a ramp or something, ain't there regulations?"
Hans initially thought they would frighten Don off with their appearance, but the old man smiled and held up the basket he was carrying. "There you are! New to the area, eh? They put this place up damn fast, I can tell you that. Pre-fab, is it?"
"Preee... Fab," Hans echoed, still trying to unriddle the basket. It was full of... things. Strange things.
"Bloody clever, what they can do these days, eh? The youngest was tellin' me how they can print houses on Mars now. Mars. You'd think the Martians'd object but youngest says they're my crow scopic. Clever little thing she is. Got a big calculator that can break into NASA."
Good news, the Deathworlder wasn't attacking. Bad news, the Deathworlder wasn't going away, either. Hans lowered the ramp and got their software going. Media was well and good, but live local speech was even better.
"Surprised she ain't goin' to Mars, really. Then again, none of us got scratch to go down the shops, these days." He appeared to notice that Hans was there. "Oh that's how you get in 'n' out. Big 'un aincha? You watch out for my Maeve, she likes 'em big. Better warn her Steve. Hang up. This is yours. Welcome to our little patch of paradise. I'm Don."
"Don," Hans echoed. That was a name. A nice and easy name in a very complicated language[2]. "You... being... friendly?"
"Oooohhhh... Foreigner. Right. I should speak the proper Queen's English for you. Teach you good habits before I let you in on the bad ones. Where you from, then? Sounds like somewhere near the Middle East or Russia, right?"
"Right," Hans echoed. And, after processing the question, said, "Am being from... Ruuschmauril." Which, honestly, was the name of their home town.
"Sounds like one of those little places made for the leaving, all right. Splashy place you have, all the same. Must have cost a little something."
Just the rest of my life, thought Hans. "Chance... fortunes," they said.
And that was just the beginning of a very peculiar friendship. Don was, apparently, one of those elders who hadn't got the bulletin that they were meant to slow down. He was, in his own words, "Rattling about like a pea in a tin can," and with little else to do, had decided on being helpful.
Which included geurilla gardening at odd hours of the day and night. Building drywalls for terraces and moving soil around and, on occasion, adding plants.
"You need some cat mint," Don would say in the wee small hours of Twilight, adding plantlings to the garden beds. "Keeps the flies away, but it attracts the cats. Bit of either or, really. You allergic to cats?"
"Never seen cat," Hans allowed. And, since they had learned good manners for Lower Widdlington, added, "Would you like a cup of tea? And a biscuit?"
"Oooh, that'd be lovely. Only if it's no trouble, mind." This, Hans had learned, meant that it will be no trouble at all no matter what. Even if one was in the middle of a bath, previously.
"No trouble," said Hans. "I will be putting the kettle on."
There would be tea, and biscuits. Usually the ones brought over by Mrs Stanthorpe down the road. She baked to stay relatively sane in a place with nothing going on, and the village was overflowing with her offerings as a direct result. She had the best time when there were Tourists coming through. She had also grown to love Hans, who was "one of them vee-gin people" and therefore had an almost endless appetite for her cooking.
Now she was making "vee-gin" biscuits for them specially.
All in all, it wasn't bad. Well, not as bad as Hans had anticipated. Nice helpful natives. Ones, they had to note, who were more than happy to leave things at their assumptions. Splendid views. And of course the wonders of Bingo Night.
Couldn't forget Bingo Night. It was the highlight of Lower Widdlington's week.
[1] Otherwise known as "getting away from it all" whilst simultaneously taking it all with them.
[2] English is a language that goes around beating up other languages and taking their lexicons.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / EkaterinaMolchanova]
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