Morris was dying in the spaceship, and Davis was just freaking out.
"Wait til the poor bastard sees those bats" croaked Morris. And about that time, someone tapped on the porthole door. Must have been, wait for it,
real Martians.
Like Marvin.
Like the people that work at Mar-A-Lago. People call me one of them, but I self-identify sometimes as Guatemalan. I am a man of many stripes, who, like Marcus in Raiders of the Lost Ark, can blend in all around the world, despite circumstances or diction. "He'll blend in and disappear."
A horrid analog.
Wallsmark Supercenter #1010, Rockfish, near the city limits.
I intend to ask REAL UNELECTED GOVERNMENT REPRESENTATIVES about my legal case against Bentonville Arkansas, and if asked, I will sit and recite all the strange "coincidences" that occurred there.
"Oh, ghost of Morris, try the fondant."
"You were right, Morris!" screams Davis, dejectedly, looking into the faces of his alien captors. "You were right! People ARE alike all over!"
I told you Old Man, this world is our soup, and we have to make it good.
Some spice here and there.
A bay leaf.
Celery, garlic, and pepper: same stuff we put on chipmunks.
Anyway, I still think about filing suit against the discount store, though clearly they were not the only offending party in the matter. I could easily make book against them, though: I remember enough of those coincidences to more than establish a pattern.
"The new normal" as Harris would say.
"New normal?" I asks. What the ying yang? You think a broken situation is normative, then you have the wrong job. I once was against idealists taking journalist work, but nowadays, I think I've seen the Dark Side of the Force at work once too often, and I'm back to think that motivated idealists should, in fact, seek employment in the news media.
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