This is the original story I wrote about the Pon (Pon-Pon) in 2007. I’ve updated the story a little, but it is essentially the same short story that introduced my favorite furry visitors. Enjoy!
“Tonight, it looks like a chicken,” Ricardo called to me from the living room, “and it is eating the snapdragons that you planted last year.”
The little bastard! I was so incensed that I nearly nipped off the end of my finger, chopping tofu for stir-fry. Anger and good vegan cooking just don’t mesh well, and they certainly didn’t that night.
“Can you ask it to stop, please?”
I hated to ask Ric to do that. The aliens are so unpredictable, and their command of Earth languages was awful at best. Two weeks before, I’d asked it to stop rummaging through the dumpster under our bedroom window, and it cornered me in my own bathroom.
The over-size bastard washed my hair. No conditioner, no nothing, just bar soap. I wept like an abandoned child, and all it did was look at me with those huge, limpid eyes: big as serving plates.
After I recovered from my forced grooming experience, Ric told me that it found my free-range honey in the cabinet before it wandered back outside. I don’t really want to repeat what it did with the honey and the jar. We had to use big trash bags and stick TP in our nostrils just to get the mess off the floor.
Apparently, that kind of thing doesn’t stain bamboo flooring.
“Honey, do I really have to talk to it? I don’t think it likes me.” Ric whines when he doesn’t want to do something. That is only one of three things that I don’t like about him. Other than that, he’s Ultra-Mega-Yummy.
“You’re a Pussy, but I love you. Come in here and stir fry the stir fry, and I’ll try to talk to it.” We kissed on my way out to the front yard. Yummy. If it weren’t for ET’s fucked up cousin in my flower bed, I’d have snogged Ricky right there. Sometimes, you just have to be an adult.
I didn’t make it in time to save my flowers, but it was still there, just waiting for me. It did look a little bit like a chicken, if you really stretched your definition of ”chicken”. As far as I know, God never made chickens that were the size of silver back gorillas. No feathers, either.
“Bitch! Bitch! You! Why did you eat my flowers? Huh?”
It rolled its head to look at me…those friggin huge eyes…and waggled the crest under its chin.
”Hmmuuuh Juck!”
“It’s Jack, you idiot! Jack! J-aaaaaaaaaaaaaak!”
“J-uuuuuuuuuuck! Uwwwrh fwuuuuuuh guuuuuh.”
God, it was such a frustrating creature! You would think that if our little planet was going to be visited by aliens, that we’d at least get the smart ones. No. We got half a million, halfwit, shape changing, farting machines that loaf around warm climates. You couldn’t get near a beach without running into one of them every couple of hundred yards. SoCal was fucked. No lube, either.
Venice Beach used to be a Mecca for bodybuilders (Yay!) and the unusual fringes of society. Now? Now it’s a vacation spot for giant, white, furry aliens that love practical jokes. Did I mention that they all look the same?
Day of the goddamned clones, I tell you!
“Just go home! Ok,” I admit that I was screaming at it, “Just get in your little saucers and bug the Hell off! Huh? We don’t want you here!”
It looked hurt for a minute, and then it bellowed at me like a tuba in an echo chamber. I had about ten seconds to realize that I was in deep shit before it knocked me over, and sucked my right leg into its mouth. It was still able to yell at me as it inhaled the slipper off my foot.
And that is how I ended up here, in the hospital, with a broken leg, and a case of athlete’s foot like you can’t imagine.