Earth, Of All Places
After attending a funeral for his mother, Mongrel gets abducted by aliens. The aliens, however, turn out to be the fry-worshiping monks. While touring around the ship, he learns of their origins, uses of recreational drugs, views on natural selection, and other things. He helps them gain a fundamental understanding of their deity, and is rewarded with a kingly gift.
Excerpts:
The rain began pouring down around noon, turning an already piss-poor day into a piss-pouring day. Mongrel Stevens was having one of, if not the, hardest days of his life. First of all, today was his mother’s funeral, and he was having a difficult time saying goodbye to her (mainly because talking to the dead does not a nice satisfying conversation make). He’d only recently been reunited with the estranged and deranged woman, and for her to be taken so soon afterwards just didn’t seem fair to him. Then there was the fact that no one had tried to kill him yet. Although it was nice for a change, Mongrel wasn’t used to having days off from his problems. The complete lack of murderous conflicts of any kind was leaving him with a rather nasty uneasiness, making him suspicious. If someone were only to at least try to injure him a little he’d feel immensely more relaxed. But the Universe, it seemed, was not in properly working order. On top of all this, Mongrel really missed his pet mon, which had been off killing things for the last few days (not for fun; it was a job, see).
He sat on the doorstep of his apartment building in Dunttstown in the rain for over an hour, trying to catch a cold and failing miserably, but it was the effort that counts. No one had tried to mug him or sell him a fake Rolex. No one had tried to kidnap him. No cattle had tried to stampede and trample him. Aliens had not tried to abduct him. Not even a single car had gone out of the way to splash him with water. Life, at the moment, was boring him to death.
***
Beby shrugged and began dancing a drunken jig around on the front lawn beside Mongrel, laughing at the rain. Death always brought out the drunken whore in her. After her mother’s death years ago in an insane asylum, she began drinking. She couldn’t go visit her mother on her deathbed because she was deathly afraid of mental hospitals, so she drank a toast to her after her passing. However, her mother did not go quickly or quietly into the night. Every time her heart stopped someone found a way to start it again. Every time her body seemed to shut down it rebooted itself moments later. Every time she died she was brought back. And every time she was supposed to be dead Beby drank her misery under the table. This went on for nearly a month, and by the time her mother finally kicked the bucket she was an alcoholic.
***
The beast loved walking through the Dunttstown graveyard; it knew it could be alone here. Being in politics meant always being in the public eye. There were countless business meetings to attend, documents to read and sign, hands to shake (which was a problem because it had no hands), and babies to kiss (and occasionally consume) – there was rarely a moment’s rest. This was particularly troublesome for the beast because it had a gas problem (its species was gassy by nature). Although back on Hell the beast’s odours were considered mild, on Earth it was another matter entirely. Plants could not be kept in its estate, smoked detectors went off so often they needed to be disconnected, anything made of wood smoked for hours after it broke wind, metal rusted, steel tarnished, windows were constantly steamed up, and no insects or animals (or neighbours, for that matter) lived in the surrounding area…for very long. But when it was at work, the beast had to contain itself. It couldn’t just leave the room quietly and expel gas – it had a blast radius of nearly fifty feet. But here in the graveyard it could drop f-bombs by the bucketful because obviously no one was going to complain. It found itself hoping more people in Dunttstown would die, helping to expand the graveyard, and to show its support for this the beast attended each and every funeral, although Hershule’s funeral happened to have sentimental value for it as well.
***
“You mean this guy actually swallowed that pill?” Mongrel cried, waking the human. He knew he should have kept his voice down, but the mere idea of ingesting something of that size made his mind tremor with incredulity, and he couldn’t contain enough of that incredulity to whisper. He felt ill, much to spite the abusive abomination of alien imagination.
“Oh not at all, sir,” the abusive monk said. “His was a suppository.”
“Oh,” Mongrel said, feeling better. He then thought about this, and turned as pale as the walls. “Euuugh!” He produced a sickened look on his face, and his legs felt woozy. The idea of anyone swallowing a pill that size was torture on his mind, but having to imagine taking one…well, the other way (go on, try not to), was a suicidal thought. He could feel his brain beating itself up inside his head, unable to cope with the horror.
***
The amount of ignorance it took for Mongrel to convey that he wasn’t threatened by any of these remarks nearly caused him to faint. The room began to run laps around his head, and everything went purple (his mind, knowing full well that the mothership was white to the point of being albino, figured that the usual whiteness that came with fainting would not be effective, and chose to go with a more alarming colour. You know something’s wrong when your world goes purple). He fell to his knees and coughed roughly as if he were choking.
Clearly Mongrel was having a rough day. On top of his mother’s funeral and being abducted by midget alien monks, he’d almost suffocated to death, his brain had suffered severe mental trauma, and he’d vomited so much he must be missing internal organs. After all this, Mongrel’s body just couldn’t sustain the level of ignorance he was attempting.
The Chris Effect 
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