[tunetheproletariat’s guest contributor Milad is young and learning. It’s kind of cool. I’d say more, but I’m busy humming the words It’s No Fun ’til Someone Dies to myself – Joan]
Maynard was a little different. In fact, some might even call him extra-terrestrial. Maynard was an alien of simple ideals. He didn’t enjoy the concept of the internet, nor the nifty little communication networks that accompanied it, such as that “book of faces, or whatever it’s called,” a line Maynard muttered to himself occasionally in his distinct alien tongue.
He didn’t like television, music, gaming consoles, coffee, telephonic devices, high cut skirts, low rider jeans, piercings or basically anything of value to the twenty-first century. The only remnants of media he received were the occasional newspaper pages gliding uninvited through the door of his humble abode and old paperbacks found God knows where.
You could say he lived under a rock.
What he did enjoy, however, was literature and arts, often engraving magnificent works into his rocky home walls. These activities kept him jubilant and also meant that he didn’t have to interact with those damned humans. The last time Maynard communicated with the human race, he was exiled.
“I’ve got a few extra tentacles, so what?”, he often pondered to himself as he indulged in a novel found in a nearby dump.
Soon there was nothing new. Life was redundant. Maynard thought perhaps he would give the outside world another go.
As he mustered every ounce of physical and mental strength he had, Maynard timidly probed each tentacle out of the door into the world outside. As he scanned around and the warm air lashed his face, all Maynard could see with his bulging eyes was terrain. Nothing in his immediate sight but a cactus or two. Not one thing else. But there was what seemed like a road in the distance.
Maynard slowly made his way to the dusty road, cautiously scanning his surroundings as he slid towards the street. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right. Something caught Maynard’s eyes. Two figures laying side by side on the road. Well, that’s what it looked like anyway. He needed to get closer.
Slowly and curiously, the alienated alien glided towards the figures. As he edged closer, it had dawned on him what he saw. Maynard hesitantly closed in. What he saw made him want to slide his eyes across the gravel road.
Two humans lay there in a bloody heap. That wasn’t the worst of it. It had seemed that they attacked each other with everything they had before dying for the cause — there were bite marks, scratch marks, bruises, lumps and more lacerations. They smelt rancid. Horrified, Maynard rushed away down the road from the bloody site. However, no sooner had he left the last scene did he come across another mutilated scene. Same deal as last time, two humans had seemingly fought it out until the gory end. Maynard was in panic mode. He kept running. This proved nothing. He ran more. All he saw was dust upon dust along the deathly road. He couldn’t escape it – the path was scattered in bloody battle.
No more. Maynard collapsed underneath his many limbs, heaving and gasping for a hit of fresh air. It seemed like hours; laying there, panting heavily and contemplating what he had seen. He didn’t want to open his eyes for fear of more corpses. He tried to catch his breath and caught a throat-choking sigh. A deep realization then dawned upon Maynard. After a significant pause, he seemed less frightful.
“All … this … time,” he panted lightly, “They were … concerned about … me.”
Another pause followed Maynard’s epiphany.
“Much better you than I”, he thought with a little spite towards the human race, his panic levels rapidly dying down.
Maynard picked himself up off his haunches and trudged away from the road and away from the bloody mess the humans had left themselves in, all the while reciting an old newspaper headline he had seen.
“It’s no fun ’til someone dies.”
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