…Beep — “Greetings Earthlings
We come in peace
Take us to your leader
Come with us Chad!
That’s literally what I was hoping to hear, after they first spoke.
After watching the reflective mountain-sized tear-drop craft penetrate down through the clouds and suddenly stop without even decelerating, blotting out the entire sky on that day in New York City. Instant darkness.
After the minute human society… changed purposes.
Of course, everybody remembers where they were at 12:33 on June 9th, 2033. Some of us were ready.
Before she dashed out of the office, I heard Linda, my assistant, drop my espresso on the Persian rug, likely stunned at what was happening through the glass walls, but I couldn’t bring myself to even scold her. I couldn’t even look at the rug! How could I? The ship was so close, we could have taken the heli up to it.
When that mountain of metal came down though — WHOA. I remember holding a single breath and seeing the first signs of the impending doom that seemed to grip everyone in the city almost instantly:
First, it was the body in a navy-colored suit falling past my office. Then, I noticed the glint of a flash rave on a roof top. Gross public sex in the streets. A young preacher had already climbed the spire of the cathedral and was begging at the sky with his free fist. Later, I heard the worst of us rioted like wild animals covered in parts of each other, until the rage petered out.
The best of us?
I locked my door, removed my tie, poured a glass of Hibiki 21, and watched everyone lose their minds like ant colonies at war, from above them on the 33rd floor.
All that chaos within the first hour… as the seamless craft just sat there slowly spinning in mid air, until it stopped without reason. Finally, the message went out.
Greetings Earthlings
We come in peace
Take us to your leader
Come with us Chad!
???!!!
Hahaha! Just kidding! Though, as you may know, I wasn’t terribly far off.
When it boomed out, seemingly from the hull of the craft itself, their first message was only a single repeated word. It metronomically rattled the windows of every single building borough-wide for the following hour:
“Babies…”
“Babies…”
“Babies…”
↓↓↓↓↓↓↓
The complete message followed later that afternoon, though it wasn’t my primary concern. I checked my portfolio, then the official military analysis.
Apparently, the only reason we weren’t surgically self-nuked out of self-defense by President Trump was because the alien fleet, including the craft over New York, had begun transmitting their intentions to several key individuals in major governments approximately an hour before arrival.
Even with alien support, it took the world governments a few hours to decode and translate the first full message in its entirety… Due to my position, I was one of the first to hear it.
Naturally, the public was not informed about anything until deemed “necessary” by us, and only after getting in our own “elite applications” to the program. Anyhow, the complete message was:
“Sex. Planet-wide extinction imminent. Smartest. Physically Fit. Must be fertile. Males and Females volunteer. Breeding reallocation program. 35,691,012 human limit. Daily copulation required. Apply.”
With all of the tech and money between the aliens and the government, you’d have thought they would’ve produced more than a scammy-online-job-ad, but I digress.
From the first English announcement, it took the aliens only 13 minutes to be able to transmit it on repeat from their ships in over 6,000 languages, along with a detailed code of instructions too long to include here.
In a nutshell, the following weeks of events was effectively a true “Mr. and Mrs. Universe Marathon” world wide— it was even televised like the Olympics with an unprecedented screening process and series of questionable “contests,” many of which weren’t able to be aired publicly. Genitals and stuff.
Hell yeah I applied. 7-figure income? Yep. Ripped like Jesus on steroids with a **** that has its own gravitational field. Not to mention the youngest central bank board member in recent history, and Harvard grad. I’m the name your wife accidentally screams. You know!? THE Chad.
Yeah. I got in too.
Naturally, I was near the top of the list in worlds! Despite stiff competition, ha. And they never figured out that I cheated all of the initial blood and urine screens, haha!
Dragon DNA. “God Mode.” EPIC winning.
I left on one of the craft 2 days later. The departure was actually pretty nice. Plush even… Lots of pillows.
↓↓↓↓↓↓↓
Now?
Now here I am. I think it’s been around 7 months maybe, I saw on a chart that I have over 16,180 offspring now, though I’ve only seen the images I’m shown so… So many, heh, you know, I wonder how many times I’ve told this story actually. Is it more than that? I’m actually shocked I can string words together anymore. Am I making sense?
I stopped trying to move a few weeks ago, unless necessary, in this sunless dozen-coffin sized cage. Now that I think of it…
The pump on my penis has been the only thing that hasn’t stopped since we got here. They force-feed me painkillers through a tube! I can’t feel anything below my waist, and the bruising now radiates out up to my ribs and down to my knees. ****ed.
I’m starting to wonder if there’s any piece of flesh or organ left of me under this pump. Whatever though. I don’t even care anymore. I think it’s all over for us. I mean, us humans.
They’ve modified me, us, genetically. Snubface humans, shag fur humans, ‘teacup’ humans, tall humans with short legs and arms, and…
That’s what I’m told. At least that’s what I hear and repeat and hear and repeat everyday from this cell, but you already know that!
Don’t you?!
You ****ing know that because you force me to repeat it along with the other nonsense on your list - EVERY solar cycle! In exchange for what? Nutrient slurry?
**** you. I’m done. DONE!
And you know what else!?
YOU KNOW WHAT ****ING ELSE?!
Everyone on the ship knows that you’re ****ing Jigzm.
FLARMY SUCKS JIGZM’S little jagl— 💥
BOOOOOM! Splat.”
…Beep.
↓↓↓↓↓↓↓
Flarmy:
I recycled 0-0-0-1-6-7-A-4, a.k.a. “Chad.”
At the end, I kind of thought, isn’t it a little strange we keep humans as pets? I mean, they’re cute, but they’re also the apex predator of their habitat…
Flarmy and Jigzm, two Q’kalonians, are alone together in the main breeding-control room of Human-Mega-Mill Craft #17, orbiting with the others halfway between the Earth and the Moon.
The potatoey bulbousness of Flarmy and Jigzm’s lime-colored faces are illuminated by the light blueish glow of a video monitor they’re both closely huddled around; sitting side-by-side on the very edge of their lounging bed — screen frozen at the splatter moment of Chad’s “recycling.”
They’re surrounded by floor-to-ceiling silk tapestries in a range of pastel ‘Easter colors,’ on top of a seamless crystal-clear floor with hundreds of microscopic rose-colored lights beaming up through it from underneath. The lighting frames their central lounging bed, three times as large as the excuse for so-called “King Size” mattresses found on Earth.
It’s covered in extra blankets and pillows. More pillows than you could understand the purposes for. Don’t think about it.
One wall in the room, the “administration wall,” is covered with monitors displaying humans rolling back and forth, flailing & spitting, or otherwise staring upwards blankly in their ceramometal-alloy cages. Their periodic swear words, screams, and sobs are drowned out by the rhythmic mechanical pulsing of their copulation pumps. The data streams to their handheld monitors, so they might supervise from the comforts of a Q’kalonian bed.
UNPAUSE - Chad pops. 🫠
↓↓↓↓↓↓↓
Jigzm:
Chad kibble. Ha! What a rascal he was, and…
To your point, pet humans are safer with us. Humans kill more humans than just about anything else, statistically anyway. So…
That’s the whole daily recording of him, Flarmy? Beep to beep? Did we finally get some passably sincere footage from him?
Flarmy:
That’s all of it, and yes, finally! The mental breakdown increased authenticity by an order of magnitude. Clips of it could be slotted into future volunteer-recruitment infomercials.
Jigzm:
Great. Do it. Edit out the whining at the end, then send it to marketing ASAP; the admin over there is a total butt about me missing my deadlines, oh, and...
Let’s do a 3rd batch of humans. Up the ratio of Japanese this time, they’re selling well, and…
Are the humans still, haha, volunteering down there?
Flarmy:
Yes. Almost exclusively males now though. The sperm reservoir isn’t a concern. However, we only harvested an average of 204,000 oocytes per female from the first two batches, so —
Why are you looking at me like that?
Jigzm:
You’re beautiful when you’re concerned, and I don’t say it enough, but…I LOVE you sooo much, you know that?
Once we’ve annihilated the undesirable bottom half of the population on this garbage heap, let’s go on vacation. Actually, no! Retire! Buy that place on the hill. You know, the one with a view of the limestone karsts in the south, with the Rosealea bushes and a white picket fence… We can get two Americans.
Flarmy:
Three. I’ve always loved mutts. Plus, they’re easy to get at the kill shelter.
Jigzm:
That’s why I love you.
END.
Hey. Don’t leave yet.
If you enjoyed this story. Great. Let me know by hitting the clap button a few times (up to 50x,) so I know that you were here (otherwise it looks like nobody even bothered reading this far.)
That’s why I love you.
-Logan
