wwyd if there was an alien invasion? iii
(This is the third part of the "wwyd if there was an alien invasion?" serial. If you want to read from the start here is part one. Check this page of contents for the whole chronology.)
The last time i entered a laboratory was five years ago, as a member of a media entourage covering a self-proclaimed neuroscientific innovation. I was the guy making funny strips when they were still relevant - my boss, the editor, told me that "my work was stale" and that i needed "a challenge". Sure Walther, the 50 year old sack of potatoes wants some revolutionary esoteric Dadaist piece at page 14 instead of the smug talking orange cat. That guy can go shove his impeccably polished shoe up his ass.
Walther actually died tragically in a car accident three years ago. He was drunk driving and at 180 miles per hour sent he and his family screaming into a lamppost on the highway. The car was bisected in half. None of them survived. I kind of feel bad now.
In any case, life as a newspaper funnyman is presently a bygone era. The moment those new and hip webcomics came around the corner - homemade 4 panel strips you could read on your computer running Windows 98 - the demand for print cartoons cratered. Now you need to shop photos and host your own webpage to make it in this market. Technology comes for us artists every time - same thing with the camera, the crayon, the pencil. Hell, we were content painting stick figures on walls until some Egyptian lunatic decided to press trees together and rub his fingers on that instead.
Now enough of that babble, back to my recount.
About ten of us stepped into the sterile white room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Standing before us was a clean shaven older gentleman, wearing thin round-rimmed spectacles and the usual off-white lab coat and suit shirt. in front of him were two cardboard boxes.
"It is said that the mind is a palace. For hundreds of years, the machinations of our neurological system, instinctual or thoughtful, have remained an utter mystery to even the greatest intellectuals of their time." The scientist opened the left cardboard box and reached into it. "Therefore, I made it my mission to first understand in totality the mind of simpler creatures, in hopes of unearthing the truth behind humanity's intellect."
He pulled his hand from the box, fingers softly clasping a furry critter. He opened them to reveal the white mouse sleeping soundly in his palm, its ears drooped against its head. With his other hand, the scientist snapped his fingers, waking the mouse. It stood up and sniffed the air, seemingly observing the group of journalists watching it.
"My name is Tod Rogers, and you are about to witness the fruits of my research." The scientist smiled as he lowered his palm to the table, prompting the mouse to walk on its surface. "I have done surgery on this mouse and done the impossible; this mouse shall speak!"
His statement instantly caused an uproar in the group. "You maniac, you're playing God!" "A mouse's brain is completely different to a man's! It's impossible!" and more were heard as most of the journalists began preparing to leave.
"You may not believe me, but you don't have to." Tod Rogers, in a moment of strangeness, nodded at the mouse - what made it weirder was that the mouse seemed to understand tod's signal, and began to stand on two feet.
"My name is Stuart." Said the mouse in a deep and solemn voice. "I am a mouse."
I went slack-jawed. In fact the entire group went slack-jawed.
"See?" Tod smiled at Stuart warmly, then back to us. "He's a talking mouse."
"I don't just talk." Stuart trudged into the upturned box and pulled out a cigarette. "i can smoke too. somebody hand me a light!"
There was a long silence in the room. We looked at each other, each of us hoping someone else would bite the bullet and fulfill this ridiculous request. Finally, someone stepped up and flicked open his lighter. Stuart dragged the cigarette over to the edge of the table to catch the flame. Once the cigarette was lit, he heaved the cigarette butt with his tiny hands, putting his mouth to the butt and breathed in deeply.
Stuart sighed after taking the puff, smoke billowing from his mouth and tiny nostrils. He raised his hands and began to shout, "Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here? To watch a wee mouse take a smoke!" Suddenly he coughed violently, fell on his back and began convulsing.
"Oh crap - medic! we need a medic!" Tod hollered, took off his spectacles and dashed off to the other end of the room, fumbling and tripping over unlabeled cardboard boxes.
"T-T-Tod..." Stuart wheezed as he clutched his chest. "W-where are you..."
I leaned over to Stuart. "He's at the other end of the room, looking for something."
"Tod, stop screwing around and get your ass over here!" Stuart yelled with all of his might.
"Oh Jesus." Tod ran back to the table with a pale face. "Yes, Stuart?"
"Don't... let Margaret... see me like this." Stuart forced the words out between sharp breaths. "Put... me in a... three-piece s-suit... for t-the fune-ral..."
"I will, stuart, my good man." Tod fought back tears as he gripped the table. "You rest easy now."
"He... hehe..." Reassured, Stuart gave a small smile before the life left his eyes.
We stared at Stuart's limp body, unable to find words to verbalize the sheer state of tragedy before us.
"I'm sorry to say this, But you all need to leave." Tod rubbed his eyes. "I have to organize a funeral now."
-to be continued-
ii |