Strange Tails

The human sat in her deckchair, smiling benignly upon the spaceship as an auntie might a favorite nephew. Occasionally she shifted a leg to make her lap more comfortable for Potbelly, or she would lean over to plump a pillow for Squirrel—Mildred had returned him—who was curled up in the deckchair next to her.

“I do get the human thing,” purred Potbelly, feeling more feline that she ever imagined possible. “They’re like a big warm blanket, if a big warm blanket came with an on-demand stroke-o-matic attachment and a limitless supply of kibbles. Glad we managed to shoo Zoltan away from her. For a crow, he sure is an odd duck.”

“Mr. Zoltan does funny things to me,” said the human. “I love Lucy, though.” She stroked her head again, and placed a smoldering reefer into her mouth. Potbelly took a drag. They found a leftover doobie amongst the psychotropic plant matter in C-Wing, where Derek had mentioned, while emancipating their human from the crow.

“I could murder a Twinkie,” announced Squirrel. He considered this thought, and then sat up, licking his lips. “By murder, I mean, I’d rip its spongey little head off. I’d tear it limb from limb, take out its entire family, massacre every one of its friends, gulp down all its loved ones, then stomp through the whole neighborhood, gobbling up every last little Twinkie soul. It’d be carnage.”

“The kiwi fruit not doing it for you?” Potbelly ducked to avoid one launched at her head. The human took this as a request to pass the doobie.

“This is strong stuff,” continued Squirrel, taking a hit. He dropped back down to glance sideways at the baobabs. From that angle they resembled broccoli stems, just like the ones he’d seen decaying in the grocery aisles back home. “I bet I know why the humans ran off into the jungle,” he said. “They dig all this green stuff, you know. They eat it. I kid you not—paid good money for it, too.”

He let out a long slow sigh, and for no good reason continued. “Maybe they saw Elvis, riding his big broccoli spaceship. Maybe he beckoned them on a grand, vegetabley-related journey.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout Squirrel,” giggled Potbelly, echoing the television show she had watched with Michel. “Wow, that was like … some years ago.”

Again a pause as the three considered this fact.

Potbelly sighed, as she had a number of times in the past hour. “I’m Mrs. Shell,” she said, then furrowed her brow. “I mean … I miss Miss Shirl. I … Mister Cher—“

“You miss Michel?”

“We have a winner.”

Beyond them the spaceship persisted in its decision to float impossibly above the cropped grass, and if it wasn’t for its artifice and its dull-gray skin it would have been just one more natural wonder amidst the humid, lush, baying jungle tapestry. Activity outside the craft had lessened, focusing now instead inside the belly of the beast.

Squirrel carried on peering beyond the craft at its verdant framing. “We’d have lasted five minutes in this jungle,” he opined.

“You’d give us that long?”

“Unless, of course, the jungle is where they grow all the Twinkies.”

“They don’t grow them, silly person. A Twinkie-corn poops them out and then little blue gremlins wrap them into packets.”

“You have strange ideas, Ms. Potbelly. Although, admittedly, none stranger than flying into space to fight hopeless wars against squidy aliens, and on behalf of a bunch of humans whom you’ve never even met. That is … unless … ” his voice trailed off.

“Unless what?”

“Unless space is where they grow all the Twinkies.”

Potbelly snorted. “I do hear they contain space dust. Or was it sawdust? I forget.”

Two large baobab trees strode toward Potbelly, who narrowed her eyes and recalibrated, finally resolving them into Snodberry’s thighs.

“Oh it’s the monkey and his friend!” beamed the human. “Is the little one the organ grinder?”

The little one was Stinkeye, sitting atop the slowly moldering Siobhan and oblivious to her wafting decomposition. To Squirrel’s delight, the moth persisted in having no nose.

“Isn’t it dangerous out here, all on your own?” Stinkeye asked, on arrival.

“Our middle name is danger!” declared Potbelly. “Wait, no that can’t be true, we don’t have a last one. So, right, our last name is danger. But wouldn’t that mean we’re all related? No, so, our pseudonym is danger. Hmm, then how could you tell us apart? OK, right—“

“You’re stoned, aren’t you?”

“We’re in an advanced state of relaxation, yes.”

“Too relaxed to see that hungry-looking tiger?”

“What? Where?”

“Oh, my mistake. It was only a leaf.”

“Bastard. Anyway, we’re quite safe. There must be some sort of force field or fence or something. Must be, there are more herbivores here than in a Disney movie. Anyway, if not, we’ll just fall back on the old sprinting speed.”

“That doesn’t make a moth feel any better. It really is a question of life or death, you know.”

“Really? Well that’s an easy one. Life is waaay better. And I thought we were stoned. Hey, why do they call this stuff weed when it makes it so hard to pee?”

“Stoned, you say?” replied Squirrel. “Does seem appropriate, eh? Would kinda round out the week to have rocks thrown at us.” He adjusted his position to better focus on Stinkeye. “Was wondering, our fluttery little friend, what will we do once the spaceship’s gone?”

“Maybe they’ll give you a ride back to Ohio?”

“We asked. Apparently spaceships aren’t good for school runs. They’re perfect for suicide missions, though.”

“So then you make your own way back?”

“I guess. If this lot are off to the great immolation in the sky then whatever transport they leave behind becomes ours, right? What do they do for shopping trips around here? Hey, we’re on an island. Maybe they have a boat. We could just sail right out of here.”

“A dog needs a boat like a fish needs a boat,” announced Potbelly, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “No wait, is it a bicycle? Now there’s a thought. If we had a bicycle, Snodberry could ride us home.”

“So we bike across the ocean?”

“Sure. Do bicycles sink?”

“All those wanting to vote Potbelly off the escape committee, please raise your paw. Let’s stick with the boat. How hard can it be? It’s just floating in the right direction, right? America’s pretty big. When you think about it, it’d be quite hard to miss.”

“It would take years. And what would you eat?”

“Fish.”

“I’m already asking.”

“No, I mean, the little floaty things.”

“You know how to fish?”

“Yeah, we just throw the dog in on a long leash.”

Potbelly sat up to digest her options. “Maybe staying here is our only option,” she concluded. “Like it or not, we are beasts of the jungle.” A howl echoed around the grounds of Nevermore and Potbelly retreated back into the lap of her human. “Or beasts somewhat near the jungle, anyway.”

Briefly unsettled, they looked about the perimeter of Nevermore, but the only sign of movement was an occasional furry head popping out of a spaceship aperture.

“Apparently we’re doomed if we stay, and doomed if we don’t,” surmised Squirrel. “Anyone have a preferred mode of doomedness?”

Potbelly shook her head. The human spoke. “Oh, look at that pretty necklace,” she said. “And it’s wriggling towards us!”

“Snodberry, can you raise your right leg? If the pretty necklace gets too close, squish it.”

They watched it approach.

“Now is that any way to treat a friend?” asked the necklace, or more accurately, asked Mildred the Magnificent. She navigated around the shadow beneath Snodberry’s foot and finally raised herself up to her full, elegant height.

“I should have yelled creature identify yourself,” averred Potbelly. “I learned that at the hunt.”

“The hunt?”

“They hunted non-sentients at the Silence. Creature identify yourself was how we knew.”

“How delightfully barbaric. Did you catch one?”

“It sort of caught me. Turns out the food chain is a loop.”

“Our American cousins. Fascinating. Well, as delighted as I am to chit-chat, I wonder, Mr. Stinkeye, may we have a moment?”

“Yes, I will,” replied Stinkeye.

“Yes you will what?”

“I will help you fly the spaceship.”

“Remarkable.” Mildred paused her usual side-to-side swaying. By remaining motionless, she somehow appeared even more mesmeric. “Can you read my mind?”

“No, but I hear what your fish are doing when I’m close enough. I doubt they could drive a bus let alone a spaceship. Arguing amongst themselves. I assume bottom feeder is a common insult in the fish community.”

“They do seem quite unable to match the degree of control you displayed so instinctively. The squid is pacified, but utterly unresponsive. The ship simply won’t leave the ground.”

“I’d imagine flying is a basic requirement for a spaceship,” offered Squirrel. “Does it need an oil change or something?”

Mildred hissed patiently. “Nevermore thanks you, Squirrel, for the knowledge which you imparted under hypnosis, but based on Zoltan’s findings, what we are dealing with now requires a solution from the cognitively enabled.”

“Let me think about that for a moment. If it turns out to be an insult, I’ll get back to you.”

“Please do. So, Mr. Stinkeye, will you join us?”

“Yes.”

“Stinkeye!” cried Potbelly. “You’re going to leave us?”

“Potbelly, I’m beginning to feel my age.”

“You’re like nine months old.”

“Exactly. I need to make something of myself, especially now my dear Vanessaconshaltamaressasitiamamorena is gone. It’s what she would have wanted, driven as she was by her mighty and compassionate intellect.”

“What drives you on can drive you off the cliff,” warned Squirrel, who, like Potbelly, was finding the discussion sobering. “Besides, what do you know about flying a spaceship?”

“We’ll use him as a medium,” said Mildred.

“But he’s barely an extra small.”

“You’re going to leave us?” repeated Potbelly. “All that’ll be left of the old gang is a dog, a squirrel, and a … a … ” Potbelly looked up at Snodberry. ” … a Snodberry.”

Snodberry’s face hung in a pall.

“Wait. You’re going too, Snodberry?”

He shrugged.

“Well, well,” said Squirrel. “And here I was, thinking the popular vote would be to not be flung into deep space and incinerated.”

“Come with us,” suggested Stinkeye.

“That’s not strictly necessary,” replied Mildred.

“I’m with Mildred,” said Squirrel. “She knows we’ll be best off directing operations from the ground. Fighting should be left to those who find life too long and graveyards too few.”

“The revolution is coming,” corrected Mildred, despite herself.

“The problem with a revolution is you end up back where you started. I prefer a straight line. To an armchair, preferably. Eh, Potbelly?”

Potbelly didn’t answer.

“Potbelly?” repeated Squirrel.

“Stinkeye saved our life,” she said.

“Wait, you’re not … are you nuts?”

“She’s not nuts!” said Stinkeye, a smile clearly audible in his voice.

“Hey, if anyone knows anything about nuts around here, it’s me, and she is one. Weird little brown things.”

“Are you saying I’m a weird little brown thing?”

“Well, now you mention it.”

“That does it, I’m going. We’re flying away to beat up the aliens!”

“Beat up the aliens? The entire human race gets wiped out, but Doctor Doolittle’s menagerie here is going to save the day? I am quite literally the only sane creature left on this planet.”

“I’m sure they have a plan,” countered Potbelly.

Squirrel turned to Mildred. “OK, what is it?”

“We cannot divulge that information at this time.”

“Why, because I might sell it on eBay?” He turned back to Potbelly. “How many times are you going to side with the Z-Team here over me?”

“That depends on how many times you plan on being utterly wrong.”

“Well it seems I’m way over quota today.”

The human leaned across to run an index finger along Squirrel’s agitated head. “Please don’t worry Widdle-Puffs, everything will be just fine.” Squirrel nipped at the fleshy pink digit. “Oh, so you’re going too then, pinky? Just me is it, all alone, left abandoned to the jungle?”

“Squirrel,” said Potbelly. “I love you. You’re my best friend, but maybe it’s in our genetic programming, like you enjoying Twinkies. If they have a plan, and Lord I hope they do, that plan’s going to be the last puppy in the store, the last turkey in the shop. We don’t have long in this world. I told you before, in Ohio, I want more out of life than just scavenging for tinned food at Aldi. Please come with us.”

Squirrel raised a finger to make a salient point, but the only point he could see turned out to be his finger. He looked at it, and then at Potbelly.

“You love me?” he asked. “You know that’s kinda gross, right?”

“It’s platonic, don’t get carried away.”

“Thank heavens. Between you and Siobhan I thought I was becoming a chick magnet. In fact, a chick would probably be next. Why must you be a hero?”

“A heroine, you mean.”

“More like a heroin—it’ll kill you just the same.”

Potbelly smiled, pecked his cheek with a warm, wet nose, and then turned to follow the others who had set off towards the ship. “Walkies!” she called to her human, barely containing her tic, raising the human from her deckchair. “Ta-ta Widdle-Puffs,” said the human.

Squirrel watched them trudge, patter, limp, flap, and slither their way across the compound, still expecting Potbelly to change her stubborn mind. A scissor-like device raised them up into the laser portal, the same portal they had entered before but under very different circumstances. Potbelly watched Squirrel, too, but as she ascended ship-wards and her paws finally disappeared from view, she found the strength not to wave.

Squirrel looked around. The jungle was vast.

He thought he could live here, though. Plenty of food in the stores. Plenty of exotic Madagascan sugar-based sweetmeats … probably.

Stranger things had happened. Now he thought of it, a lot of stranger things had happened. Crashed spaceships, colonies of talking everythings, kidnap, hypnosis, more stupid spaceships. So many weird adventures stupid Potbelly had gotten him into.

If she hadn’t eaten that damn spider’s leg none of this would have happened. They’d have carried on happily living off the fat of the land, especially if that fat was of the partially-hydrogenated variety. Maybe he’d be better off alone. She was a bad penny. Trouble. A distraction.

What did she mean, she loved him?