You stay low and run behind the set, ignoring the violent, sandy wind that is tearing through the soundstage. You lift the collapsed set piece with very little effort, stunned by what lay beneath.
A small, classic style grey alien is lying there, hands over their chest melodramatically, breathing heavy. They are wearing a little badge that says “Consultant.” They are also wearing a little pair of overalls and chunky sneakers with a Japanese streetwear-style silhouette. Their flat brim hat has blown clean off their head. Their eyes are big, dewey, and filled with wonder, like a housecat seeing a Christmas tree for the first time. They look hurt.
“Please… bruh… I need… my medicine…” they say.
“Woah… you mean to tell me that aliens are real, but Mars isn’t real?” you ask, stunned. Seeing a little alien in expensive, on-trend clothes is a legitimate surprise, even after all of the day’s revelations.
“Mars is real… it just sucks, bruh. It’s… radioactive. Humans used to… live there… until they launched their nukes… and had to… come to earth… bruh… the spaceship… from mars… it crashed on earth… and killed the dinosaurs… that’s why… reptilians are buggin’…” They cough, meekly, before continuing.
“You can’t live there… the guys who want to move to Mars… are not serious people. Earth is… clearly better than Mars… those clowns are… big ol’... wieners…” their speech is interrupted by a fit of gasps and wheezing. “Bruh… I need… my medicine… the bag… over there.” They point toward a high-end, 12 oz. stainless steel metal lunch box in a beautiful hunter green that is about a foot out of reach. You imagine it looks like a massive suitcase in his hands.
You slide him the lunch pail.
“Bruh… open it up… I need… my medicine… or I’ll… die… bruh.”
You open it. It is like removing the seal on the Ark. The intoxicating scent hits you before you can even process the image: a burrito, perfectly wrapped in foil.
