Alien Pregnant by Elvis, page 20
“My pleasure,” Billy said. His voice squeaked and he was starting to pant. Sally knew what that meant. She’d have to get her sweater back on damn fast or they’d be wrestling out here for hours. Damn. Why had she thought it would be fun to have Billy help?
COUNTDOWN: TEN MINUTES UNTIL GODZILLA
GETS TURNED TO A CRISPY CRITTER BY THE
ALIENS WHO WANT TO SAVE EARTH FOR
SOMETHING BETTER.
“Billy! Stop that!” Sally pulled Billy’s hand out from under her skirt. Now she was panting. His face was red. She had gotten her sweater back on only by promising Billy he could do other “things.” She just hadn’t expected to enjoy the other “things” so much. She’d always been a “good” girl and never let a boy touch her “there.”
She glanced quickly around the parking lot. Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt for just another minute.
She let go of Billy’s hand and it ducked under her skirt faster than her cat trying to hide from the neighbor’s dog.
COUNTDOWN: FIVE MINUTES UNTIL GODZILLA
SMOKES AND THE ALIENS LAUGH AND THE
WORLD IS PLAGUED WITH A NEW RASH OF
JAPANESE HORROR MOVIES.
They were interrupted twice by cars pulling in. But both times Sally had let Billy put his hand back up under her skirt. The last time he had pulled aside her white panties and really touched her. The feeling almost scared her. Almost.
This time the intruding car, Carla’s blue Volks, pulled in across from them. Billy quickly pulled his hand out and Sally felt the disappointment, among other things. The excitement of thinking that Carla might guess what they were doing had her breathing hard.
Both of them waved at Carla as if they had been talking about a biology assignment and nothing more. The minute Carla turned and headed for the school, Sally lifted her butt off the seat, reached up under her skirt, and pulled off her white panties. She held them up for Billy to see.
“If I don’t need a bra,” she said, smiling. “I sure don’t see why I need these.”
She dropped them into her purse as Billy tried to catch his breath.
COUNTDOWN: ONE MINUTE UNTIL GODZILLA GETS
STEAMED, DEEP-FAT FRIED, AND SENT ON TO THE
NEXT WORLD BY THE ALIENS WHO AREN’T EVEN
FROM THIS WORLD.
Billy’s fingers were doing wonderful things under her skirt and Sally didn’t really care if anyone drove up or not. She’d let Billy watch out. She had her eyes closed and right now her entire body was starting to tremble. She knew she was going to come any minute. And she knew it was going to be a lot better than when she wrapped her legs around her teddy bear and squeezed real hard.
Billy’s hand moved faster and she moaned. This time was going to be much better.
BLAST-OFF: GODZILLA’S SCALES REFLECTED PART
OF THE HEAT RAY. ALIEN HEAD GUNNERS CALLED
IT A FLUKE.
Billy’s hand was moving like a blender and Sally was half moaning, half shouting. Two seniors laughed and pointed as they walked by the shaking car.
HEADLINE: ALIEN RAY BOUNCES OFF
ATMOSPHERE, HITS CAR IN A HIGH SCHOOL
PARKING LOT IN THE VERY HEART OF AMERICA.
PRESIDENT THREATENS TO SUE ALIENS
AND JAPANESE.
Sally Ann Gibson’s first real orgasm and the alien heat ray hit her at exactly the same instant.
She exploded like a kid’s balloon against a cactus.
She blew up like a tomato thrown against a brick wall.
She had an orgasm unparalleled in human existence.
HEADLINE: GODZILLA LIMPS INTO OCEAN
CARRYING TEN-STORY BUILDING. ALIENS HAVE NO
COMMENT.
Billy broke his right hand in the orgasmic explosion and ended up having to sell his car because he couldn’t get past the memory. He also had to live with a phobia against parking on dates that limited his future sexual practices.
Little Sally Ann Gibson recovered after two days in the hospital. The doctors promised her that plastic surgery would help the permanent smile frozen on her face.
She never had the operation.
Saving Sam’s Used UFOs
by Kate Daniel
As of this writing, Kate Daniel has five novels out under her own name and one under a pseudonym, plus stories in several anthologies including Aladdin: Master of the Lamp and By Any Other Fame. Her novels include Babysitter’s Nightmare, Teen Idol, and Running Scared. She lives with her family and cats in rural Arizona and knows where to get a really out-of-this-world deal on transportation.
“Hey! Where the hell you think you’re going?”
The shout came moments too late to stop the man climbing through the wire fence. Inside the rusty barbed wire, there was a shimmer of light, like a heat haze on an August day. Since it was late October, it had to be something else. The fence-climber stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the distortion. Beyond, inside the fenced-off area, he could see an auto graveyard, cars that were too tired and worn out to be worth restoring as classics. He’d been studying it from a distance, and he’d gotten several shots through a telephoto lens. The haze hadn’t been visible from outside the fence. Now he studied it, wondering if it would even show in a picture. The cars beyond it were distorted by the ripples, blurred out of their normal shapes.
“Get outta there, you! Right now!” The owner of the lot was coming toward him, as fast as an overweight and out-of-shape used car salesman could move. The man inside the fence made a fast decision. He pulled out his camera and took another picture, hoping the automatic focus could handle the mock heat haze. Then he headed for the nearest row of cars.
His second step took him through the shimmering wall of haze. It felt like those hot air curtains some stores used. His third step was nothing but momentum, as the shock of what he was seeing caught up with him and brought him to a halt.
The rusted-out hulks were still there, but he could no longer assign make and model and year at a glance. The old Chevys and Plymouths he’d photographed from across the street were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were neat rows of strange vehicles, some rounded and flat on the bottom with tiny windows around the side, some with stranger shapes. At the back, one large derelict reminded him vaguely of a wedding cake, with several layers. A wedding cake, or the mother ship from Close Encounters.
“Dammit, you got no business coming inside the fence thataways.” Saving Sam, the owner of Saving Sam’s Used Car Bargain City, stood there puffing hard. Sam’s normal expression was a smile as wide and as shallow as the Missouri River that ran past the edge of the lot. He wasn’t wearing it now.
“Jackpot,” the other whispered. He paid no attention to Sam. “After all these years—I knew there was something behind all those stories!” He started to bring his camera up again, then stopped as Sam grabbed his arm.
“You’re trespassing, mister,” Sam said. “Now just who in hell are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Are you even a human?” The man took in Sam’s disheveled appearance, face red and sweaty, the loud tie slightly off-center, the yellow shirt that was creeping out of Sam’s polyester slacks in the back. “Although I’m not sure aliens would have enough imagination to come up with that disguise. They’d probably look more like insurance salesmen. I’m Joe Gilbert.” Joe reached in his pocket with his free hand and brought out a tattered business card. A single line of type was centered on the card: National News Probe. Joe’s name and a phone number were in one comer.
“That thing,” Sam said. He let go of Joe’s arm, adding, “Don’t you go taking no pictures. Not till I make up my mind what I want to do about this.”
“We’ll pay you for an exclusive,” Joe said. There were standard contracts, although, since NNP was a midget among the tabloids, they weren’t that generous.
“Well—” Sam rubbed his chin, considering. His five o’clock shadow looked like 6:15, even though it was still early afternoon. “Maybe. C’mon into the office, and let’s talk.”
Joe started to duck back through the barbed wire, but Sam stopped him. “Not that office. Got me another one back here. The one out front’s for my regular customers.”
He led the way through the rows of vehicles, while Joe rubbernecked. No question about it, they really were flying saucers. Not all saucer-shaped, no; some looked like they’d been stolen off a Hollywood back lot, some were featureless cubes, and one bore a striking resemblance to an America’s Cup winner from a few years before. But they weren’t products of Detroit or Japan. Joe gawked like a tourist; he was happy.
The office was a flimsy shed that had been fitted with a regular door and window on one wall. Inside, a desk and filing cabinet occupied most of the space. The only chair was the one behind the desk. Sam took it and waved Joe to a seat on the comer of the desk. Joe sat, twisting around enough to see out the window. The spaceships were still out there.
“So there really are aliens,” Joe began.
“Hell, you people print pictures of them,” Sam said, grinning. “See ’em in the grocery store all the time.”
“Now don’t tell me they look like that thing the Blazon has on the cover this week.”
“Nope.” Sam tipped his chair back and it creaked alarmingly under the load. “Did have a real photo of an alien a whiles back, though, the one that started all that business about aliens advising candidates in the presidential elections.”
“That thing?” Joe frowned. He knew the man whose delirium tremens had been responsible for the first version of that one.
“Not the little cartoon guy.” Sam grinned again. “One of the Secret Service men in the first picture. Customer of mine, ’smatter of fact. Nice guy, fellow named Strlirrk.” The final syllable sounded as though Sam had swallowed his tongue.
That figured, Joe thought. He’d been right, disguised aliens would look a lot more like a Ken-doll.
“So, let’s have the story, Sam. How does a used car salesman in the middle of Missouri wind up with a lot full of flying saucers?”
“Used ones. I sell ’em just like I sell cars.”
“Which came first, the cars or the UFOs?”
“Ain’t really unidentified, you know, I got papers on most of ’em. Or something. Anyways, the cars come first. I got started in the used car game a good thirty years ago, been building up steady ever since. Advertising, that’s all it takes, just advertising.”
Since Joe wasn’t deaf, he’d heard Sam’s idea of advertising. Radio spots, at what seemed like twice the normal volume, played on half the stations in the Midwest, mindlessly repeating, “Let Saving Sam save you dough!” It was hard to believe anyone would buy a car just because of those ads, but they seemed to work. Sam’s main lot was jammed, and Joe’d done a little research beforehand. Sam’s Bargain City was one of the largest independent used car dealers in the state.
“ ’Bout twelve years ago, I was driving home at night, pretty late. Used to live out in the country, ten miles south of here. You know how all them saucer stories say your headlights go out and your car radio dies? Well, that’s pretty much what happened. ’Cept they come back on again, then went out, then come on, then went out. I stopped and got out, and I saw this thing sitting out in the middle of a corn field. Lights started to race around the outside, and my headlights and radio went out again. Then there was a bang, and the lights on the thing stopped, and my car was fine again. Didn’t take much to figure out the guy was having engine trouble. The thing just didn’t want to start.”
Joe had his notebook out and was taking notes as Sam spoke. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to decipher them later, but it didn’t matter. He’d remember even without notes.
“After a while, a guy comes out of the thing. He looked like a normal-enough guy, I mean human. So I asked him if he needed a lift.” Sam stopped, which was just as well, because Joe was feeling a little dizzy.
“A flying saucer with engine trouble and you offered the pilot a ride?” The reporter shook his head. “Sam, that’s wilder than the stories we print.”
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.” Sam shrugged. “Anyways, we got to talking. Turned out he’d heard of me; he’d been here for a couple of years, and heard my ads on the radio. He was supposed to meet his boss, and with his—well, I guess wheels isn’t the right way to put it, call it his transportation—with his saucer broke down, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get there and he’d be in big trouble. So I sold him an old Plymouth and took his saucer as a trade-in.”
“A flying saucer. As a trade-in for a Plymouth?”
“Car was a cream puff,” Sam said. “I made him a good deal. I always do; they don’t call me Saving Sam for nothing.” They called him that because his radio ads blared out the name hundreds of times a day, but Joe didn’t correct him. “He paid gold, cash on the line; first time I ever dealt that way. The light-bend worked okay, so we just hauled the ship out back here and turned it on. The light-bend, that’s the thing makes a ship look like a Chevy. Had to dicker some, he was afraid I’d tell the government or someone. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ve kept that promise, but it’s took some doing.”
“That gave you one UFO,” Joe said when Sam showed no signs of going on. “One. And it wasn’t running. There must be a hundred of the things out there. How’d you get so many?”
“He showed back up a few weeks later with his boss. Turned out the boss was a pretty fair shadetree mechanic, leastways on saucers. Thing just had a plugged carburetor or something. He got it running, but my customer—his name I never could get my mouth around, and I ain’t trying it now—that first guy liked the Plymouth and he wasn’t fixing to go home yet, so we just left things the way they was.
“Y’know, I run a lot of ads, but word o’ mouth’s still the best damned advertising there is. That pair told other travelers. Mostly I just sell cars, but ever once in a while, some guy turns up and asks to see the back lot. Sell more cars to them than spaceships; mostly they want something humans won’t notice, so I get another ship in trade. Got seventy-three in stock right at the moment, nowheres near a hundred. Was seventy-four, but that Secret Service agent, Strlirrk, he got transferred last week and he needed a ship. Got a nice little Fiesta out on the main lot that he traded in on a practically new Parsector, less’en a million light-years on it.”
Sam stopped talking again. Joe tore his gaze away from the window to ask a question.
“Parsector? Is that a brand or a model?” His pen was poised to record the interstellar version of the Big Three.
“Nah, I made it up. Couldn’t never make out what they called that type, I had papers on it, but I couldn’t read ’em.
I can’t on most of them, and I’m not about to try to learn all them languages. So I started making up my own model names and makes, years ago.” He got up and went over to the window. Pointing to one of the cube-shaped vehicles parked near the office, he said, “That’s an older model Parsector. The newer ones, like the one I sold Strlirrk, the comers are more rounded and they got a light-bend that’s adjustable for over thirty different appearances.”
Joe reached for his camera, and this time Sam didn’t say anything. He got a picture of the Parsector and sneaked another of the one he still thought of as the mother ship.
“My turn,” Sam said. “I got a question for you, you been asking me enough. I been doing this now for twelve years, and far’s I know, I’m the only used spaceship dealer on the planet. My customers don’t talk, I sure as hell don’t, and I never had any trouble. And I bought me a new light-bend just last year. This one’s supposed to make people feel nosy and guilty, kind of at the back of their mind, not so’s they notice it, but anyways they don’t want to look at the back lot very long, makes ’em feel uncomfortable. How come you did?”
“Rumors. And reporters don’t ever feel guilty about being nosy, not if they want to stay reporters.” He weighed his next comment, balancing betrayal of a source against the chance of getting more from Sam. It didn’t take long; he wasn’t likely to ever get anything else from that source, and he wouldn’t be doing him any real harm. “Do you remember that salesman Carl you fired a couple of months back? He thought there was something in that back lot, and he called NNP. He didn’t say anything about UFOs, though, just that there was something fishy going on and you made too much money, more than used cars could account for.”
Sam snorted. “Damned useless knowitall. That’s why I fired him, he never would listen to nobody. He already knew it all. ’Smatter of fact, he’s wrong; been keeping all the money from my extra business off of the books. Been saving it.”
“It got me started, anyway. I spent a couple of hours in that field across the river yesterday, watching through binoculars, and I didn’t see anybody come near the lot. All I saw was a bunch of dead cars. I figured Carl was just trying to get you in trouble, but I thought one last check wouldn’t hurt anything.” Joe smiled and raised the camera again. “I was right. This is the story of a lifetime.”
“Thought you people always just made up them stories,” Sam grumbled. “Never expected to see one of you acting like a real reporter.”
“Yeah, some of the articles just come out of the newsroom. Or out of a bottle.” Joe was smiling as he talked, a little half-smile of satisfaction. “But we track down a few real stories, just for the looks of things. That’s how I got started; I was around when a reporter for the Inquirer was checking out a freak accident in my home town. I always thought there was something to all those UFO reports. Figured this would be the best way to find out. And I was right.” He smiled out the window. “I was right.”
“Yeah, you were right,” Sam said. He sighed heavily. “ ’Course, you’re putting me in a helluva bind, here. My special customers, sometimes they need cars and sometimes they need ships, but one thing they all need all the time is privacy. This is one time I don’t want free advertising.”
