The Bar

"Jordan" Sometimes, it doesn't pay to be responsible [[PLAY]]

It's 8 PM. You're on a deadline. The producers say they need the first draft by tomorrow afternoon, but you're running on fumes. Writing, you say, is damn hard. "Well," you think, "maybe a drink will clear my head up. After all, I'm only gonna [[have one]]."

Ah, the bar. Lucy, the bartender, already has your drink poured -- ("Well well, Jordan's finally come out of his hole") -- and your usual seat is the only one without an ass in it. The Good Lord wants you to have a drink, it seems, and you're only happy to oblige. Lucy asks about the script. People like asking about your work. As usual, you're chatty. Eventually the drink is gone, and you're feeling loosened up enough that maybe the rest of the script is gonna come out. But just as you're ready to leave, someone taps you on the shoulder and points to the other end of the bar, where a mysterious black object is seated in a booth. "Listen," the man says, "I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I think you're the only one that can open this thing, and I need this thing opened. You should come over; I'll even buy you a drink." What do you do? [[Go home]] [[Stay, and open the black object]]

Hey, you did the responsible thing -- unfortunately, you don't have any idea how to finish the script and need an extension on the deadline that nobody's willing to give you. Successes are sometimes failures.

"Alright," you say, "but only one drink." You sit down in the booth with Chris, whose last name, you're pretty sure he tells you, is "Vagina", but that can't be right... "So what is this?" you ask, feeling prying eyes trying to figure out just what the hell you and Chris are doing. Chris, looking nervous -- a bead of sweat rolling down his temple -- says, "I don't know. I found it this morning in my living room." He swallows, then finishes: "Don't ask me how I know, but I'm pretty sure whatever's inside likes you." Intriguing. But, look, your drink is finished. You could stay -- it'll only be [[one more]]. Or you could [[hightail it out of here]]. But who'd wanna miss out on the fun?

You both order another drink. Lucy asks what the hell that thing is, but of course neither of you know. "He says he just found it in his apartment this morning," you say, and by the expression on her face she heard that as, "I'm hanging out with a goddamn nutjob." In any case, you examine the object more fully, and realize with a dawning sense of anxiety that it looks an awful lot like a giant, metal cocoon with what appears to be a fingerprint scanner on the one side. "I think you're supposed to put your thumb on that thing," Chris says. "I know," you say, take in a deep breath and finish your beer. "But for all I know this thing's a steel deathtrap. What do you need it open for anyway?" Chris, with a sigh, opens up his shirt. [["Because I found this on me this morning too."]]

You're halfway home before you hear the explosion. The paper the next morning reads: "MOST EXCITING THING TO HAPPEN IN THIS TOWN SINCE THE DAWN OF LIVING BEINGS!" Jeez, how could you miss out on that...? Plus, the producers hate the script and one of them tells you you'll "[[never work again]]".

Not to rub salt in the wound, but you develop a crack habit and die within a year. And nobody comes to your funeral. Way to go.

Underneath Chris's shirt, across his stomach, is, if you can believe it, a thick, tumorous patch that seems to be, of all things, breathing. "What in the hell is that?" you say. "I don't know," Chris says, "but I think this is how it communicates with me -- and it says if I don't get you to do this, it's gonna kill me." Alright. Maybe this has gone far enough. Here are your options: [[Leave]] [[Stay, and order another drink]] Or -- and you can't believe you didn't think of this before -- [[stay and don't order a drink]]. No reason why you should have a headache tomorrow just because you got involved in someone else's nightmare.

"But why?" Chris says, panic beginning to show in his voice as he follows you to the door. "What do you mean? I don't know who you are, I don't know what that thing is, and I don't know what it's got to do with me. Sorry pal, but you're on your own. Plus," you add, suddenly remembering, "I've actually got a lot of work to do." But before you can hit the door, Chris suddenly shoots his hand out and grabs your sleeve: "It says it'll kill me if you leave." Which is, of course, goddamn insane. So, picking up your jacket, you head for the door, when suddenly, coming from behind you is a loud noise like someone [[falling on the ground]].

This time, you order a whiskey, but you finish it too quickly and realize that was a bad idea. You've gotta stick to beer. [[Order a beer]]

"Hey," Lucy says, "rules are rules. If you're gonna stay here and play with that thing, you're ordering another drink." Fine. Looks like it's [[Stay, and order another drink]] .

It's Chris. Everyone in the bar freezes as he starts thrashing about on the ground, foam pouring out of his mouth. Someone yells out to call an ambulance, but it's too late: the foam has turned a deep shade of red, and -- and this is where you really know you made the wrong choice -- his eyes start pouring out of his sockets and down his cheeks. Gross. Of course, that's not the half of it: as everyone inside flees in panic from a body that's dissolving into an amorphous mass, you notice, being the only person who stays behind, an increase in temperature, coming from, no surprise, [[the black object]].

Whatever the thing is, it self destructs and kills everyone -- including you -- within a city block. Oops.

You're beginning to feel soupy, but that's okay: you've been down this road before. "Assuming I believe you," you say, "which means I believe that not only did this mysterious black object appear in your living room, and that with it came a psychic tumour, then -- and this is assuming I believe you -- all I need to do is put my thumb on this thing -- and of course it can only be my thumb -- but I just need to put my thumb on this thing and then the psychic tumour won't kill you." "Yeah, exactly," Chris says. Well, you figure you've come this far, what's the harm in just getting it over with? I say do it: [[Open the black thing]] Just make sure you order a shot first. And really, one more beer's not gonna kill ya.

And you do it. You press your thumb on the print scanner, realizing in that moment that everyone in the bar is watching you with baited breath, as they say. The cocoon shoots out thin jets of pressurized air and you feel your guts drop. Something about this, you think, is very bad, as the top of the cocoon opens up, drawing a gasp from the crowd of onlookers. Everything goes silent. TVs are turned off, music's turned off. You can hear something stirring from inside the cocoon, something //breathing//. [[You look inside.]]

Truthfully, everyone knew this day would come. "First contact", the //2001// moment when we find something else in the universe to talk to. You think "alien" and it sounds almost oily, like you're trying to think of something else and came across the wrong word. "What the fuck," you hear somebody say as the thing lifts its tiny head up and out of what must really be a ship of some kind, blinking its six eyes, moving its antennae around to get a sense of this new world and its denizens. In a way, you think, it's kinda cute. And you know, for a moment you feel a profound sense of awe. Life, as it turns out, //does// exist on other worlds: we're not alone. But panic sets in quick. It does for all of you. You opened this thing, after all. What do you do with it now? [[Be peaceful.]] [[Kill it.]]

It's not every day you get to meet a creature from another world, but all those movies should have taught you something. Within moments, the alien has completely exited his pod, which reveals to all of you the ray gun he carried with him on his journey over. Within moments of that, you're all dead. It only takes roughly a year, but since he was able to send out a signal to the mothership that this is a habitable planet with a ready-to-be-enslaved population, all of humanity is forced into work camps and all of Earth turned into an apocalyptan ecumenopolis. Seriously. This happened, and it's your fault.

Thinking quickly, you break a pint glass on the table in front of you, careful to break an empty one lest you lose any beer, and stab that stupid cute alien right in the face. It lets out a mournful cry as green Vulcan blood oozes out of its forehead and runs down its chin, loosing a last breath into the atmosphere and sinking into the lip of the cocoon -- in short, dying painfully. Everyone cheers. Sure, you'll never find out why it was only your fingerprint that could open a pod containing a lifeform from a distant planet, but who cares? You've -- But wait! A stirring sound comes from behind you, and in a quick moment you see that the revelry has turned to a quiet fear. [[Something's happening.]]

"I can't thank you enough," Chris says, as he pulls his shirt up to reveal a tumour-less stomach. "Sure you can," you say. "You can start by buying me another beer." [[And you know what?]]

All that alien crap gives you a good idea for finishing your script, and the next morning you plough through the hangover, finish it, and garner the praises of your producers. It turns out, at long last, that being irresponsible was the best thing you could have done.

You turn around, feeling icy breath on the back of your neck as something behind you snorts like an enraged bull. Even before your peripherals catch the green tinge to the skin, you know what's come for you, and before you can think, you feel yourself acting. Look, you've gotta understand: that alien used to be //wicked// small -- //but not anymore.// It had shed that tiny skin like a snake and grew six feet tall, right before everyone's eyes. Well, damned if you're gonna let some stupid growing alien get the best you, eh? As the rest of the bar screams for mercy, you find yourself throwing your arm over and across its neck, grabbing the alien at the small of its back, and then, yanking it off its feet, you throw your bodyweight into slamming the alien back-first into the ground in what future generations will refer to as //a furious rock bottom//. The alien smashes to pieces as though made of glass. Gloat, and take in the praise: you've [[saved humanity]].