You look like a nishe girl. I mean nice girl. Buy you a drink?
Nice girl… but that’s a one of them new crystals round your neck, yes? All turning and shining and chiming, bing! Like magic. Ours don’t do that, they shuck. Suck.
Sorry. Had a few myself.
I used to be a moscologist myself. Cosmologist. All the big sky up there full of lights, suns, planets. You know what sucked about being a coshmologist? All the empty. Great big wide universe, only lil’ ole us in it. Fermi bloody paradox. Sad. Have ‘nother drink.
Then they arrive. Great big shipsh. Ships. Watching us for years. In hides like duck hunters. Like we’re ducks. They were there all the time, they just hid. Warped basic physics. Impossible. Bastards.
And the ships. Couldn’t believe what they could do to spacetime. Makes no sense. Still makes no sense. Like Amazon tribesman with an Ipod. Hopeless.
And now they’re everywhere. All the diff’rent kinds, fur and scales and twelve legs and tentacles. God I hate tentacles. Aliens, and alien stuff. All the pretty thingsh, your crystal – bing! Beads to the natives. Barman! ‘nother whisky.
See, it’s like this. It’s like you’re in your world, an’ it’s big. Stretches to horizon. Full of things you made, things you use, things you unnerstand. Works. You’re king of it. An’ then one day someone takes off the sky dome an’ you realise the horizon’s a wall, and outside the wall great big creatures stand around the table and watch you, like a rat in a maze. And all you know about the world and the stars is a lie, and you’re nothing. A dot, a speck. Can’t even see the horizon.
Where you going? Oh, that’s your boyfriend? Damned octopus. Tentacles. Hate ‘em.
Barman? ‘Nother one.