Aliens Discovered in Arkansas

So it seems that the Feds have “leaked” “evidence” of extraterrestrials on American soil. Given the hordes of aliens swarming our southern border, I suppose a few undocumented Martians slipping through the cracks is not beyond the realm of possibility. No doubt they are just coming to pick avocados and dig ditches, and few earthlings want those jobs. And to be suspicious of them solely on the grounds that they aren’t human is, quite frankly, racist. 

I can just imagine what it will be like when one of the little green boogers finally makes its way to Arkansas. Some old man sitting on his porch in a half-dilapidated rocker will be whittling on a lighter knot when he sees the critter ambling up the pea gravel driveway. Cocking his head to one side, he’ll say, “Can I hep ya?”

“Tkk tkk, hiss, phlellum, spickooot.”

“I reckon you ain’t from around here.”

“Mft. Bazaam, shckt ftoolmp.”

“Mmm. Hmm. Bout what I figured. You the very reason I had to dial 1 for English when I called to get the Western channel added to my satellite subscription. If y’all gone move here, least yuins could do is learn to talk right.”

“Wzm, spleet, jirth mugulth.”

“You alright? Ya’ look a little green round the gills. Probably could do with a biscuit or somethin’.”

Then he’d shout. “Martha! There’s some fella out here looks like he needs some to eat! His color’s off. Fetch one a’them leftover biscuits and a piece of fat meat.”

Directly, a smiling woman in a faded flower print dress comes strolling through the screen door with a plate of groceries in one hand and a Mason jar full of sweet tea in the other.

“Aww, you poor thing. Come on up here on this porch. Sit a spell and eat a bite.”

“Kflgm brt wasm kroot.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that, but I just made these this mornin’ and I ain’t never knowed anybody who’s died from one.”

“Klrt reph tslasm proq.”

“Bless your heart. You ain’t from around here are ya?”

The Martian slinks toward the porch, and as he does he sees the old coon dog napping at the old man’s feet and begins licking whatever it has in the place of lips. The old man notices.

“Now, you just hold on a minute, fella. Don’t you be gettin’ any notions about Ole Tom here. If you came lookin’ for trouble, you done foolt around and found it.” 

With that, the old man grabs the shotgun propped against the table next to his rocking chair and fires a round just over the alien’s head. 

“Next one is headed south,” he says, aiming between whatever it has in the place of eyes.

The Martian runs backwards without turning around, scampering up the gravel driveway back toward the main road like its britches were on fire. Had it been wearing any.

“Alls I did was try to be neighborly,” says the old man to Marth. “Offered him a decent meal and come to find out he had designs on my dog!”

“Some people wadn’t raised like us,” Martha says, as though that should explain any fault in manners.

“Well, I seent this kinda thing before. And poor raisin’ or not, a fella ought not make like he wants to eat another fella’s dog. Specially if he’s already been offered biscuits!”

“Bless his heart,” Martha says, smoothing out the front of her dress and walking back into the house.

 The old man commences whittling again. But more vigorously this time. “Damn Koreans,” he mutters as the hickory shavings flutter down like fresh-plucked hen feathers beside Ole Tom’s head.