sci-fi: They Don't Want Me

 They Don't Want Me 

I was driving south in this anus black hatchback of mine. Oil light on the dashboard, the Aladin's Lamp diode, was giving me BS, there was Roscoe's best synthetic 30 weight right up to the mark on my dip stick, and that's among the last things on Earth I trust. I think someone dumped prednisone in the brake lines, and I've always stopped in time, but it's like my neck is swelling up. Warrantee ran out while I was still wearing wrinkle free shirts and a bow tie.

Aside from natural worry, the interconnected rat-like thermodynamics in a vehicle equated wear and tear with my ass banging and sharp lower back pain. A pan-somatic deterioration in connective tissues emits vibrations, same as anything being viciously imposed upon. There really are flying saucers, and they have detectors. Your vibration tells them, 'hot fresh meat' they might take some form of interest in you. All mine are saying, 'Don't bother. No commercial or scientific value' I don't think a Martian would fuck me if it drank five six packs.