The Little Green Book: Extraterrestrial Survival on Earth or Staying Alive and Well on an Institutionally Biased Planet

 

THE LITTLE GREEN BOOK Part 1

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Thank you for purchasing Rin Vagor’s The Little Green Book: Extraterrestrial Survival on Earth or Staying Alive and Well on an Institutionally Biased Planet. This datafile is intended for off-worlders who wish to face the harsh reality of living and dying on planet earth, those who do not want to blind their ocular senses, or cover their auditory faculties, or feel that “It can’t happen to me.”

At the very beginning of the file, you will have noticed a questionnaire. For your own protection, please take a moment to fill in the fields provided. In addition to your Earth information, you should also include:

  • Homeworld Address
  • Homeworld Subspace Frequency
  • Date of Birth/Spawning/Hatching/Other
  • Name/Address/Subspace Frequency of Nearest Homeworld Relative/Friend
  • Blood Type (if applicable)
  • Allergies

***

INTRODUCTION

The tricentennial anniversary of the Roswell Incident has sped up the angst in the planetwide debate concerning beings of extraterrestrial origin and the doubtful security of their right to exist. As it now develops, the extraterrestrial is not as revered as was the case in the days before first contact. Pictures of heroics by Roo’Lau, the Venusian, rising from beneath a ton of human football players after being tackled across the goal line; Miiinrt U, from Antares, dragging his burden of a human baseball team through a World Series; Poo Nebula, native Tenaxian, boxing her way to heavyweight championship; Ylaan, of Nentok IV, who with no arm appendages of any sort, defeated earthly golfers at their own game. They sometimes tempt us to forget how vulnerable the extraterrestrial really is on earth, the so-called shining gem of the cosmos.

We tend to forget the human police officer who sucked thirteen-year-old Jum Bokuur up in a shop vacuum cleaner, because all the officer saw was a purple, oozing mass, unaware that it was the normal, healthy and quite non-lethal Vespurian form. And now, Rin Vagor has invented a survival advisory for extraterrestrials. If her prescriptions succeed, she is entitled to a Nobel Prize in a new category, Extraterrestrial Survival.

It is amazing how little earth’s extremist ecology has changed since the time over fifty years ago when Na Ters confronted the United Nations with his documented book, We Come In Peace. Its graphic depiction of the wholesale slaughter of off-worlders by the human governments illustrated the mortal consequences of an endangered species. The changes have been semantic. It is now benign neglect that human society likes to emphasize. The suicides, murders, drug deaths and other rebuffs are somehow made more subtle and thus less like the government autopsies. Is the rhetoric less cruel? I think not. The law itself, the imagined protector of the defenseless and the downtrodden, bears the blame for extraterrestrial jeopardy.

  • Mr. Justice Lance Hasbrouck was asked by a Martian defendant to appoint counsel for him. The justice, speculating that there was a companion of the defendant who had not been found, said, “There’s another greenie in the woodpile.” Justice Hasbrouck is a devout Roman Catholic.
  • Mr. Justice Donald Franklin, sentencing a human defendant, was asked by counsel to place the man on probation, assuring the justice that his client could be rehabilitated. The judge practically snarled, “How’s he going to be rehabilitated, living in sin with that ET woman?” He posed that question three times in rapid succession.
  • Mr. Justice Thompson advised two Titanide defendants that they would not know the difference between a good lawyer and a quasar.
  • An Andromedan New York University student was pushed into an open manhole for kissing a human male classmate, as they stood in the street near the university. Upon contact with the raw sewage, the student evaporated into an odorless yellow mist.
  • An unemployed Tilosian, faced with a child support order, was told by a human judge to “phone home and have them beam you some money.”
  • A Betelgesan was told by a human judge to stop having mutant children or face castration.

And so it goes, with the scalpel of human society aimed at extraterrestrial testicles.

Extraterrestrials may not try to be heroic and hope to survive. The government uses off-worlders for target practice and they seldom miss. The great wonder is that earthbound extraterrestrials have not practiced undercover guerrilla warfare. Outnumbered and outgunned, any other effort to get even or to avenge off-worlder honor would invite disaster.

The Little Green Book is a reminder of the Survival Commandments we must honor.

Read and remember.

Speaker Kash Nupil, Proud Plexan

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

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Songs As Stories: The Man

slide1 *Inspired by the song “The Man” by Aloe Blacc

In the beginning of what most believed in their heart of hearts to be the End of Days, there was The Distant Signal. It came in the form of a definitive and verified multi-language message broadcast to all the countries of Earth simultaneously.

What should have been a moment of joyous acknowledgment that we were not alone in the universe, was tainted by a subliminal signal that triggered an automatic flight response in all the various and sundry life forms on the planet.

Dubbed The Great Terror by the media, it opened the door to speculation about the global impact alien contact might have on world governments, organized religions, stock markets, and most importantly human existence.

Then came news of the one person on the planet unaffected by the subliminal signal.

His business card was made of carbon-fiber reinforced thermoplastic. Laser etched in red on the back was his phone number, four digits, no area or country code, because it wasn’t needed. The number could be dialed from anywhere in the world, toll-free. The front of the card delivered the most accurate message any business card ever had. It told the bearer exactly who he was in two simple words:

The Man

Normally slang that referred to either the government, an authority in a position of power, or a drug dealer — which he had no issue with, as he had allegedly been all those things in his youth — it currently served as a term of respect and praise.

The Man had no official credit rating, never owned a bank account, and his fingers never knew the texture of cash. His currency was the Boon License, a service performed, payable by a service at his behest.

The Man never advertised his services, and thanks to a universal binary code, he wasn’t searchable on the internet. His legend was viral, spread word of mouth from those who benefited from his services. The downside of this Chinese whispers campaign were all the old wives’ tales that attached themselves to his accomplishments like gossip remoras:

  • He was incapable of telling the truth and he gained supernatural powers by winning a bet with the Devil in a liar’s competition.
  • He thrived on the broken hearts of virgins after he stole the purest form of love from them.
  • He was born without a soul.
  • He was a genetic engineering experiment using stem cell materials that hadn’t been able to be duplicated.
  • He was born with one hundred percent brain capacity and as a result, has all the information stored on every computer and the internet in his brain.
  • He averted World War Three by winning the jackpot in a poker game with the world’s superpowers.

For a person who bartered in boons, how could he resist collecting favors from the entire planet? But when The Man accepted the offer, he scoured governments, both domestic and foreign, for help, with absolutely no success.

Once The Man signed the contract, he was elected to make first contact, and the world leaders resigned from their posts and contingency plans were underway to build underground shelters. He could not find a government, nation, country or individual to stand by his side.

The final extraterrestrial message contained a set of coordinates for the rendezvous point. Although no one would stand by him, he was able to call in several favors to arrange transport to one of the remote volcanic islands in the South Atlantic Ocean, Tristan da Cunha.

The alien armada arrived like a meteor storm, ships of shifting geometrics burned through Earth’s mesosphere and parked themselves in the stratosphere around the entire planet so that they blotted out the sun.

Plunged into darkness, The Man stood his ground as a lone, illuminated craft, smaller than the other ships, descended to the rendezvous point and touched down on the soil light as a feather.

The ship altered its form and peeled itself away from its passenger and repurposed itself into a ramp. The alien glided forward. It existed on the outer fringes of humanoid description but The Man found its features and its form somehow alluring.

The alien handed him a card with strange markings and upon contact with his skin, the card pricked his thumb and took a DNA sample. The markings changed, cycling through alphabets until it hit his native earthbound English. When all the letters were in place, it simply read:

The Woman

The alien smiled.

Sally forth and be The Maningly – or The Womaningly writeful.

– Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

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The Island of Misfit Posts #1: Discouraged by Discouragement

When I sit down to write these posts, I never know what they’ll be about beforehand. It’s a first-thought-that-hits-me-stream-of-consciousness sort of thing. Sometimes they’re on point, other times they meander a bit, but as stated in the About This Blog section, the posts are less about me attempting to appear clever or knowledgeable (what are the odds, really?), and more about getting myself into a proper writing frame of mind with a warm up exercise. Mental calisthenics, if you will.

As you might imagine, it doesn’t always go to plan. Case in point: the post below. Inspired in part by Susannah Breslin’s Forbes article, Why You Shouldn’t Be A Writer, and Martin Levin’s, You Suck And So Does Your Writing–which is more about petty squabbles between notable literary figures (how I would have combined the two ideas is anyone’s guess)–it was meant to be a discouragement piece, you know, separating the wheat from the chaff, and all that, that started out like this:

Of All the Things You Could Do With Your Life, Why On Earth Would You Purposely Choose To Be A Writer?

Don’t worry, it’s not a trick question, but one you should be prepared to ask yourself and answer before undertaking writing in any fashion as a serious profession. Among the more common reasons I’ve come across in my travels are:

1. No commuting and every day is Pajama Friday!

I can’t fault your logic here because commuting is generally a nightmare and what’s better than tooling around your house in a onesie all day long like an agoraphobic superhero? Sadly, it isn’t a good enough reason to want to be a writer, especially since there other telecommuting positions that offer more stability and better chances at becoming a career.

2. What better way is there to make a ton of dough and roll around in my piles of cash?

Well, you could try your hand at playing the lottery or betting the ponies, for starters. Rich writers are the exception to the rule. The majority of people who claim writing as a profession, work their mental fingers to the bone, producing material for years before they even get a glimpse at recognition, let alone a healthy paycheck. Instead of rolling in piles of cash, you’ll most likely be rolling up your coins, praying your landlord accepts pennies for rent.

3. Nothing better than being my own boss with flexible hours!

Flexible hours? Been writing long? Writing is a huge commitment that commandeers your entire life with absolutely no guarantee of any sort of financial gain. As stated earlier, there are other work-from-home opportunities that are far more secure and come equipped with a steady payday. And being your own boss isn’t the sipping Mai Tais under a beach umbrella fantasy you imagine it to be. First off, there’s no one to delegate all the donkey work to, and your brain doesn’t simply punch out when the working day has ended. Writing–and the guilt of not writing–never leaves you in peace until the article/book/screenplay/project has been completed.

4. It would be amazing to see my best-selling book in a bookstore/my script turned into a blockbuster feature film/win the Pulitzer Prize for my groundbreaking article series.

Who wouldn’t want any of those things? While we’re daydreaming, I’d also like to be an astronaut so that I can save the planet from extraterrestrial threats, be the smartest man in any room I’m in so that I can solve all the world’s problems and become Earth President, and build a safe-box time machine–that protects me from any sort of injury–equipped with a high end movie camera in order to jump back and forth in time to make the ultimate series of historical documentaries.

Now that my feet have touched terra firma and I’m once again grounded in reality, I can tell you that while it’s great to dream big, fame is one of the worst reasons to choose writing as a profession.

But the post wasn’t really working for me because I could feel myself getting snarkier as the piece went on, which wasn’t my intent going in. So, I decided to step off my soapbox and kill the post. And there it sat in my trash for days, forgotten like Charlie-In-The-Box, Dolly, Spotted Elephant, and King Moonracer. But it miraculously survived deletion during my numerous trash emptying sessions. This had to be a sign. What sign, I hadn’t the faintest, but I decided to attempt recycling it into a less judgmental, more positive message:

Writers are born critics who will criticize any and everything that crosses their paths, especially fellow writers. They will issue their assessments and commentary with the righteousness of having had their opinions validated by the Mount Horeb burning bush. These are the writers who cut open veins and bleed for the love of the craft, whose skulls ring with haunting voices that cannot be silenced until exorcized onto the page, who believe in their heart of hearts that the only words that deserve to be written are the truths that need to be told.

I can’t lie, sometimes I feel the same way.

But I’m not as bothered by it anymore because I know first hand that the writing process has it’s own way of weeding out the fly-by-night scribblers, posers and pretenders with the obstacles it scatters on the long and winding path to a completed project. Whether your driving force is money, fame. to impress a person/people, burning need, or love of the artform, you will still experience your fair share of procrastination, anxiety, writers block, time crunches, lack of motivation, fear of rejection, judgment of peers, and impatience of selling a piece.

If you can repeatedly bash your head into these walls, get up, dust yourself off and continue to write, who am I to question your motives? That, my friends, is the best I can do fer ya, today.

Sally forth and be writeful.

— Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys