The Unseen World, Chapter 5: White Queen to King’s Bishop Seven

Lily walked down the long, lavish hallway with fine carpeted floors, marble walls, and elaborate chandeliers. In one hand she was carrying a manila folder, neatly filled with papers, pressed against her blue-flowered low-cut blouse, while she dangled the other arm artfully at her side, complementing the exaggerated sway of her skirt-clad hips. Turning right, then left, at the end of the hallway, Lily emerged into a well-lit rotunda. Although entirely enclosed, it was decorated like a courtyard; a circular walkway surrounded a gravel base sectioned like a pizza into four by further walkways leading straight to the center of the rotunda, where what appeared to be an old, uncovered stone well stood starkly. The walkways leading to the well corresponded with the four cardinal directions, and each was labeled accordingly.

From the entrance to the rotunda, Lily made her way a quarter turn along the circular walkway, or just past the East walkway, her high heels sounding off on the light colored paving stones as she went. She opened, with a creaking sound, one of two monumental bronze doors, labeled above the archway with the Roman numeral ‘CXIII.’ Entering, she released the door, which closed with a scraping metallic sound somewhere between a clang and a thud. Inside was a low light carpeted corridor intersected by another, forming a ‘T.’ Along the top of the T there were four Red Oak doors, two on either side of the intersection. Lily opened the door on the far right.

Inside the room, her tall, dark and handsome new boss sat at a rather Spartan desk near the far wall, scribbling away at a piece of paper. He looked up, briefly, and then pretended he wasn’t distracted by the intrusion, seemingly returning to his work. But Lily knew better. First, she looked around to see what he had done with the place. Not much, she noted disapprovingly. There was a giant vid screen set in the left wall, and an admittedly impressive-looking life-sized replica suit of Alexandrian armor, complete with sword and shield, against the wall roughly halfway between the vid screen and an unadorned single bed at the corner of the near wall. The only other furniture was a red velvet sofa parked practically right in front of the vid screen.

She made an audible ‘tsk tsk’ sound, and furtively watched his reaction. It was subtle, but blocked from light though it was by his long, thick, charcoal black hair, she could see his pale face, milky white like the rest of his skin—no longer tanned by the Mediterranean sun, and borne of near agoraphobia, it seemed—,twitch in irritation. He half looked up toward her before catching himself and returning his gaze to his paper, trying to pretend it was something else that had distracted him.

Lily whistled a couple bars of some elevator music.

“Yes?” he said finally.

It was the reaction she had been hoping for.

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Alex watched as his tall, platinum blonde secretary, neatly arrayed in her trademark style—a blouse and ruffled miniskirt with floral patterns—seemingly glided over to the desk where he was working. Arching her long back, the slender but muscular fair-skinned young woman, in her early twenties by all appearances, about his age, bent over Alex’s desk, plopping a manila folder in front of him and opening it with her long, agile fingers. “You’ll probably need this,” she said with an air of command in her sweet, soft, almost lisping voice; like the foaming of the sea.

Alex looked into her expressive, aquamarine eyes, ignoring the folder. “What is it?” he asked.

“Stuff,” she replied simply. She motioned suggestively with her eyes for him to look at the material.

“No abstract?” he arched a thick, charcoal eyebrow.

She let out a light, almost playful, sigh. “There’s a lot of different things. Some mail. But most is just information you need to do your job. How’s that going, by the way?”

There was a pause, then:

“Is that a challenge?” he asked, pushing his chair away from the desk, leaning back, jutting forward his broad, black-shirted chest, stretching his long arms and cracking his knuckles above his head, yet still keeping his eyes locked on hers.

“It might be…” she replied coyly.

It was. And they both knew it.

“Very well, then. I suppose I’ll have to meet it.” He stood up.

“You aren’t one to shy from a challenge, are you?”

“That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?” he joked, but it wasn’t rhetorical, and they both knew this as well.

“That would be telling,” was all she could say.

“Yes it would,” he grinned. “But that’s alright,” he assured her, “I’ll pretend it’s a game; that’ll be more fun.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Is that a threat?”

Lily frowned, but perhaps noticing that he was smiling, instead of reassuring him it was no such thing she said, “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

He laughed. “You obviously didn’t read my résumé.”

“I don’t recall you submitting one.”

“True, but you know what I do. I solve riddles… I like games.”

“I thought you were a detective.”

“That’s what my uncle paid me for.”

“And it’s what we’re paying you for, too. So, I’ll ask you again, have you detected anything?”

“Ouch,” he shook one hand as if he had been bitten. “Ok, I’ll give you a progress report, little Miss impatient.”

Lily looked a little guilty—bashful even, which pleased Alex, because that was the only time she didn’t intimidate him. It wasn’t her beauty so much, although that was a factor, but the way she always seemed so at place, so comfortable. Her persona was as much a natural fixture in the suspicious, corporate ambiance of Prometheus Technologies as was her visage. She was confidant; adaptable, fluid, like a chameleon, or water.

“Sorry,” she said with sincerity, “It’s just that there’ve been some setbacks, apparently.” She bit her pink lip before continuing, “...And I’m just conveying Lucien’s impatience.”

Alex smiled tightly.

As he let his smile fade, Alex looked her in the eyes, commenting as unacerbically as he could manage, “You’re just like a little reflecting pool, aren’t you?”

She looked almost hurt. He had expected that, however, and was ready with self-deprecating addendum, saying with as humble an affectation as possible, “Which is perfect for any handsome Greek, such as myself—every Narcissus needs his mirror.”

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“That’s sweet,” she said, softly. Then, thinking about it some more, Lily wondered if he was really saying she was necessary for him to show interest in the external—perhaps she was even the object of fixation itself—,or just some sick, twisted device to be used for reflecting his own self-love. More likely, he was just messing with her. So, she added, “Wait. What do you mean?”

“That would be telling.”

“Been saving that?” she snapped back.

“Yes, but…” he tried to salvage the situation. She wasn’t really angry, and he probably suspected that, but she did want to know more. She figured that was something the two had in common.

“But what?” she asked pointedly.

“…But, if I recall correctly, it was not five minutes ago you were trying to get my attention.”

She thought about it a moment before responding in the affirmative.

“And if my memory is further accurate,” he continued, “As well as my understanding of subtext… that had something to do with your previous claim that I’ve been working too hard?”

She bit her lip. “I suppose,” was all she offered. He took that as a ‘yes.’

“Then why,” he asked, “Bother conveying Mr. Snow’s impatience?”

It hit her like a ton of bricks. That had been rather hypocritical of her. But you couldn’t blame a girl for holding two entirely contradictory notions in her head at the same time. And it appeared that Alex didn’t. Rather, he seemed to have more to say.

“And that just begs the question, what is my obsession?”

Lily frowned, not following him.

“I mean,” he explained, casting a penetrating stare deep into her eyes, like they contained all the mysteries of the universe, “What do you think I see in the mirror?”

Comprehension finally dawned. She pursed her lips, trying to come up with an answer to his question.

“A bit more ambiguous than you thought, I bet,” he grinned smugly.

She abandoned the train of thought, figuring it was futile for the moment, opting instead to change the subject, first by putting him on the defensive, “Been saving that, too?”

“Fair enough. You have to admit, though,” he looked far off up and to the side, as if in joyful reminiscence, “It was brilliantly executed.”

“I think you see a chessboard,” she cracked, subtly rolling her eyes. “Now why don’t you go through the folder I brought you?” She was through with games for the moment, and he seemed to take the hint.

“Well, there seems to be a letter from my uncle in here, conveniently laid on top…” Alex said as he opened the letter. She watched as he removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it.

“What’s it say?” she asked unabashedly after a moment.

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“My uncle’s offering to match what Mr. Snow’s paying me,” Alex told Lily, feeling rather surprised. He felt a brief pang of nostalgia for the Greek shipping company he had worked for until he was half-kidnapped, half-recruited just a week ago in this one hundred million strong megalopolis of London.

“So?” Lily asked, presumably wondering what his reply would be.

“Of course not,” he said rather hastily. “If he wants me to go back he would have to start by exceeding my current salary, not merely matching it.”

“And then?”

She was a pushy one, wasn’t she? Well, if he was going to stay here he would have to deal with it. “My uncle doesn’t think in as big a picture as he believes,” Alex said. “There’s more to a job than just money.”

“I do have my charms,” Lily quipped haughtily.

“There’s that…” he said offhandedly.

“Anything else in there...?” she said suggestively.

“Nope,” he put the letter away.

“No, I mean the folder.”

“Oh, well, there probably is then.”

There was an awkward pause, then, “Aren’t you going to read it?” Lily prompted him.

“With you standing over my shoulder?”

“I’m in front of you.”

Another pause.

“Would you like to see the progress I’ve made?”

“Alright,” she acquiesced. “What have you found out?”

“Not much,” he admitted, “But let me show you nonetheless.”

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Lily found herself standing next to Alex, leaning over his shoulder and looking at an ancient piece of parchment protected under a thick glass tile (or possibly crystal, as it seemed to shine) set in the center of his old and otherwise unadorned Twenty-Second Century mahogany desk. The parchment consisted of a long list of names, or terms, some with rather lengthy ‘clarifications’ underneath, others with shorter clarifications, and some without any at all. She watched as Alex waved one hand over the crystal—it must be some kind of crystal she decided—and there appeared different text, or rather a different piece of parchment, in place of the old.

Lily wondered, and so asked, “Magic or science?” She hadn’t seen the new setup yet and was surprised by its elegance. Had the boy selected it himself? Probably not. Although he seemed to have good taste when he put his mind to it…

“I honestly couldn’t say,” was his reply. “But it looks like magic to me, so…”

It was good enough for her.

“Anyway,” he said, “This is the second page in the prophecy, and it seems to have most of the major actors in your little game; The Nord, The Greek, The Wanderer, The Lone Wolf... I’m sure you’re familiar with all of this so far…”

He was trying to bait her again. Prometheus Technologies was more than meets the eye; that much was obvious. Even if they had hired an idiot they couldn’t have hid that from him. Unseen machinations and all that…

Naturally, she responded with a question. “So you’ve been focusing on this page, mostly, then?”

“Almost entirely,” he admitted. “That might be the wrong way to go about it, but that’s my strategy so far. Although I have scoured the other pages for some clues—some kind of code—that’ll unlock this one, no such luck. I’ve tried all the basics already. It isn’t a cipher. It seems the text is meant to be taken literally. In fact, I would say it should be viewed literarily.”

“Like a book?”

“Not exactly. Thematically, perhaps. But many of the characters and terms seem to be, not quite archetypes, but familiar to say the least.”

“Maybe you know them?” Lily suggested.

“I suppose Mr. Snow could be the Nord,” he mused.

“Or I could be…” Lily fluttered her eyelashes.

“True, but you don’t look like you could kill anybody.”

“Could or would?” she asked.

“I’m sure you’re very capable,” he responded diplomatically.

“Darn right,” she elbowed him. “Now what about you?”

“Oh, I’m pretty tough.”

“No, silly,” she admonished him giddily. “I mean, who in the prophecy do you think you could be?”

“I hadn’t really given it any thought.”

She assumed he was lying. Regardless, she had a suggestion, “Maybe you’re ‘El Greco.’”

“Strange,” he replied, “I’ve always wanted to paint. And I’m sure the end of the world would provide some inspiring scenery.”

“Or I could braid my hair and put on my Viking helm, and you could do a portrait of me striking a mean-looking pose.”

“Actually, I only do nudes. I am a Greek classicist, after all…”

“Alexander!” she protested, stepping away, back facing him and glancing coldly over her shoulder, chin up, as she put on an exaggerated look of shock, defiance, distrust, and diffidence. Then she pretended to relent, saying, “Alright, but I still want to wear the Viking helm…”

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This had been an eventful conversation. Alex had learned more about Lily in the past fifteen minutes than in the entire previous week. Plus, it almost made up for her seeing him in his boxers. Almost. Always make a good first impression. Although, come to think of it, for all he knew he had.

“I must admit, though,” he said at last, “I’m not all that sanguine about the end of the world bit,” that was an understatement; it had him terrified. He was skeptical by nature, and certainly this was way out there, but so was Prometheus Technologies. Who would have thought one of the world’s leading tech firms would be dealing in magic? Also, it was probably evil, but that was somewhat less surprising. “Do you,” Alex asked, really hoping he would get a straight answer on this, “And more importantly, does Mr. Snow, really believe this prophecy will come true?”

“Lucien believes it, and he has for a very long time.”

How long, exactly? Alex wondered. He didn’t ask, however.

“And if I help you with this, I’ll be helping you end the world. Which would make me a bad person. A very bad person.” Alex knew he sounded rather stupid stating the obvious, but he needed to say it, and really needed to hear her response. He watched her closely.

“Define ‘bad,’” she said, attempting to be humorous. It wasn’t what he was looking for at the moment.

So he said, darkly, “I suggested I draw you in the nude, and I have no artistic talent, and have never painted in my life.”

“Oh, that’s what you mean!” she responded in faux surprise, still trying to be light-hearted. “Yeah, in that case I guess ending the world would make you a bad person. But guess what?”

He was listening. He didn’t really expect her ‘guess what’ would change his perspective, but he was listening all the same. “What?” he gave the obligatory response dully.

“The prophecy,” she explained, “Doesn’t say the end of the world; it says the end of this world.”

“Oh,” he arched an eyebrow, “So no one will die?”

“Well, not ‘no one,’ but certainly not everyone.”

“So, afterwards there will be you, me, and Mr. Snow?”

“Stop being so gloomy, Alex, pretty much everyone who dies is listed in the prophecy.”

That made him feel a little better; just enough, in fact, to shove the matter to the back of his mind for the time being and switch the topic. “Ok, I’ll just keep plugging away, then,” he intended no sarcasm, and Lily didn’t seem to take it that way.

“Actually, no,” she said.

“Taking me off the case?” he gave no hint of emotion, or whether he was joking or not.

“First,” she told him, “Read the rest of what I brought you. Next, we’ll be getting out of this office for a while; you need some time to clear your head.”

Alex frowned. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Of sorts,” she smiled. “Think of it as field work.”

He still didn’t understand her completely, although several ideas floated in his head.

“We’re going to Africa,” she announced suddenly.

That was not one of the ideas floating in his head. “’W-we?’” he stammered.

“You, me, and Mr. Snow,” she answered.

“Ok, so we aren’t the survivors after all. Gotcha.”

“That may be.”

Maybe she was taking this in stride. But Alex wanted to live. The place had never been habitable south of the Sahara (and he could only assume she wasn’t referring to the Mediterranean portion more commonly known as Greater Arabia), and in the last fifty years it had only gotten worse. No Greek trader would set foot on those shores for less than triple pay, which few employers were willing to offer for the meager wealth to be gained, and the prospect of going inland wasn’t even a consideration; there was nothing but disease, famine, and human butchery in the heart of the Dark Continent. So, naturally, “Why?” was his next question.

Lily walked up next to him again and tapped the crystal in the center of his desk with one long, manicured fingernail. He read the ‘entry’ where she tapped, just past halfway down the second page of the prophecy, which was still displayed.

“The Savage God?” he asked.

“Self-evident,” she asserted. Yes, but not all gods were created equal, it appeared. “Also,” she added, “Lucien wants to be low-key for a while.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with what, uh, ‘happened’ to Lycus, does it?” He hadn’t liked the guy from what he had seen of him, and given the circumstances of their only meeting that was understandable, but what happened didn’t sit right with Alex.

“Hardly,” she replied. “Now, Lucien wants you to get reading that material right away; you need to be prepared for our journey.”

“I don’t know that that’s possible,” was all Alex could muster.

Lily simply smiled a smug, sideways smile and said, “Checkmate.”

Alex looked on glumly as Lily twirled around and walked away, hips swaying seductively.

As I Die Laying

The forty-two year old baseball cap wearing party-goer made his way to the crock-pot containing cocktail wieners, taking a generous pinch of the barbecue and grape jelly-stewed little pork puree delicacies and plopping them on his plate next to the potato chips and baby carrots.

"My problem with Obama is that he's a socialist," said an overbearing--and overweight--man in a group of three standing nearby.

The first man plopped a cocktail wiener in his mouth and shook his head--such ignorance!

Meanwhile, a thinner man replied to the comment, chagrined, "That's not fair. Calling names like that..."

"But it's the truth," the first speaker interrupted, "He's spending all that money on..."

"Spending it on what?" Now it was the other man's turn to interrupt. "Something George Bush didn't spend it on?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, not this crap again. Whenever anyone brings up anything Obama does you Libs have to cry, 'but what about George Bush!' or 'at least he isn't as bad as Bush!' I mean, really."

"Well... well, you know what I heard," the soft-spoken woman in the group tried to edge her way into the conversation while the liberal man thought of his retort. "I heard that Obama was born in Kenya and isn't even allowed to be president."

Both men were surprised.

"Well, I don't know about that..." said the conservative.

"That's just the kind of bigoted, pea-brained nonsense I'd expect from a Republican," the liberal got nasty.

"Oh, I'm a Democrat." the woman replied, hurt. "I just read about it. I voted for Obama, and I don't care if he's not American; I think he's good for this country. Being from Kenya gives him a fresh perspective."

Both men were surprised.

"Well, I don't know about that..." said the liberal.

"That's just the kind of pea-brained nonsense I'd expect from a Democrat," the conservative said with a smirk.

Finished with his cocktail wieners, and sick of the potato chips and baby carrots, the forty-two year old eavesdropper had had enough. He half marched up to the group, his tongue snapping back like a bullwhip preparing to deliver chastisement; he couldn't stand how they ignored the true threat!

"Who are you?" the conservative asked.

"Nevermind," he replied briskly, then paused briefly before continuing, "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, and I must say, you all have it wrong! So very, very wrong."

"And I'm sure you're here to enlighten us?"

"Yes! Now listen," then he continued before anyone could interrupt, "Barrack Obama isn't socialist. He isn't a Kenyan. He's a Grzelnorpian!"

"A what?" the woman asked, who he now noticed was fairly attractive. Thin. Nice face. And dark blonde hair.

"He's a Grzelnorpian agent! Sent to brainwash us into submission," the frustration rolling off his tongue was palpable. "Soon we will all be slaves to the Grzelnorpian Empire if we don't do something!"

"Sounds like a conspiracy to me," the conservative scoffed.

"It is!" the cap-wearing theorist's eyes widened. "A conspiracy concocted by an alien empire!"

"No need to be so dramatic."

"Aren't you listening?" he looked at the other two to see if they had betrayed him too, along with the rest of humanity, and then added, "We're about to be conquered! We have to do something!"

"Like what?" the conservative asked.

The theorist was dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Even if we suppose what you're saying is true, which it isn't, how can we stop the Grez Norps--"

"The Grzelnorpians."

"Right. The Greznorpians--"

"No, the Grzelnorpians."

"Fine. The Grzelnorpians. How are we gonna stop them from taking us over? With the military? Sorry, but last time I heard, the President's in charge of that, and he's a Greznor... Grelznorp--an alien."

"They aren't ready for an invasion yet--that's our advantage! You see, they plan to take us over peacefully. The Grzelnorpians don't expect us to resist, and so far..." he noted dryly, "I can see why. I mean the clues are everywhere, people!"

"Such as...?"

"Mike, stop being such a dick," the liberal man interjected. "He's entitled to his opinion."

"And I'm entitled to my opinion that his opinion is stupid."

"You won't think that when the Grzelnorpians take over!" the theorist said defiantly.

"You smarmy little dweeb," the conservative, Mike, slapped the baseball hat bill down over the theorist's face. "Why you wear that, anyway? Shouldn't that be made of tinfoil?"

The theorist's eyes darted toward the floor and he briefly shuffled his feet. He always wore the baseball cap. He had lined the inside with tinfoil to protect him from the Grzelnorpian Brainwashing Ray that was in geosynchronous orbit over his head. Also, he had a bald spot.

Suddenly he regained his courage and said, "Look, I'll prove it to you..." He pulled a piece of paper out of one pocket and unfolded it. Then he began reading. "First, Obama said he doesn't look like the other guys on the dollar bills. Of course not! He's an alien!"

"No, what he meant was..." the liberal began.

"He meant what, Jack? What did he mean?" Mike asked.

"He's black," the liberal, Jack, explained.

"Don't you mean African American?"

"Shut up."

"Anyway," the theorist continued, oblivious, "Obama also said 'If you're headed for a cliff, you have to change direction. That's what the American people called for in November, and that's what we intend to deliver.'"

"So, what's the problem with that?" Jack queried, not daring to hazard a guess.

"Who is this 'we' he keeps referring to?" the theorist asked. "He does it in so many speeches, and it seems a little suspicious, don't you think?"

"No, he is clearly referring to the American People," Jack answered.

"Or the Democratic Party, and the elitist socialists in Hollywood, New York and Washington," Mike added helpfully.

"Thank you, Mike," Jack replied sourly.

"You're welcome."

"But listen to this one," the theorist offered, "'We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.' Doesn't that sound like he's part of an alien collective?"

"Or just a euro-socialist," Mike remarked. Jack was silent.

"Ok, how about this: 'We cannot pretend somehow that because Barack Hussein Obama got elected as president, suddenly everything is going to be OK.' He's telling his superiors back home that there's still work to do."

"I don't see it," Mike replied.

"Then this: 'Over the last 15 months, we've traveled to every corner of the United States. I've now been in 57 states? I think one left to go.' Who but an alien could be so ignorant of our political geography?"

Mike started to say something, but Jack gave him a glare, so he simply shot his liberal friend a knowing smile.

"This one's gotta do it: 'People of Berlin - people of the world - this is our moment. This is our time.' I mean, who better than the Germans to understand world conquest?"

"Yeah," Jack replied, "but didn't you say they were going to take over peacefully?"

"Don't knock it just yet," Mike admitted, "The Germans are doing it pretty peacefully right now with the EU."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mike. Besides, don't the French run the EU?"

"The French couldn't run anything bigger than a wine & cheese shop."

"Okay, what about this last quote," the theorist interrupted. "'The thing about hip-hop today is it's smart, it's insightful. The way they can communicate a complex message in a very short space is remarkable.' Does that do it for you?"


"Nope," both men said in unison.

The theorist sighed, "Maybe after you see some of Obama's communications you'll understand why he said that..." He pulled out a Blackberry from the same pocket he had removed the paper with the quotes on it and said, "I started receiving these on my email about five years ago. It must have been an accident, because it led me to understand the sinister conspiracy before us. Look at this..." he held the Blackberry out so all could see.

"U.S.A. has 'A' bomb--kin care." the woman--listening to the conversation with her usual passivity until then--read off the Blackberry screen. "What does that mean?"

"I didn't know at first either," the theorist explained. "It took me over a month to realize it was a secret message from Barack Obama to his superiors on Grzelnorp IV. He sent it soon after he first landed on Earth. It is a warning to be careful with any invasion because the United States--and unbeknownst to Obama at the time, so do several other nations--has nuclear weapons. He sent this to make sure his kin--the Grzelnorpians--take care."

"What kind of evidence is that?" Mike asked, incredulous. It had been entertaining until now, but this was just pathetic. "If you, or whoever fooled you into believing this, were gonna try to fool someone, you'd at least try to write a whole paragraph, and a grammatically correct one at that!"

"Which means it must have been written by an alien!" the theorist gave Mike a 'gotcha' look.

"Why?" Mike raised his voice a little. "Why would an alien write in English to another alien?"

"Ah! But you see, that's the genius of it!" the theorist explained. "It's because he also has a devout group of human followers that he needs to keep up to date on the plan."

"What, all the stupid college students?"

"No, the Illuminati. But nevermind that. Take another look at the message he sent. Notice anything queer about it?"

Mike was tempted to crack a joke relating to the word 'queer,' but merely hazarded a second look at the phrase. "No," he answered quickly, looking away again.

"Really?" the theorist said slyly. "Not even the fact that the message is a perfect anagram of 'Barack Hussein Obama'?"

Mike--and Jack--took a second look at it. U.S.A. has A bomb--kin care.

"Well, by golly, it is!" Jack exclaimed. "You must have put quite a bit of time into it. Er. I mean, Obama sure is dedicated to the plan."

The theorist scowled.

"Yeah, pretty impressive, I'll admit," said Mike, "But one little anagram doesn't prove a thing."

"That's why there's more," the theorist scrolled down on his Blackberry and showed them more messages. "See this one? I don't have the reply from Grzelnorp IV, but obviously they didn't understand what "'A' bomb" means in the other message, so Obama had to write this one too."

It read: Is a nuke bomb. Has a car.

"Clearly," the theorist continued, "Obama also felt the need to let his superiors know we have cars. That must be important. And, as you can see, this one is also an anagram of 'Barack Hussein Obama.'"

"Impressive, again," Jack admitted. "But Obama is known for his eloquence. How do you explain why the grammar is so poor--that should read 'Have a car.'"

"Maybe when he wrote it he didn't have a teleprompter," Mike suggested.

"Here's another one," the theorist scrolled down a little more.

It read: SOS I bareback a human.

"As you can see, Obama engaged in certain activities and was worried that they would be dangerous to him. It's also an anagram of his full earth name, again. Surely you'll admit that only an alien would feel the need to specify that it was a human that he barebacked?"

"Or NAMSA, the North American Man-Sheep Love Association," Mike shook his head.

Jack ignored him, saying "Im-uh, um... impressive" again, albeit more than a little unsure of himself.

"Well, here's another one!"

It read: I kebab a man. c u Ross--ha!

"Who," the theorist asked, "Would kebab a man, other than an alien?"

"Jeffry Dahmer, for one," Mike pointed out. "And I'm sure this one is an anagram, too, but I just saw a friend who I've been meaning to talk to, it's been fun." With that he left.

"You know, I actually have some people I need to talk to, too," Jack said. "I'll be back in a couple minutes or so, I expect." With that he was off as well.

"So much for that. I don't suppose you want to hang around a while and listen to my warnings?" the theorist asked the quiet woman.

"Well, you know," she said, "I'm skeptical, I guess--but I have an open mind!" It was as she was trying to convince him. "I don't really know what to think, you know. But I'm willing to try anything once. Wait. I mean I'm willing to try to believe anything. Oh, that's not right either. But you know what I mean."

He wasn't sure he did, but he simply nodded and said, "I suppose so, Miss... I'm sorry," he put on an affectation of embarrassment, "All this talking and I didn't get your name."

She smiled. "That's alright. I'm Cathy," she extended her hand.

He took her hand, but instead of shaking it he bowed down and gave her a delicate kiss, saying, "Pleased to meet you, Cathy. I'm Art."

"Nice to meet you, too," she giggled.

"So, how do you know the host?" Art asked.

"She's my sister."

"And where is this sister of yours? And is she half as lovely as you?"

She smiled a little at first, but then asked warily, "You haven't met her? Do you work with Bob?"

"No, I crashed the party," he smiled. "Actually, I'm a neighbor, and I just met Bob earlier today, and he invited me then."

"Oh yeah, Bob does that," she laughed, "He's very friendly. Very inviting. We got that from our dad. Which house do you live in?"

It took him a second to catch up with her train of thought, but when he did Art answered, "The run-down Victorian with the spire on the corner."

"Really? It's a beautiful place, but I thought it was abandoned."

"Practically is," he smirked. "But I do live there when I'm around. I don't like to stay in one place so often, you see. The Grzelnorpian's would find me if I did... they know I'm onto them," he winked.

She laughed. "That's bad," she said.

Apparently Cathy was under the impression that he made the whole thing up as part of an elaborate plot to sound interesting and get laid. Art sought to disabuse her of that notion--he could believe it and use it to get laid at the same time, damn it! "Of course it's bad!" he said seriously, "How would you like being followed around by aliens!"

"Are they sexy aliens?" she asked, apparently she still didn't take him seriously.

"I suppose it depends on whether or not you think Obama is sexy. Personally, I'm not interested..."

"I think he's super-sexy," she replied.

"Well, to each their own, I suppose. Hey, I actually have some steamy pics of Obama on my computer at the house that I intercepted between him and his Grzelnorpian superiors... I mean, if you'd like to see them."

"Sure, that'd be fun. Maybe you can give me a tour of the house while you're at it?"

"Sure, why not? Nothing better to do my last night as a free man."

"You aren't getting married in the morning, are you?" That she was smiling convinced him she actually knew what he was talking about, so he didn't need to reply. She wasn't quite as naive, slow, and gullible as he originally thought her to be. And fortunately that didn't make it any harder. No better way to spend his last night as a free man, indeed.



Epilogue:


Art awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. He looked around, seeing the moon peeking through the red velvet curtains, the clothes on the floor, and the slender, naked form lying next to him. All seemed well. Yet... he felt a buzzing in the air. He climbed out of bed, himself naked, to draw back the curtains just as the buzzing grew. When he drew the curtains, to his surprise he saw--even he hadn't really believed it--Grzelnorpian spacecraft landing. There were thousands, no millions, of craft; the bright-burning rocket flame supported saucers were landing as far as the eye could see. All Art could think was: first, he was right. He had been right all along. Second, he was so very right, and also, Al Gore would not be happy with Barack Obama in the morning; greenhouses gas emissions had just gone through the roof.



Alternate Ending:


Art and Cathy awoke the following morning. Art turned on the TV news, hoping he would be proven right. Although it may have been more sensible to hope he was wrong. Well, he was right... sort of. President Obama was before a crowd giving a speech, which from the looks of it was nearly over:

"Can we overcome mankind's seemingly ceaseless struggle with boredom? Yes we can!" the crowd joined in enthusiastically. "Can we restrain and redirect the mighty maelstroms of leisure that result inevitably in an emergent ennui that imperils our peaceful cohabitation and puts to rest the creative potential of mankind? Yes we can!" the crowd joined in enthusiastically again, although they probably didn't understand half of it.

"Can we bring ourselves to acknowledge our need as human beings for something higher than ourselves, something greater, that can direct our most intrinsic impulses fruitfully toward greater productivity and happiness for all? Yes we can!" the crowd joined in. "And can we accept the fact that that force is before us today, present though unseen, speaking though unheard, pressed against our breasts though unfelt, and renowned though unnamed.

"It is a force at once mighty and humble. It gives but does not ask. It is always there for us when we need it, but we need not be there for it. It is all-loving and is everything to everybody. And I ask only that we return the favor just this once, just once, and surrender to the Grzelnorpian Empire... Yes we can!" the crowd thundered its approval.

Then somebody yelled, "Wait a minute! What?"

"Surrender to the Grzelnorpian Empire," said Obama, "Yes we can!" the crowd thundered its approval again.

"But what's that mean?" someone shouted.

"Well, uh, um... you see..." Obama stammered.

Another man walked out on stage, "Don't worry, Barry I'll take it from here"

"Is that Rahm Emmanuel?" someone asked.

"My name," the man said, "Is Reggie Fils-Aime, and I'm about kicking ass, I'm about takin' names, and we're about making games."

"Huh?"

"Let me explain," Reggie said. "You see, I work for Nintendo, and a few years ago Nintendo was in trouble. At least that's what everyone on the outside thought. But we had a plan. We always have a plan. At the same time we were designing the Wii gaming system we genetically engineered a character to life, gave him a false background and the name 'Barack Obama,' and had him run for President of the United States. Long story short, he won, in case you didn't know, and now we are getting our money's worth out of him.

"You see, the 'Rise of the Grzelnorpian Empire' (previous title) is a game we are making for the Wii, and it will be our finest game to date. We have been sending hints out on the web for several years about its existence. Some of you may have noticed...

"For those of you who are just now tuning in, so to speak, let me explain. In the game the President of the United States is an agent for an alien empire, the Grzelnorpians, and you must stop their insidious plan to take over the earth... by collecting various items, playing with your Wii, and shaking your wrist around really fast, which should give you exercise, among other things.

"But basically you play a character who has to run around, jumping on platforms, and throwing colorful items around at your enemies--the Grzelnorpian agents. Oh, and another thing, we've retitled the game 'Obama.' It's a heck of a lot of fun, good exercise, and perfect for the whole family. So buy it, play it, have fun. Can we defeat the Grzelnorpian Empire and save the earth? Yes Wii can. Obama, from Nintendo. He looks like it a bit, too, right? With those big ears and all. That's our genetic engineers at work."