The Address
By Allen Guo
The numerous reporters gathered around the Field Marshal’s podium, their microphones and handheld recorders held close to the podium so that every crystalline word or phrase the Field Marshal uttered would be caught on record forever. The Field Marshal opened his mouth.
“No, I don’t believe that the aliens are enemies. They are here simply to enjoy and learn the ways of humans.” Silence rang eloquently through the room. An audience member coughed. A European emissary raised his hand. “Yes?” asked the Field Marshal.
The European emissary stood as tall as he could, straightened his tie, and broke into an emotional speech about how the aliens might be a threat to the European wool market, eventually ending the tediously long monologue with, “And so, please consider it, ladies and gentlemen: What if they bomb our sheep?” The Field Marshal sighed and let General Willis and General Kohl take over the podium. The European emissary sat down hard in his chair.
“Have no fear,” droned the General Willis when he reached the podium. “The Wool Committee has issued an alert. Fighter jets and tanks are protecting our sheep farms at this very moment.” General Kohl continued, “We’ve also tripled security on all of the processing plants within five hundred miles of the capital. Armed guards are ready day and night to defend the wool industry with their very lives.” The European emissary stood again, breaking into a new speech on how the current security would not be sufficient to defend the market from the aliens.
The Field Marshal returned to the podium and called, “Order!” Senior General Zephyr, who was sitting right next to the Field Marshal, waved his arms frantically. The European emissary sat down once more, and made a vivid move of wiping his forehead with a cloth.
An Asian emissary rose next, presenting his problem. “But my good Sir,” cried he. “What if the aliens disrupt the flow of international trade?” The Field Marshal was about to let the two Generals take over again, but the attendees of the meeting went ballistic.
“What if they bomb our turkeys?” questioned the Australian emissary as he gazed sternly at the Field Marshal through his Aviator sunglasses.
“And what about our coffee trees?” exclaimed the South American emissary. “Our coffee market would collapse!” The audience gasped. Senior General Zephyr, from his seat right next to the Field Marshal, shrieked at the very thought of losing the coffee industry. The Field Marshal grumbled a few swear words. The reporters fled the room in the fear that the Field Marshal might revoke their High-Priority Reporter Permits.
Just as the Field Marshal was thinking of pressing the red button behind his podium to blow up the sheep, turkeys, and coffee trees himself when an alien burst through the doors and walked toward the Field Marshal briskly on his twelve feet and arms. His eyes were round with curiosity, but his forehead was lined with determination. His teeth hung over his lip, and his body was clay-red. A long, slimy tail slid along the floor after him, scratching a long, crimson mark into the floor.
The security men gasped, frozen in fear. The emissaries watched in horror as the alien approached the Field Marshal. The Field Marshal, however, said nothing, sat firmly in his gold-rimmed seat, and kept a blank expression. Senior General Zephyr, who was sitting by the Field Marshal, shuddered in fright, and ducked under a table.
The alien walked straight up to the Field Marshal, and without a word, he raised one of his arms.
He twirled his fingers.
And, in all glory, he poked the Field Marshal on the forehead.
A bizarre sucking noise echoed throughout the chamber. An infinitesimal, scarlet bump rose from the Field Marshal’s forehead. The Field Marshal smirked.
“Sic semper tyrannis.”
Suddenly, people came out of their trances. The sniper on the roof attempted to fire through the skylights with his Super-Snipe 5000 Special Edition, only to find that it had jammed. He quickly pulled out another gun and fired.
The bullet struck the alien, and the alien fell to the ground. Senior General Zephyr ran for cover. Guards ran forward, only to step back again as a blue-green blood trickled out of the alien’s side.
In the midst of all the commotion, the Field Marshal was momentarily forgotten. Suddenly, the Field Marshal started changing. A bulging set of eight eyes popped out of his forehead. Antennae sprouted from his head. His four arms and legs turned into twelve, and his skin turned rusty red. His smile widened.
“Look! Look!” cried the emissaries to Senior General Zephyr, pointing at the Field Marshal, who was now fully transformed. The Field Marshal’s twelve arms twisted through the air. As he walked toward the others, he tripped on the table behind which Senior General Zephyr was hiding. He looked just in time to see the Field Marshal fall over him. Nine-hundred pounds of alien muscle and fat landed on the Senior General, ending his long and illustrious career.
---
“VICTORY” flashed on the computer screen. The little boy sighed. He had finally beaten Level 17. He powered off the computer with one of his twelve arms and legs. He wiped the sweat from his rust-red skin. He yawned. As he climbed into bed, he heard his mom shout from downstairs, “Goodnight! Don’t let the humans bite!”
- - -
Allen Guo lives in Potomac, Maryland, where nine out of ten people own luxury automobiles; the tenth has a private helicopter. Unfortunately, Mr.Guo can barely drive, much less fly a helicopter.
By Allen Guo
The numerous reporters gathered around the Field Marshal’s podium, their microphones and handheld recorders held close to the podium so that every crystalline word or phrase the Field Marshal uttered would be caught on record forever. The Field Marshal opened his mouth.
“No, I don’t believe that the aliens are enemies. They are here simply to enjoy and learn the ways of humans.” Silence rang eloquently through the room. An audience member coughed. A European emissary raised his hand. “Yes?” asked the Field Marshal.
The European emissary stood as tall as he could, straightened his tie, and broke into an emotional speech about how the aliens might be a threat to the European wool market, eventually ending the tediously long monologue with, “And so, please consider it, ladies and gentlemen: What if they bomb our sheep?” The Field Marshal sighed and let General Willis and General Kohl take over the podium. The European emissary sat down hard in his chair.
“Have no fear,” droned the General Willis when he reached the podium. “The Wool Committee has issued an alert. Fighter jets and tanks are protecting our sheep farms at this very moment.” General Kohl continued, “We’ve also tripled security on all of the processing plants within five hundred miles of the capital. Armed guards are ready day and night to defend the wool industry with their very lives.” The European emissary stood again, breaking into a new speech on how the current security would not be sufficient to defend the market from the aliens.
The Field Marshal returned to the podium and called, “Order!” Senior General Zephyr, who was sitting right next to the Field Marshal, waved his arms frantically. The European emissary sat down once more, and made a vivid move of wiping his forehead with a cloth.
An Asian emissary rose next, presenting his problem. “But my good Sir,” cried he. “What if the aliens disrupt the flow of international trade?” The Field Marshal was about to let the two Generals take over again, but the attendees of the meeting went ballistic.
“What if they bomb our turkeys?” questioned the Australian emissary as he gazed sternly at the Field Marshal through his Aviator sunglasses.
“And what about our coffee trees?” exclaimed the South American emissary. “Our coffee market would collapse!” The audience gasped. Senior General Zephyr, from his seat right next to the Field Marshal, shrieked at the very thought of losing the coffee industry. The Field Marshal grumbled a few swear words. The reporters fled the room in the fear that the Field Marshal might revoke their High-Priority Reporter Permits.
Just as the Field Marshal was thinking of pressing the red button behind his podium to blow up the sheep, turkeys, and coffee trees himself when an alien burst through the doors and walked toward the Field Marshal briskly on his twelve feet and arms. His eyes were round with curiosity, but his forehead was lined with determination. His teeth hung over his lip, and his body was clay-red. A long, slimy tail slid along the floor after him, scratching a long, crimson mark into the floor.
The security men gasped, frozen in fear. The emissaries watched in horror as the alien approached the Field Marshal. The Field Marshal, however, said nothing, sat firmly in his gold-rimmed seat, and kept a blank expression. Senior General Zephyr, who was sitting by the Field Marshal, shuddered in fright, and ducked under a table.
The alien walked straight up to the Field Marshal, and without a word, he raised one of his arms.
He twirled his fingers.
And, in all glory, he poked the Field Marshal on the forehead.
A bizarre sucking noise echoed throughout the chamber. An infinitesimal, scarlet bump rose from the Field Marshal’s forehead. The Field Marshal smirked.
“Sic semper tyrannis.”
Suddenly, people came out of their trances. The sniper on the roof attempted to fire through the skylights with his Super-Snipe 5000 Special Edition, only to find that it had jammed. He quickly pulled out another gun and fired.
The bullet struck the alien, and the alien fell to the ground. Senior General Zephyr ran for cover. Guards ran forward, only to step back again as a blue-green blood trickled out of the alien’s side.
In the midst of all the commotion, the Field Marshal was momentarily forgotten. Suddenly, the Field Marshal started changing. A bulging set of eight eyes popped out of his forehead. Antennae sprouted from his head. His four arms and legs turned into twelve, and his skin turned rusty red. His smile widened.
“Look! Look!” cried the emissaries to Senior General Zephyr, pointing at the Field Marshal, who was now fully transformed. The Field Marshal’s twelve arms twisted through the air. As he walked toward the others, he tripped on the table behind which Senior General Zephyr was hiding. He looked just in time to see the Field Marshal fall over him. Nine-hundred pounds of alien muscle and fat landed on the Senior General, ending his long and illustrious career.
---
“VICTORY” flashed on the computer screen. The little boy sighed. He had finally beaten Level 17. He powered off the computer with one of his twelve arms and legs. He wiped the sweat from his rust-red skin. He yawned. As he climbed into bed, he heard his mom shout from downstairs, “Goodnight! Don’t let the humans bite!”
- - -
Allen Guo lives in Potomac, Maryland, where nine out of ten people own luxury automobiles; the tenth has a private helicopter. Unfortunately, Mr.Guo can barely drive, much less fly a helicopter.
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