These not good people
In the first aisle there are many metal cylinders with pictures of plant-life. “Why you think have pictures on metal cylinders?” asks my partner, Rastmoff.
“Maybe cylinder filled with plant-life. They open and eat,” I reply.
Rastmoff turns a slight shade of purple as he giggles. “No, no. Plant come right from ground in earth. Pick and eat. Why put in metal cylinder? These intelligent species,” he chuckles, scooching to the next aisle. “This art. Saw in museum. Warhol.” This no seem like museum to me, but Rastmoff the expert.
Next I notice bins full of colorful fruits. Rastmoff takes red sphere-shaped fruit piece and sniffs deep. He looks confused as he hands me it. “Smells of poison.”
I bring the red orb to my nose. I can sense a poison, not strong enough to kill humans. Maybe strong enough to kill insects, but hurt humans too. We should warn them. I notice a female with wrinkle lines on her face filling her bag with the red fruit orbs. I leap over the bin and slap the fruits out of her hand. “Don’t eat! Poison!” She stumbles back a few steps and runs away. Rastmoff picks up another orb, this one yellow color, and we notice a sticker on it that says, “Product of Mexico.”
“Ohh, they bring here from Mexico country,” I state.
“Not possible. Mexico is 2,000 glikmahs away. Do you realize how much energy it would take to bring this here? Fruits are generous in northeast sector—why get from Mexico? You know little about earth peoples.”
“Maybe Mexico is their enemy and is trying to poison.”
“Yes, it is true that U.S. country loves war. Maybe this Terrorism. We must warn.”
We see a human male, not baby, but not full grown. He has mechanical device that puts stickers on rectangular boxes with pictures on them. Rastmoff struts up to him, giving a broad toothy smile. “Hello, friend, we must warn you of danger.”
I hold the yellow orb directly in front of his nose, showing him the Mexico sticker: “Terrorism!” I warn.
“Yo, I’m not in the mood. I’m just trying to do my damn job,” he says taking big steps away from us.
“We will help you!” I yell.
“Man, I can’t wait till they transfer me to the East Side,” he mutters to himself.
We investigate the boxes he was stamping. Most have faces on them. One has Olympic swimmer, Michael Phelps. “What can be in box?” I ask.
Rastmoff, the supposed expert on humans, looks like a snirock bug trying to understand Guzelmeen math equations. He picks up a box and jiggles it—it makes a rustling sound. Peering to the sides, like a sneaky weersillis, he slips a long purple fingernail into the seam of the box and opens it. He pulls out a handful of yellowish flakes. “Perhaps some type of gravel for use in garden behind house,” he suggests.
“But why Michael Phelps on box? Gravel from his house?” I ask. He sniffs the contents in his hand, then tastes it with his bluish tongue.
A horrible realization hits me and I scream, “You eat Michael Phelps!” He drops the box, contents spilling across the aisle. Two females look at us, my gaxoid senses their concern. “We love Michael Phelps,” I yell. They look at each other and hurry off.
“Not Michael Phelps. Earth people no cannibals. Tastes like dry plant-life. Maybe Michael Phelps favorite crunchy food,” says Rastmoff.
“Good,” I reply with relief.
“This food market for definite,” Rastmoff says like he so genius. I knew all along.
Going to the next aisle, the cold hits me. Rastmoff opens a case full of plastic bags full of frozen red and pink colored lumps. He sniffs, and lets out a soft moan. I take the package from him and sniff—it’s mammalian, DNA only about 11 percent different from human. “Cannibals,” Rastmoff utters.
“Cannibals,” I confer. “These not good people.”
“We not help these people with global warming and terrorism problems. There is no hope,” says Rastmoff.
“Okay, next we go Planet Gorgzion of the Intellius Galaxy.”
“Yeah, maybe they more worthy of our help.”