The word “invader” can never not strike, like the shit-eating grin of Clive Cussler, a phantom shot to my kidneys. He lives behind the eyelids with a face recessed and wispy phosphorescent red, all dressed up for a nice Sunday brunch out in the Sahara with a cameraman, some old automobile I am too poor to recognize offhand, and Tim Curry from Legend.
Clive could scavenge Humanity from the bones of those that come back, but why would he, when he can pillage it from those he lays down? Time flows strangely at the Saharan Motorcar Exhibition and Brunch. Machines of old phase in and out. When your car quits on you at the base of a sand dune the stranger behind you pushes your vehicle up to the top with his own. He will not speak a word.
But sometimes, that stranger’s car is worth as much as a small house, and Clive Cussler’s inscrutable, shit-eating grin is behind the wheel. Then you’re fucked.
Another piece from a prompt that I cleaned up a bit. The exercise was to write about two unrelated things, one serious and one not-so-serious, then combine the two.