Posted by PK on March 12, 2002 at 16:58:27:
It all started, if you really want to know, because Albert has fans. Yes, really. A Slime
Drooling Woman Eating Toad Thing from Outer Space - Aldebaran IV to be precise - has
hordes of devoted fans. Such is Human Perversity. These strange, twisted creatures keep in
touch over the Internet. One of them, who shall remain anonymous but for the sake of
discourse we shall call 'Carrie' posted a picture of our hero on her website, shortly to be
renamed the Albert Fan Club. The picture showed him carrying a naked young woman into
his well-equipped larder to store her for future use and invited the viewer to make up a
caption. Yes, no kidding. I couldn't make this stuff up, could I? Well, judge for yourself. I'm
only his chronicler. Watson to his Holmes. Whatsisname to Dr. Johnson. You know.
HOW IT ALL BEGAN
From my journal:
"Drat, the tubes are all full! Oh well, never mind. Wake up, sweetie, I'll just have to eat you
now!"
Pretty feeble, but it's a start. Actually, it was Albert's idea. He thought he looked a bit lean in
the picture which pleased him at first as he's been worrying about his weight. Then, well, you
know how he is. "What a cutie," he muttered, drooling slightly "I'd eat her right there. Not
while she's asleep, of course. Terribly rude." One thing led to another until he was urging the
'Albert' on screen to wake the poor girl up and swallow her. I had to explain that it was just a
picture, not even an animation. He was a bit disappointed, but not so much that he wasn't
flattered at seeing himself portrayed by one of his admirers.
The only problem is, he thinks the pantry in the pic is smarter than his back home, all those
succulent beauties elegantly displayed like edible trophies. Now he wants to refurbish his own
and he's cooking up all sorts of hare-brained and possibly dangerous schemes to raise the
money - he blew the proceeds of his last royalty cheque on a dozen very expensive (and
delicious) Kuari women in a moment of self indulgence. Not a rare moment, of course. His
latest plan is to make a fortune smuggling marmalade. You might think this wouldn't be a
problem, he could just buy and sell it, but in fact it's illegal on Aldebaran IV for reasons no
rational being could understand - much like cannabis on Earth - and anyway the really good
stuff is made outside his normal hunting area. Buying the genuine article in North America
would add to his overheads, but if he could somehow sneak a few dozen crates of prime
Tiptree chunky orange out of Essex he'd be made for life. I told him he should just buy it
openly in the US and put up with the cost of importing, it wasn't worth the extra risk. Albert
isn't sure. He's gone off to reread the terms of his hunting license, the complicated bits about
what he can and can't take off Earth. He's fairly sure that if he gets caught buying marmalade
at this end, the MIB won't come down too hard on him (if they even care) but they might get
ideas about what else he's been sneaking away with.
[You see what you've started, Carrie?
Well, never mind. Hi Carrie, nice to have you back. Love the pic but how are those poor
souls without screen grabbers supposed to save it?
Oh, and always happy to be an inspiration. It's easier than working....
Cheers,
PK]
Alysand lifted her eyes from the cash register just for long enough to notice that her next
customer looked a little strange. To be precise, he seemed to be a really big toad. She didn't
want to comment, you meet lots of funny people in a delicatessen, especially late at night.
"Yes?" she inquired brightly. "What would you like?"
Albert looked around furtively. "As much marmalade as you've got," he muttered out of the
corner of his mouth.
"Marmalade?"
"Tiptree Gold, if you have it....I can pay."
Alysand stared. Ohmygawditsanalien, she thought. The Martians want our fruit perserves.
"We only have three dozen jars," her alter ego said. You know, the part that wasn't wetting
herself. Cute and warty. Boogaloo.
"Tiptree?" the alien insisted.
"Genuine," Alysand assured him. Humour the Thing.
The batrachian reached under his filthy raincoat. "American Express or gold?"
"Gold card?" Alysande was fizzing.
"Bullion. Heavy metal."
It was difficult to decide. There was an awkward pause.
"Or I could just eat you," Albert offered helpfully. "I'm sure you'd like it." After all, money
wasn't everything. He stuck his tongue out. This could be interpreted in a number of ways.
Alysand groaned involuntarily. This was just too much. Another difficult customer. First he
wanted one thing, then another. Stop it girl, she told herself, realising the unreality of the
situation was edging her towards hysteria. Or something like that. She gulped and, for a beat,
just stared at the apparition, uncertain how to react.
Albert groaned inwardly. Why did he have to say that? All that effort put into locating a shop
that sold what he wanted and opened late, in a fairly quiet part of town. Getting here
unnoticed, even for a Space Toad skilled in stealth, had been risky and difficult. Straining his
powers of empathic projection he had almost fuddled her into accepting the situation as
normal. And now, because he had blurted out a premature proposition, because he couldn't
resist the call of his appetites, the shopgirl was probably going to start screaming, call the
police, run away...
He'd blown it. He wouldn't get what he'd come for, he'd be lucky to get away unscathed.
There wouldn't be any point trying to catch her if she ran, an Aldebaranian couldn't catch an
alerted human female in her own habitat, they were too fast and agile.
Undecided for a moment, he just froze and stared back. "Er..." he said, hoping an idea would
cross his mind if he started speaking, "I just meant..er...." Brilliant.
Alysand's mind was racing in all directions, stripping its gears. Try to pull it together. No point
hitting the panic button, the police never came in time, she'd seen the films. Besides, the
alien doubtless had some high-tech device that disabled the alarms and the phone lines.
Maybe...
She played for time. Gulping convulsively, she spoke at last. Her voice sounded high and
over-bright. "You'll...uh...eat me if I don't give you the..ah...?"
That wasn't what Albert had meant at all, but at least she wasn't screaming. Albert had no
idea why she hadn't called for help, he had no illegal ET-tech weaponry, it would have
violated the terms of his hunting license, even if he'd actually been hunting her, which for
once he wasn't. He was slightly relieved. It was all just a misunderstanding. "No, not at all,
really, I only meant..." Uh oh. Don't say it.
Alysand tried to help. "You'll eat me if I DO give you the...uh...?" What was it? Oh yes.
Should I give him the stuff or not? It was a toughie. Hello hysteria.
This is getting ridiculous, Albert thought. I should have said yes, she seemed to be going with
it. I could have bluffed, got the stuff for nothing. Now what? The other, other operation? He
couldn't think what to say. "Marmalade," he heard himself say. An odd sensation crept over
him.
Alysand started to giggle. "You're not very good at this, are you?" she spluttered between
gulps. "New monster on the block?" She cracked up again.
That's not fair, Albert thought indignantly, his warts reddening. "I'm a very good hunter," he
protested. "I'm just not used to smuggling."
"Smuggling?" For some reason this made the girl worse. She seemed to be having
convulsions. "You're smuggling, what, marmalade?"
"I just wanted to upgrade my larder," he tried to explain, "I needed the money, so...."
"You turned to crime." It was an effort to gasp this out. "Normally you just eat people, of
course."
One of the reasons Albert liked humans was their sense of humour. That and the fact that
their women were delicious, of course. Most Aldebaranians were a dour lot, Albert found
them a little stuffy and dull after he had travelled. Hardly a snigger in a cartload. He began to
get into the spirit of things, only dimly aware that his slender empathic link with the girl
snapped into place as he relaxed and stopped taking himself so seriously. "Of course. I eat
lots of people," he said in a light, bantering tone, mocking his own embarrassment.
Alysand couldn't help liking a man with a self-deprecating sense of humour and a British
accent. She had no way of knowing that it was a product of the program running on the
alien's neural interface translator/vocoder, or the effect the feedback from that had on his
mind, adding to his empathic link with her and feeding back again. Strange loops. Nor could
she (would she) ever know the degree to which watching old Ealing comedies and Monty
Python had warped the alien's consciousness.
Folie a deux. QED. The Vulcan has landed. Contact. Fishhook.
"Oh? How exactly do you do that?" Alysand had adopted Albert's own mocking tone. She was
out from behind the counter. Show me, her posture said.
Gulp. "Well, you'll have to close the door," Albert suggested. He was intoxicated and
confident in his Loki-Lucifer mode. Suave Devilish Joker, Terry-Thomas, thank you! Back at
the roots, his dismal Aldebaranian swamp-self told him 'No fucking chance.' He ignored it.
Aysande walked over to the front door. She knew that she was mad as a hatter. She locked
the door and changed the sign from 'open' to 'closed'. She watched herself grabbing a bottle
of wine off the rack and inviting the Space Thing to join her in a drink. She sat on the counter
and said, "Grab a brew." She swung her legs.
Albert was enraptured. Any moment now her shoes would fall off, he was sure. Then he'd see
her toes and then...night follows day. He couldn't be responsible for his actions. No jury
would convict him. No jury would need to, he reminded himself. I'm a Space Monster, they'll
just marmalise me.
"Help yourself," Alysand said.
Albert grabbed a six pack of Miller Lite and poured them all down his throat. This operation
was not going to plan at all. His trans/prog/voc whatever (oh, look it up, work it out for
yourself, do what thou wilt) took his mouth by the horns. "Got any REAL beer?" he said. Oh
well, go with the flow....
There wasn't any. Still, there was an abundance of liquids with alcohol in and those sufficed.
Albert relaxed a little. Have a break, have a Kit-Kat. Stalking (or smuggling) was thirsty work.
He downed a gallon of Californian Rose. Tried not to imagine the girl's bare toes. And all the
things they led up to.
"I'm Alysande", Alysande said.
"I'm Albert", Albert said. He expected some ironic comment, none was forthcoming. What a
Lady.
"Hungry?"
"Just a bit." Albert licked his lips.
Flickering limbs, bare almost to the waist. That female human agility. How do they DO that?
Alysand swung herself off the counter and grabbed a jar of marmalade from a shelf.
Just as easy as that! She was holding a whole pound jar, a fortune. She (the connection, the
epitome of desirability) unscrewed the top and stuck in a finger irreverently. Albert watched in
fascination as she stuck the finger in her mouth.
"Not bad," she said. "Try some?" She stuck in her finger again and offered a blob of orange
jam.
Just say no, Albert thought. Rationally, he knew that it wasn't addictive but he couldn't
entirely shake off the burden of the horror stories. True Marmalites would kill for the stuff, the
official line went.
Albert was a creature of appetite. He could resist anything but temptation. He stuck out his
tongue and tasted. A riot of sensation expoded in his brain. Fingertip. Female fingertip with
sauce on. Such a sauce....
Not quite knowing how it had happened, Albert found himself recounting his adventures in
excruciating detail. To his gratified satisfaction, Alysand listened as if entranced.
A drop of the elixir dripped onto Alysand's foot as he talked. He wanted it. Somewhere along
the way her shoes had fallen off. He'd KNOWN that would happen. Dare he?
"Timeline split," Buffy reported. The Professor checked the instruments. "I've got a bad
feeling about this. It may be a rough landing."
"Not to worry," Sam said. "I'll just get my sword."
"I don't quite see how that will help," the Prof said.
"That's why I'm here," Sam said. "Swords always work." It was a family tradition. She
grinned, and the expression had the look of her father in it.
The Marmalade had suspended Albert's time sense. It stopped, slowed, reversed and lurched
sideways. Anastasia. In Elsewhere a Wardrobe Door swung open.
A drop of the elixir dripped onto Alysand's foot as he talked. He wanted it. Somewhere along
the way her shoes had fallen off. Dare he? Who Dares Wins. On the other hand, the early
worm gets the bird. Or the bird gets the early worm. Be the second mouse. The second
mouse gets the cheese.
Toes with liquid gold on. And the chunky bits. God is in the chunky bits, he was sure he'd
heard that somewhere. Albert came down a fraction. Helen of Troy. Not quite. GOOD stuff!
Oh, his vocoder/translator was still telling stories. Or he was. Hard to tell with no time sense
meaning all of the above happened inbetween the lines. Timelines. For a split nanosecond
Albert almost believed he understood what he was thinking. Fortunately his mouth was
disconnected from his superego. Alysand still listened as if entranced. She liked his stories!
The precious drop of Tiptree gold was sliding off her swinging foot. Albert had to rescue it. He
just had to, if all the barbed briars on Achernar barred his way. His tongue had a will of its
own. He licked the second hit as it slid down her bare instep. Tasted. Seeded with exotic
aromas and just a little bit of orange peel.
"You ate them all, right?"
Albert started.
"An entire Japanese volleyball team?"
Still here, Albert thought, not halfway through Jupiter. Bloody hell, this stuff really worked.
"Not all of them," he heard himself saying. "It wasn't that simple."
Alysand had sensed Albert's enjoyment as he licked her foot with that cute, slithery tongue. It
tickled her all the way up. What a Bad Boy. Marmalade or Me? Sauce for the goose? Or...
Oh help. Can I possibly be jealous of three dozen jars of fruit preserves?
She wasn't aware in any logical way of the effects of the empathic feedback. She was Don
Juan's reckless daughter.
Albert, tale teller extraordinaire, was becoming aware of an all too familar sensation,
amplified to a transcendent degree. Trying to suppress it was futile, but given his dietary
predilections it could ruin his mission here. His Grand Quest. How long ago did I start thinkig
in capitals, he wondered.
He was about to get an attack of the munchies.
"The bad news," Buffy said, "Is that we - that is, the Anastasia - is - are? Um. In three or
more places at once. This may constitute a bad landing."
"Places or times?" the Prof inquired mildly. "How many?"
Buffy shrugged. "No way to tell. The locator is calibrated in a language that enumerates 'One,
Two, Many'. That's what you get for incorporating pre-Sumerian concepts in Quantum
physics. Just don't open the door. You might not be able to get back in the same way."
"Been there, done that, got the hauberk," Sam said. "Let me out. Places to go, monsters to
slay." She finished polishing her father's sword and sheathed it.
Three sheets in the wind, Albert reached the bit about the pointed stick and experienced a
moment of anxiety. Flash forward. Seriously pointed sticks. Humans had a thing about them.
Cold steel. Excalibur. He trembled. Need more marmalade he thought.
Alysande was halfway down his throat before he remembered.
(How did I get here?) Alysande wondered. The Space Toad thing had slipped his tongue up
her dress -she had no panties on - and somehow one thing had led to another. Try to
remember...
Later, Albert was unable to decide what had really happened after the timequakes. Was it the
arrival of the timeship or just a marmalade flashback? He'd picked up the cue when he
recounted the story of Mariko and the Squid.
How?
Oh, yes.
Halfway through eating Alysand he had realised that he couldn't get down the cellar steps to
get the rest of it. No more marmalade. Doom.
The Space Toad thing had slipped his tongue up her dress -she had no panties on - and
somehow one thing had led to another. Alysand slipped her dress over her head. She knew
she was crazy but there was nothing she could do about it. "How do you eat people?" she
asked. "Like this?" She opened her legs and preened. The tongue penetrated her and she
moaned in ecstasy or despair.
Albert realised that he couldn't get down the cellar steps to get the rest of it. No more
marmalade. But....he/she got a grip on itself.
"Er," Albert said "Would you mind getting out and..." it was embarrassing. He didn't want to
offend her. "Bringing me the....um.."
Alysand grunted in relief or disappointment. She levered herself out of Albert's mouth. How
had she got in there? Naked and slippery with Space Toad saliva she went about her errand.
It was her duty as a conscientious shopkeeper.
Samantha arose from the stellar cellar steps bearing arms. Bare arms. Loaded for bear. Four
bears. One, the dwarf-wrought hauberk, two, Andvaranaut, three, the jewel-encrusted
bracelet on her left arm, four, the bright blade of her forebears in her right hand. She was
spoiling for a fight.
There was nothing. Too late, she realised. Scent of something swampy, orange and other
essential juices assailed her senses. Time out.
Oh sugar, she thought. She had stepped in something sticky. She looked closer..
Just then, the door was kicked in and three large gentlemen attired in natty black suits
arrived. One of them pointed a weapon at her. Or so it seemed.
"Take it easy, lady," the newcomer said. "Just put it down, nice and easy."
Suspicions confirmed. "America?" Sam inquired politely, not lowering her blade at all.
"Just put down the pig-sticker," her interlocutor demanded. He made a gesture Sam assumed
was supposed to be threatening.
"Stupid question, right. When, exactly?"
"You've got three seconds," was the unhelpful reply she got.
"Until what?" Sam said irritably. "I meant, what time is it. To the second. Who are you people
anyway, the marmalade police?" She moved her right hand into guard position. That's when
somebody shot her, and not with a projectile weapon. Interesting.
This is getting really weird, Sam thought. The shot had no effect. The Poltroyan dwarf-
wrought hauberk she wore (those little guys did good work) was proof against most kinetic
energy weapons and most EM field effects. She fought down an urge to chop the heads off
these idiots - her father would have done it without a second thought - and - oh fuck it. Why
bother?
"If that's all you have to say, I'm off," she said. "See you last Tuesday."
She hoped the Anastasia was still partially anchored. Maybe Dr Summerfield had been right,
she should have waited. On the other hand, she had evidence that might help. Not entirely a
wasted trip. Before she left, Buffy had told her the other anchor was about thirteen minutes
ago and roughly in the same space. Then something about a regression but she'd always had
problems with recursive functions. Too heavy.
Alysand grunted in relief or disappointment. She levered herself out of Albert's mouth. How
had she got in there? Naked and slippery with Space Toad saliva she went about her errand.
It was her duty as a conscientious shopkeeper.
Alysand was sitting on the counter when Albert licked her foot. Alysand sensed Albert's
enjoyment as he licked her foot with that cute, slithery tongue. It tickled her all the way up.
What a Bad Boy. Marmalade or Me? Sauce for the goose? Or...hang on a minute. She had
an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Destiny? Not exactly that either. Alysand slipped her
dress over her head. "How do you eat people?" she asked. "Like this?" She opened her legs
and preened. The tongue penetrated her and she moaned in ecstasy or despair. Again.
Albert enjoyed the furry sensation on his tongue as he slipped it into Alysand. All the way up
to her cervix.
"What happens next?" Alysand asked, panting. She knew she was crazy but there was
nothing she could do about it. Her bare feet braced themselves against the Space Toad's
head. Her elbows were on the counter, her head thrown back, opening the throat. She knew
perfectly well what was next. She'd been getting ready for it, listening to Albert's stories.
"Ah, well," Albert mumbled, "If you'd just put your legs together - only a bit - "
Alysand relaxed and a pair of scaly forelimbs took her by the ankles. Popped her feet into the
pretty froggie's mouth.
"I shouldn't really be doing this," Albert said as he sucked her up. "I didn't mean.."
"I know."
"It's just..."
to be continued
"It's going to take more than a formal solution," Sam said. "We don't have time."
"Dear child, time is all we have," the Prof said. "Beginning with..."
Commentary:
[The answer is as suspected, as he showed the golden deadly toe the utmost in respect for
her work, and freely boasted of works,
the sea and board steward directly labeled him a stoned space toad in gratitude and blew him
to green wind as usual.
thanx
As he departed for good with his point made firmly, he left assured that this side of the block
was already in control by the new
boss, the same as the old boss, but widely accepted here.
It was test.
On the final exit, he realized doing the right thing has no meaning on a communication level,
when the scamming stewardess's eat
at the same tacobell on the same block and have the same friends, as the golden deadly
barefoot babe, that had to buy the same
ole song and dance my friends, as long as golden bed just had bad wiring that day...and no
phone. Communication and respect at
any level may come in handy when the supernatual come a knockin again, K.]
AASLEAGH.: A liqueur made only for drinking at the end of a revoltingly long bottle party
when all of the drinkable drink has been....
Albert reached for the last jar. Not the good stuff, just Robertson's, but so old it still had the
golliwog on it. That alone made it a collector's item.
Drunk. DA. The meaning of Liff. (DA, SK) Doa. Doh.
"Fuck, stoned again," Albert thought. Again? When was I before?? Feedback from his NN
translator. It knew where it was even if he didn't. That was the precise moment when he
premoted that a daughter of Ishtar was coming for him. Of course, he didn't know what one
of those was exactly but he intuited it and then built it up logically from the feel. As you do. It
added up to get the fuck out of here, and he had no cause to doubt his conclusion. Deja Vu.
Where was Alysand? he wondered. Inside or outside? Is there a difference? Yup, definitely.
Off my trolley.
"Oh dear me, they've killed Apophis again," the Prof said.
Buffy was never sure whether the comment was inspired by the TV show or the hash in his
briar. He had settled down in a battered armchair to contemplate the problem in his own way,
while Dr. Summerfield did it in hers. His (apparent?) lack of a sense of urgency was perhaps
due to his unconventional view of time. Not unreasonable, given his history, but a pain in the
ass at times. She had run the diagnostic a thousand times but still couldn't pin down the
source of the disturbance.. she shook her head. Cobwebs. Burnt orange peel.
"We're still destabilising," she said, trying to keep the carping tone out of her voice. Shouldn't
we DO something instead of goofing out in front of the goggle box? she didn't say.
"Sitrep," the Prof snapped. "Condensed." Then he added, more mildly, "Nice tits."
Buffy attempted to reconcile this. Contact trip? Exhaustion? Lucid dream? Refocus. She had
been working on the Annie's faulty reality anchor for how many hours? Need a drink. Half a
pint of one department of her mind almost decided to say "Chauvinist pig." The other half
was working on 'Thanks" but abandoned the idea when she saw that he wasn't looking at her.
Some bitch on the screen. Bloody hell, that rejuv, the hormones....should have known...
Definitely need a rest.
Sitrep? Where was he getting this carp? No, crap. Carp, crap, frogspawn.
REALLY, Definitely need a rest.
"Albert, we really have to do something," she said. "The Annie is looping and the recursions
are causing time branches. Anchor points are breeding, back, forth and sideways. I don't
know if Sam will be able to get back in. She's overdue."
"My name isn't Albert," the Prof pointed out. "And don't worry overmuch, Sam always finds
her way home."
What is she, a cat? Buffy wondered. Just then, the wardrobe door slammed open and our
heroine burst in.
"Okayyyy...Pops, back thirteen minutes. No, better make it..."
Sam frowned. "Fifteen? Twenty three?" She paused.
The Prof gazed at her fondly. "More alien invasions?"
Sam stared back. Her sword should have been covered in green slime. But she hadn't...not
yet. If ever. Okay...
"Timeline shock," the Prof said. "Cup of tea?"
Buffy stared at both of them as if they had transformed into grasshoppers. "You do this all the
time?" she inquired.
"Not on Thursdays," Sam said, coming to herself. "That's when I polish my sword and
worship Thor. Look, Pops, we have to go back. See if you can get the door into the thirteen
minutes ago mode again."
"I thought it was Ishtar," Buffy muttered. "I'm not big on theology."
"That was my mother. Or will be. I'm a Daddy's girl. Prof?"
The Professors mien was sober. Stoned, but sober. "I don't think we can do it," he said. "I'm
sorry. We have to preserve the timeline."
"But the girl, she gets eaten. Has done, will do. You know. We have to save her."
"Sam, we're causing a vortex. We have to get out of it now, or..."
"Or what?"
"Save who?" Buffy wondered.
"Shit, I don't know. There's a space monster and some weirdos with asynchronous or
anachronistic tech, and I'm pretty sure..."
How was she sure? Had she already been there? Anomalies all over the hog show.
"We're causing it," the Prof said. "This isn't our own timeline, I suspect. Our presence here is
disrupting it."
"Which means?"
"The end of the Universe," Buffy said. She was on familiar theoretical ground. "This one,
anyway."