The Bleeding Man (7 page)

"Wake up,
great-grandfather!" shouted great-grand­son.

"Boy, he really is
in lousy shape, ain't he?" said great-grandmother.

"Who? What?" said
great-grandfather.

"We already
covered that already!" groaned great-grandson.

Grudgingly,
great-grandfather awoke. He rubbed his eyes. From a distance, there was a strange whooshing
noise.

"Who's that
whooshing around my place of business!" roared the old man.

"It's the white
men come to throw me in the slam­mer!" yelled great-grandson for the third or fourth
time.

"No kidding," said
great-grandfather. He didn't seem particularly concerned. "By the way," asked the old man, "what
the hell is a slammer?"

"That's a white
man's jail," replied the boy.

"Well! Why the
hell didn't you say so in the first place! You idiot! I thought a slammer was a—"

Great-grandson was
never to know what the old man thought a slammer was because the white men arrived in a strange
vehicle without wheels.

"It's the white
men come to throw our one and only great-grandson into the slammer," said great-grand­mother. But
as she said it she had doubts. For one thing, they had tentacles and were blue. She'd seen some
ugly white people in her day but none quite as ugly as the two specimens who had just come into
view.

Great-grandson
threw his hands up in the air, screamed at least once and ran like hell. He disap­peared behind
an outcropping of rock.

"What's wrong with
him?" asked great-grandfather. "Did he sit on a cold worm? Where's he going?"

"It's the white
men come to throw our one and only great-grandson into the slammer," repeated great-grandmother,
and she motioned at the aliens embark­ing from the vehicle. He followed her arm with his weak
eyes and saw them vaguely.

Great-grandfather
snorted. "You think I don't know what they are? I got eyes, you know." He blinked his eyes
uncertainly. For some reason, the blurry forms in front of him seemed suspiciously blue. He
attributed this to indigestion.

The aliens
advanced on the seated couple. The aliens

A
Sunday Visit
with Great-grandfather

were six feet
tall, covered with blue scaly armor. They had eye bulbs on each side of their faces, thin slit
mouths, red eye membranes across red-pupiled eyes. They were .clothed in a superior
smirk.

"So you think
you're going to throw my one and only great-grandson into the slammer, do you?" roared
great-grandfather. He immediately went into a cough­ing fit. Great-grandmother began pumping his
back in the usual fashion.

"What's a
slammer?" said the first alien. He eyed the old man, who was bent over double, gasping and
coughing with his tongue hanging out.

"Boy, he's really
in lousy shape, ain't he?" com­mented the first alien.

"Yeah," said the
second alien. "This is going to be easier than making candy out of babies."

The first alien
took a hand weapon out of a pouch strapped below his chin. He set the gauge on stun. "This is
going to be the easiest one yet. No technology worth shaking a quantum at. No force fields, no
per­sonal power packs, no weapons. Clothes made out of animal skins. Primitive." He aimed the
weapon at great­grandfather and shot him in the head, laughing to himself all the
while.

It had absolutely
no effect on the old man. He just kept coughing. The first alien turned and stared at the second
alien. "Wow!" he said.

"Yeah," agreed the
second alien. A good stun shot was strong enough to cripple a five-ton herbil.

Great-grandfather
coughed, and great-grandmother pounded his back, and great-grandson hid in the rocks, viewing the
proceedings with alarm.

"My stunner must
be out of whack. Lemme use yours," grunted the first alien.

The second alien
handed it over to him. The first alien set it on stun and shot the old man again. Noth­ing
happened. The old man didn't even blink an eye. He was too busy trying to get his breath
back.

"Hey!" said the
first alien, whipping his tentacles in a confused circle around his shoulders. "Hey!"

The second alien
nodded his head. "Yeah."

"Am I gonna get
him now!" threatened the first alien, setting his tentacles determinedly around the hand weapon.
He set the stunner on full charge, moved the power setting to overload and blasted away at the
old man again. The only thing that happened was that the weapon overheated and melted into a
shapeless hunk of hot metal. It burned the alien's tentacle. He yelped and threw the useless
weapon away. He waved his stinging tentacle in the air. He looked madder than hell. He looked at
the second alien, who looked right back at him.

"We didn't get the
wrong planet, did we? I mean, I've seen technology and I've seen technology, but this is beyond
me. How come he ain't dead, is what I want to know?"

"I can't
understand it either," said the second alien. "We flew over the missile base. They had atomic
weap­ons. Real kid stuff. No force fields, no antimatter weap­ons. Prepubescent technology. So
how come this one is so hard to kill?"

"I'll nail him
with my molecular disruption gun," said the first alien as he took a small metal tube out of his
neck pouch. "He won't know what hit him." He smirked, but his smirk lacked conviction.

Great-grandfather
sat weakly on his favorite sitting rock. He'd got his breath back finally. Great-grand­mother had
her eyes on the ugly white men. She couldn't understand anything they were saying. None of it
made any sense. This helped convince her that they were indeed white people.

"Stop burping me!"
growled great-grandfather. She stopped whacking his back.

The gun in the
alien's tentacles erupted in a silvery-red flash and a brilliant beam of energy passed through
great-grandfather and completely destroyed his favorite sitting rock. It disappeared in a
shimmering cloud of vaporized molecules. Great-grandfather fell flat on his back. He was so
shocked he almost went into another coughing fit.

"Hey!" shouted the
first alien, whipping tentacles in all directions, entangling two of them in his confusion.
"Hey!"

The second alien
was too shocked to even say yeah.

"That does it!"
shouted great-grandfather, struggling to get off the ground. "I'm going to teach you crazy white
people to mess with me! Throw my one and only great-grandson into the slammer, will
you?"

"What's a
slammer?" said the first alien. "Are we talking the right language or what?"

"I'm going to hit
you with the dreaded curse of Cheroboa! I'll knock your rooty-tooty eyes out!" ex­claimed
great-grandfather, dangerously close to an­other coughing fit.

Great-grandmother
covered her eyes. "Oh, no! Not that old song and dance again!"

"Maybe they put up
that missile base to fool us," suggested the second alien. "Maybe those radio broad­casts we
picked up twenty years ago are true? Maybe this guy is Superman?"

"Hoogma nubo
toot!" roared great-grandfather, and he made a mystic pass through the air with his hands. He
looked around expectantly. Nothing happened.

"Nuts!" he said.
"I was sure I had it right."

"Who is kidding
whom?" asked the first alien. He eyed the old man critically, studying him first with one eye
bulb and then the other.

"Where's his cape?
Superman got to have a cape," said the first alien. "How we gonna find out if he's
Superman?"

"Hoogma toot
nuba." It began raining in downtown Los Angeles. "Ah, come on now!" complained great­grandfather.
"I know I had it right that time!" He stared at the sky expectantly.

The second alien
pulled a handful of weapons out of his pouch, rummaging frantically for something at the bottom.
He pulled out a hunk of kryptonite and threw it at the old man. They had prepared for everything,
even Superman. It passed right through him and fell to the ground.

"He must be the
Green Hornet!" said the first alien, all his tentacles agog at the prospect. "Or Captain Marvel!
Or all of them!"

"Well, toot hoogma
nuba!" roared great-grandfather without much conviction. Suddenly the sky opened up and it began
raining frogs.

"Nuts!" said
great-grandfather, thoroughly disgusted with the whole business. Frogs pelted off the heads of
the aliens. They were too stunned by this sudden turn of events to even duck.

"I give it one
more try," said great-grandfather. Great-grandmother, who had been crouching behind her sitting
rock, poked her head up from behind the rock and looked rather dubiously at the sky. "He never
learns and he never remembers either," she muttered under her breath.

A frog bounced off
great-grandfather's head, almost knocking him to the ground.

"And, boy, is he
in lousy shape!" she added.

"I heard that,"
roared great-grandfather, and he went into a violent coughing fit.

The second alien
began packing up his weapons meekly. "I think we just better go home and forget about the whole
invasion. I think we better leave be­fore he notices we're here and does something to us we'll
regret. Did we ever get the wrong planet!"

The first alien
was staring at a frog resting on his shoulder. He was scared to death to touch it. He'd heard
about warts. The frog returned his stare and then hopped off his shoulder. The alien almost
collapsed with relief.

The sky stopped
dropping frogs.

"This ain't no
technology to be fooling with! Let's get the hell out of here! Man! Am I glad we decided to hit
the sticks first!"

"I can't
understand it. It should have worked. I can't figure out what went wrong. That curse always
worked on chickens," said great-grandfather.

"It could have
been worse," said the first alien. "We could have landed in Cleveland."

"Or met the Lone
Ranger," added the other alien, a look of pure horror on his face.

The aliens turned
in full flight and ran to their vehicle. They jumped in, dropping weapons carelessly in their
haste to get away.

"Take a good
look," said the first alien as he slammed the power bar into gear. "Sure doesn't look like a
super-technology, does it? I'd swear there wasn't a weapon or self-defense mechanism on any of
them. They'll never believe it back home." He stared at great­grandfather with absolute terror.
Great-grandfather was looking up into the sky, still expecting the curse of Cheroboa to
materialize. "You wouldn't think—" said the first alien, thinking about the energy beams passing
through the old man without hurting him at all, think­ing about the frogs. "No. No. You wouldn't
think—" He paused. "He sure—"

"Is in lousy
shape, ain't he?" finished the second alien.

"Yeah," said the
first alien. "I should be in such lousy shape!"

They returned to
their spaceship and left the Earth as fast as they could travel. They never came back.

"You can come out
now!" yelled great-grandmother to great-grandson. "The crazy white men are gone."

"They are?" asked
great-grandfather, looking disap­pointed. "Nuts! Just when I had the curse down pat,
too."

Great-grandmother
rolled her eyes.

Great-grandson
came out from behind a rock. Great­grandfather stared at the rock. "He's putting on weight, ain't
he? White man's school has made him fat and weak."

Great-grandmother
sighed. It had been a long day.

Every day was a
long day that was spent with a rascal like great-grandfather.

"It's time we got
some sleep," said great-grand­mother.

Great-grandfather
yawned.

Great-grandson
came up to them and looped an arm in theirs. Lifting them gently to their feet, he walked them
across the sacred ground to the burial rack. Ten­derly, he helped them climb back onto the burial
rack.

"You're a good
great-grandson," said great-grand­mother. "Will we see you next Sunday?"

"Same time as
always," said great-grandson.

"He's such a good
great-grandson," said great-grand­mother.

"He brings me
cheap tobacco," muttered great­grandfather.

Great-grandmother
would have kicked him, but he was already snoring.

I meant to kill him but I
had no idea I could do it so completely. I surprised myself. But I guess I lose control
sometimes. I go mad, smash things, break out the windows and throw animal drop­pings at the
Sunday crowds. Mad, that's what they think I am. But I don't care what they think, except they're
going to kill me. I care about that.

I care about them
going to kill me. Wouldn't any­one? Ask anybody else in these cages and they'll all tell you the
same thing. Nobody likes to get killed. Except the snakes. Sometimes I wonder if the snakes even
know if they're alive or dead. Snakes are an in­different lot.