I spend the rest of the day stuck on two questions. One, what the hell happened? And two, what's the technical way of saying holy fuck?
After some time, I find a tempting idea. I'll just jot down a few notes and not report anything. I mean, nothing really happened. There were no real laws broken, unless I'm gonna get into jay-walking, and that would be an insult to what really happened. Not to mention, I'd also have to catch the kid in order to charge him, which might require supernatural abilities. And could you imagine the chase? I could imagine it would involve far more than fucking jay-walking.
On the other side of things, it is also my responsibility to report the suspicions of criminal intent. But I have nothing, really. Sure, I'm bloody suspicious, and I want answers. But I'm more suspicious that the kid is an alien than that he's got some criminal plans. And I figure, let's give aliens the benefit of the doubt.
So maybe I can just get back to my life, while watching the skies for any sign of Ugly Fucking Oddities. And that's UFO in case you're slow. Heck, I betcha there's a guy just like me who's paid to look for suspicious activities in the extra-terrestrial field of life. Where is that guy? Give me his cell number, and we'll organize a pub crawl.
And that reminds me of the bad side of things. The part that wakes me in the night to tell me there's nowhere to hide. And I'm talking literally.
The damn cell phone is ringing. And ringing. And it won't fucking stop. I can't believe that I haven't answered it yet. I mean, as soon as I was left standing alone on the street, I did what the basic detective would do. I checked out the phone. But it's memory was blank...so I hid it from my curiosity and tried to forget it existed.
And now it is midnight on the double O, and it starts ringing. I move from my bed and pick up the phone. I hold it gingerly as if it's a crying child that I can silence by gently rocking. It's practically vomitting a yellow light all over my chest.
And then my fingers twitch with a life of their own, and the lid flips open. It's the right move. I know it is. It's my first clear move. Normally curiosity would be enough to keep me going, so I realize now that I've been hiding all day from the one thing I most want--answers.
"Hey," I say into the phone. My voice is simple, casual, confident.
"Look out the window," replies a voice.
I shiver all over. Being called at home by one of the characters from my day is frightening enough. But having one of them show up at my house is enough to bring the numbers 9-1-1 to mind.
I move softly to the window. My curtains are lit from behind by the yellow glow of city lights. I can hear traffic on the street below. I carefully crawl under the curtains without alllowing them to move. Then I peek my head over the sill.
My eyes are quick, but there is nothing to track. The only important part of the scene below is silent and still. There's a cardboard box on the steps. And there's a red bow on the top.
"I see it," I say into the phone, my voice still careful and light. "A present? So kind." Underneath this front, my brain is yelling about bombs and human heads. But some seventh sense is telling me that everything is safe. Safe? Yes. Secure? Maybe. Simple? Fuck no. Things are on their way into the red zone of odd.
The voice describes the shady figures of an explanation, but all I can see is a monster's shadow on the wall. "Take a look. It's only an offer. You have as long as you wish to think it over. Then call this number back with your decision."
"Right," I say. "And is that all?"
"No," says the voice. "One more thing. Don't report this."
There's a pause and I wonder if I ought to peform a pinky promise through the phone to satisfy the guy. But then he supplies a chilling explanation.
"They won't believe you."