Ron at Starbucks

This strip mall, complete with a Starbucks and its smoker-friendly patio, is nestled between on- and off- ramps to the freeway. I come here most mornings with Ron to drink a cup of Joe, read the Times and smoke.

Ron was gnawing at a patch of fur just south of his butt when he spotted the alien space craft exit the 405. A city dog accustomed to the ubiquitous urban din, Ron is not typically aroused from his perpetual state of doggy indifference by the loud or the garish.  Traffic through this neighborhood is frequently heavy yet Ron has come to ignore the vehicular chaos as he reclines at my feet just as I have come to ignore his habitual ball licking as I read the newspaper.  The weird, however, still holds for Ron the power to attract – the space ship hovering down Stearns was definitely weird.

I was in the middle of an article about East LA Latina soccer players and only dimly aware that he'd gone to high alert.
  

"What the fuck is that thing?" he asked.
   

This was unusual.

Ron loves me and I love Ron. It is understood between us that our morning visits to Starbucks is quiet time.  He does not press me for details about my day at work or hint with not-so-subtle-innuendo that I'm failing to meet his expectations of me.  For my part, I keep to myself any sense of disappointment I may feel about the Italian loafers he's chewed or the fact that his hit ratio on the "Sit" command lies at a dismal 10%.  It's a time of comfortable silence that we both cherish, just as we enjoy good meals, live music and long walks on the beach.  Words are rarely necessary between us; but when they are, I've always been the one to use them.

That he spoke was remarkable.

That he swore was disturbing.

I was about to respond (although I have no idea what I was going to say . . . I mean, what do you say?), when I, too, noticed the alien vehicle.
  

As far as alien space craft go this one was pretty large – about the size of a Hummer . . . I mean, a full sized Hummer – not this H2, or, God help me, H3 shit.   What distinguished it from a Hummer was the fact it's body was devoid of hard angles . . . like a jellyfish or '36 Studebaker . . . and glowed in alternating patches of translucent color, …..like a disco ball,….. only cooler.  The fact that it hovered above the ground rather than rolled on wheels was another give-away.    There were other significant differences as well, but I think you get the point.
  

"Jesus, Ron, I don't know."  I found myself answering.

The vehicle turned left from Stearns into the parking lot and then hesitated, apparently uncertain whether to stop for coffee or just swing into the McDonald's drive-through for McMuffins.   The aliens, either possessing a higher intelligence or a healthy concern for their cholesterol intake, opted for coffee.  The vehicle rotated briskly 90 degrees on a perpendicular axis and then advanced forward into an empty parking spot about twenty feet from our table.
 

This concerned me.
 

"Where are you going?" Ron asked.  Until he spoke I hadn't realized that I'd stood.  There was a tone of bitter desperation in his voice, as if he thought I was about to bolt and leave him to face the caffeine-deprived aliens alone.
  

"C'mon buddy, it's time to go."  I said, quickly untying his leash from the leg of my chair.
 

"No," he said, "we should stay."
 

"What are you talking about?" I hissed.  "C'mon Ron, let's go."
 

"Really, Larry," he said, his voice strained with excitement, but focused and eerily rational.  "We'll draw attention to ourselves if we stand up and leave.  Let's just be cool and . . ."

"We're going!" I interrupted.

"Think it through, Larry. They're right there, for Christ's sake." He snorted, motioning at the glowing jellyfish with his muzzle.  "Now's not the time to make a scene."

"C'mon." I said and jerked at his leash.
   

"I'm not going!" he insisted.  To demonstrate the sincerity of his rebellion he flopped onto his stomach and rested his head stubbornly between his paws.

"What?"  I was frantic.
 

Ron is an English Mastiff; if not the world's tallest, then certainly its heaviest dog breed.  If he didn't want to go, at 200 pounds I certainly couldn't drag him.  Quite suddenly it occurred to me that if I wanted to escape from the alien vessel I'd have to win my dog over with the force of thoughtful, compelling arguments.

"Please!" I begged.

Clearly, this was new ground for us.

Ron licked his left paw and just looked at me from underneath his baggy, oh-so-mastiffy brow ridges.

"You're so going to get it when we. . ."

Ron jerked his head up and tilted it slightly to the left, suddenly on high alert again.
 

My heart sank.  "What now?" I said.

He shushed me and then tilted his head subtly to the right.  "Do you hear that?" he asked.

For starters I didn't appreciate being shushed and, so invested was I in the argument with my dog that it took me a second to comprehend what he'd asked of me.  I paused, listened and was about to tell him I heard nothing when I realized . . . that I heard nothing - not a car roaring down Stearns, not a person walking on the street, not a bird nesting in the trees (OK, that was normally pretty hard to hear anyways, but still . .); the totality of the silence was staggering, …. ominous.

Matching wits with my dog was odd, but the surreal scene beyond the low wall of the patio scared me.  The city and everything in it stood frozen.  Cars paused silent in the street, suspended with their drivers in the middle of whatever car maneuver they were engaged in when whatever had happened, happened.   Pedestrians in mid-stride posed like statues and the leaves on the trees no longer moved in subtle submission to the demands of a breeze which, likewise, had died.

Besides Ron the only motion I could see came from the pulsating jellyfish Studebaker alien ship thing.
 

"Wow!" said my dog.

"No shit!" said I.

"Still want to make a run for it?" he asked.
 

"Still think we can just sit here blend in?" I said.

"OK," he said, "you're the human.  What do we do now?"
 

Before I could answer (not that I really had an answer beyond some petulant crack about him throwing my humanity up in my face), the alien vessel began to glow a solid shade of mint green, and then the front half . . . . kind of, . . . began to melt away . . . sort of.  What was left was . . . well . . . picture a green Mike 'n Ike that that's been bitten in half, and then gross it up to the size of a Winnebago.

A bright, white light emanated from the exposed middle of the craft.

"Don't look into the light," counseled the dog, breathlessly.

This sounded like good advice, so I looked down at him instead.

He, of course, was staring into the light.

"Check that out," he said.

 I looked into the light.
 

The glare was blinding . . . well, not really blinding . . . I mean, I could still see and stuff so I wasn't blind; but it was really, really bright.  As I squinted into the open mouth of the Mike 'n Ike two figures began to materialize from within the vessel.  Obscured by the glare I could tell only that the shapes were humanoid.  For whatever reason the absence of tentacles helped to ease my considerable sense of anxiety.  As the shapes stepped forward the lights dimmed and the passengers emerging from the ship gained definition.
 

In the broadest sense of the word I suppose ET, with his head, two arms and two legs, qualifies as a "humanoid" life form, whereas Ron, by way of contrast, with his head, four legs and tail, does not.  A narrower definition, however, would likely reject ET as a humanoid on the basis of his stature and the generally scaly appearance of his skin, but would clearly include the likes of Mr. Spock, Gollum and . . . well, . . . Marilyn Monroe. 
   

The humanoid life forms that stepped forward from the alien vessel were clearly on the Marilyn Monroe end of the humanoid spectrum.  They were . . . well, . . . ah, . . . yes; Space Babes.
 

Knowing what I now know I won't even waste my time with a detailed physical description.  Their faces were like . . . , while their breasts  . . . , but the legs, ah, the legs . . . . . with . . . . that . . . . you.  I'm leaving the blanks open and you can fill them in yourself with whatever words craft for you the mental image of your ideal vision.
    

 "That's a big dog," the taller of the two alien Space Babes gasped.

I must confess that I was disappointed.  In my heart I guess I'd expected the opening salvo in my first conversation with space aliens to be richer in content.  While I certainly would have settled for something less astounding than, say, the formula for anti-gravity her inane statement of the obvious was far below any reasonable expectation of par.  It's probably unfair but I'd just hoped for more than "That's a big dog" from beings who've mastered technology that freezes time, make animals talk and Hummer sized Mike 'n Ikes fly.  I resisted mightily the urge to say "Well, thank you, ma'am and here's your sign" and instead I went with the marginally lamer "Yep, he's a big 'un alrighty."

"He's so handsome," said the other alien Space Babe, a petite blonde. "Is he friendly?"

Wouldn't you rather have me take you to our leader than talk about my dog, I thought with a certain degree of bitterness.  I bit my tongue.  For the time being it was their game and I resolved to play the cards they dealt.
 

Ron apparently had no problem with the direction of the conversation.  He stood, walked in a circle and then faced her, wagging his tail enthusiastically.
 

Ron's a whore.
 

"Well" I said, "now that he can talk why don't you ask him yourself."

The taller alien shot me a puzzled look.  "Your dog talks?"
 

"He didn't before you guys got here, but now I can't shut him up."

Their faces clouded, as if this news was the source of some concern.

The shorter of the two stepped towards Ron and held out her hand for him to smell.  Ron sniffed enthusiastically and wagged his tail with renewed vigor.

"Do you talk, big fella?" she asked in the syrupy sweet voice people reserve for babies and dogs.

Ron struck his playful head-down-eyes-up-like-he's-going-to-chase-a-toy-but-he's-so-excited-he-might-just-pee-instead pose while whipping his tail in hyper-drive.  "Yip" he said and then sprung six inches into the air – the poster child for exuberant puppydom.
 

"What the fuck are you doing?" I said.
 

 "Yes," cooed the alien, "You're a just a big blabber-mouth, aren't you?" As she spoke she stepped forward to massage Ron with both hands behind the ears.
 

"Say something, will ya!" I insisted.
 

Ron panted, his tongue lolling stupidly out of the side of his mouth as he stared up at us with vacant eyes.

"Oh you suck." I declaired.

"Nooooo he doesn't," cooed the brunette.  "Him's doesn't suck at all, no he doesn't."

Ron stepped forward and sniffed her crotch.

For a dog owner, the canine's natural fascination with a woman's crotch frequently leads to uncomfortable moments. When it happens it's best, I've found, to resist the inclination to come to the woman's rescue by scolding the four legged pervert and pulling him away and instead to simply pretend the dog's assault is not happening and act as though all is well in Shangrila.  One way or another the woman under investigation will invariably push the dog away and try to distract him with enthusiastic petting behind the ears.

For a dog, sniffing a woman's crotch is a definite "Win/Win". 
   

"Knock it off!" I snarled.

To my surprise, Ron stepped back, sat and shot me a look. 

He was grinning.

             "Hey," said the taller one, "are you gonna be here for a few minutes?"

I shrugged.  "I suppose that's up to you, isn't it?"

They looked at me, puzzled.

"I mean, this is an abduction, isn't it?"

They smiled as if they were enjoying some delightful inside joke.

"Larry," said the taller one, "we don't abduct people.   From time to time we invite people to come back with us to our home world, but we don't abduct them."

"Oh." I said, silently cursing a mother who raised me to feel guilty for falsely presuming the worst of people.    And how, I wondered between curses, did she know my name?   Hmmmmmm?

"I mean," she continued, "look at us.  We're Space Babes.  Do you really think we need to abduct guys?"
 

"I suppose not," I said.  Like any good line of bull, it sounded sweetly reasonable.    "But why do you want people to come with you to your home world?"

"Where we come from," said the shorter one, "everyone looks like us.  Earth males have certain . . .  equipment that is very popular on our planet."

"Wait a minute," I said.  "If that's so then why are there women abductees?"

"That's not us," she said.  "We don't abduct, we invite.  It's the Armani who abduct people."
 

"And who are the Armani?" I asked.
 

Ron wagged his tail.

"The Armani home world is on the other side of the galaxy.  They are an arrogant, aggressive, war-like species," explained the taller Space Babe.

"Yeah, they're all guys," added the brunette, helpfully.

Her friend continued.  "They're the ones who abduct your women?"

"Yip," said Ron, who'd obviously grown bored with the conversation and was looking for a way to insinuate himself into another shot at the brunette's crotch.

"So let me get this straight," I said.  "The Armani come to earth and abduct earth women while you show up from time to time and abduct earth men."

"Invite," corrected the brunette.
 

"OK, invite.  Tell me, do the Armani also have the "equipment" that is so popular on your home world?"

"Oh yes," confirmed the blonde.
 

"We have a saying on our planet – "The Armani are big dicks!" added the shorter alien.

They giggled.

I guess it's funnier in their own language.

"Well, why don't you guys just go to their world," I asked, "or invite them to come to yours and leave us humans out of it?   I mean, it really does upset us here when one or the other of you just show up and take one of our citizens away with you."

"First off," said the blonde, "we don't "take" anyone away who doesn't want to go.  The Armani do, of course, but we don't.  Secondly, the Armani live on the opposite side of the galaxy from us.  Your planet is pretty close to the midpoint between our worlds.  Our ships can make it safely here and back again, but there's no way we could make it all the way to Armani, or they to us."

"And if that weren't enough," added the blonde, helpfully, "we're at war with the Armani."
 

"What are you fighting about," I asked, intrigued.

"Intellectual property rights," said the blonde.

"Yeah," said her colleague, "They pirate copies of our movies and sell them to the Gorath.

"The bastards," I heard myself gasp.
 

Before I could ask any questions . . . like, who the hell are the Gorath, . . . the taller alien said, "Hey, listen, I'm going get a cup of coffee and my friend has to use the poddy."  The shorter alien Space Babe nodded with embarrassed desperation.  "Could you hang out here and keep an eye on our ship?"
 

 "Sure," I said, silently cursing a mother who instilled in me my knee-jerk inclination to courtesy and helpfulness even when common sense dictated flight.
   

"Do you want something?" she asked as she turned to go into Starbucks.

"I'm good," I said.

"I'll take a mocha frappachino," said Ron.

"No chocolate for puppy's, big guy," she said, nonplussed by his sudden gift of speech.  "How about a nice water, instead?"
 

Ron shrugged.  "Sure."
 

The two disappeared inside of Starbucks leaving Ron and I on the patio to guard their Mike N' Ike.
 

"Yip." I snorted, once we were alone.  "You've never yipped in your life."

"Well, Wiiiiiilllllllber," he said in his best impersonation of Mr. Ed, "She knew what was up.  She loved it.  She waaaaanted it."

"You're a dog." I said.

"Yip!"

I turned to look at the blonde alien Space Babe through the window.  She was already behind the counter fixing herself a latte.  She worked with impressive efficiency and seemed only mildly inconvenienced by the barista who stood frozen in suspended animation in front of the milk steamer.
 

"God, she's beautiful." I sighed.

"Oh yeah," agreed Ron, "them's two hot bitches."

"Where'd you get mouth like that?" I asked, suddenly disgusted by my dog's predisposition to vulgarity.
  

"TV" said Ron.
 

"Well, I'm sorry.  I didn't know I needed to install a V-chip for my dog."

"Hey, man," he said, "allow me to remind you that I not the one with opposable digits.  You're the one driving the remote control every night, not me!"

"How was I supposed to know. . ."

"And while we're talking about it," he continued, "I want to make it clear that I'm really not comfortable with the movies you allow me to watch.  I'm two years old and have no business watching Uma Thurmon take a syringe full of adrenaline to the heart to recover from a heroine overdose!  What's the matter with you?"

"Look," I said, "I think we're a little off topic here.  They're going to be back soon and we've got to figure out what we're going to do."
 

Ron turned away and sat with his back to me.  "Fine," he said.

"Oh, don't be that way." I said.
 

"I said 'fine'" he hissed, "you want to talk about what we're going to do then let's talk about what we're going to do.  Geech, move on, will ya."

Sorely tempted though I was I chose not to rise to the bait.  "OK," I continued, "when they get back, they're going to "invite" us to come with them.  What's our plan?"

Ron looked over his shoulder at me and blinked.  "What makes you think they're going to invite you?" he asked.
  

"You mean you think they're going to take you and leave me here?"  I asked.

"Larry," he said, "they made it pretty clear what they were looking for."

"And you don't think I'm . . . what they're looking for?"
   

"OK, Larry, you're grossing me out," said Ron.

"And why, may I ask, would that gross you out, my fur-faced friend.  Just because I don't allow you into the bedroom with my dates doesn't mean . . .  Hey, I do just fine."

"Yes Larry," said Ron, "you're very handsome and very powerful.  You don't have to convince me.  Really!"

I hate being patronized by my dog.
 

"But why," he continued, "given your formidable powers with earth women would you want to give it all up and go live on a planet full of female English Mastiffs?"
 

I looked into his face and saw no trace of sarcasm or condescension . . . although, I must admit, his doggy face isn't always easy for me to read.  Still, I sensed he was serious and not just jerking me around.
 

"Do those females look like Mastiff's to you?" I asked.
 

"Of course they look like . . ." he began, then trailed off.  "Why?  What do they look like to you?"
 

"Human females.  Really, really beautiful human females."
 

In unison we turned and looked inside the Starbucks.  The tall blonde was still behind the counter ministering to a latte while the brunette, who'd apparently finished her business in the bathroom, stood in front of the pastry counter with a look of pensive indecision.
 

"Do you see a female Mastiff stirring foam into that cup?" I asked.

Ron nodded.

"That must be weird." I said.
 

"It's a scam," sighed Ron.  "They're neither human nor Mastiff."

The dog was right!

Where I saw humanoid Space Babe Ron saw canine Space Bitch.

Obviously the jellyfish driving Space Babes who emerged from the Mike 'n Ike had read our minds and conjured up two "perfect female" specimens for our ogling pleasure.  In my case their plan was to confound and confuse me by manufacturing fake representations of human female sensuality, and then wagging them under my nose . . . . and across my thighs . .  and over my lips . . .   In Ron's case . . . . well, I don't know, but I'm sure it was something similar, only . . . for a dog.  I mean, I could speculate, . . . . but it'd be gross.
 

The implications of this deception were staggering. If, indeed, these were not truly alien Space Babes, then what were they?  I didn't know, but I was suddenly convinced that tentacles somehow came into play.
 

Everything was thrown in doubt.  Did they really intend to invite us to their home world?  Did the Armani really exist?  Did the brunette really have to use the poddy?
 

I didn't know.
 

I just didn't know.

"Hey," said Ron, "you know when I moved in to sniff her crotch earlier that I really thought she was a dog, right?"

I didn't know.

I just didn't know.
 

I was running out of time.  Through the window I saw the blonde, now finished with her latte, open the cash register, withdraw some money and put it in the tip jar.  Her friend finally made a decision and reached into the pastry counter to purloin a slice of lemon loaf.  They'd come out soon and when they did I needed a plan.
 

So much had been cast in doubt.  I found my mind slipping on possibilities of implications of theories so numerous as to make my head hurt.  I was confused and realized that unless I came up with something quick I'd likely spend the rest of my brief life stretched out on an examining table on other side of the galaxy with electrodes wired to my brain.
 

I needed to ground myself.
 

I needed to find something real that I could count on.

Then it hit me.

My dog!

Ron was real.

And now, through some miracle, he could talk!

"Ron," I said, "what do you think we should do?"

"Me?" he said, "You're asking me?"

"Sure."
 

"I'm a dog."

"So what!"

"You're a human!"

"Big deal."

"But . . ."

"C'mon Ron," I implored, "I got nothing.  You must know what to do.  What do we do when they come out?"

"I . . ."

"You're man's best friend, for Christ's sake!  That makes it your job!"

"My job?" he sputtered incredulously.
   

The door onto the patio burst opened and the alien Space Babes stepped through.
 

"Man's best friend, Ron!" I reminded him.
 

In that instant Ron suddenly knew what to do.

"Take him!" he squealed.
 

"What?"
 

"Take him!" he repeated.  To emphasize his point he darted behind me and, burying his huge head in my ass, began to shove me forward toward the aliens.
 

"Take him.  Take him.  Take him.  For the love of God, take him!"
 

I spun to the right trying to free myself from the shove of my bulldozing dog.  Ron anticipated this, shifted in step and then shoved again.  His weight and the inertia of my spin caused me to loose my balance and stumble forward, right into the arms of the brunette.

"Hey," she cried as I slammed into her, causing her to drop her lemon loaf.  Instinctively she wrapped her arms around me and hung on, crushing me against her breasts, (which felt supple, yet firm under a red leather boustier).

"Take him!  Take him!" Ron ranted.
 

The alien smelled nice.
 

"Take him!"

"OK," said the blonde.


            "Take him." Ron blubbered.

"Alright," said the blonde, "alright.  We'll take him.  Shut up about it, already."
 

With that she issued a curt command to the brunette who spun me around as though I were a rag doll and shoved me toward their ship.

I realized something horrible was happening to me - life altering and sinister; but as the brunette's strong arms shoved me towards the yawing mouth of the Mike 'n Ike I could find within me neither the wit nor resolve to resist with force.
 

I suspected, with the pessimism bourn of panic, that reason would not carry the day, yet as my feet shuffled forward towards a life of captivity and torture my fear-stunted mind groped for a compelling argument that would convince the brunette to let me free.   Within the space of three steps I'd cataloged my life recalling every ennobling act of kindness, every deed worthy of mercy, every person whose life was made better by virtue of my existence, every reason why this world would be unalterably diminished by my abduction.
    

"You cunt!" I squealed.

OK, so it was a short list.
   

A jarring thwack across the back of my skull told me that I'd failed to persuade.  "God, I hate that word," I heard her grumble under her breath as she redoubled her grip and shoved harder.
   

"Larry," my dog cried, "Larry, I'm sorry."  He sounded so pathetic in his shame that I almost . . . .

"Fuck you, Ron!" I heard myself yell.  "Just . . . Fuck you!"

Things were bad and I admit that I didn't handle the situation well; but in that moment, I aimed my words for his heart and as they left my mouth, took grim satisfaction in the fact they'd hit the mark.
 

"Judas," I added, just to be sure.

"I'm so . . ."  my Mastiff began.

The explosion overhead drove me to the ground along with my captor.
 

"Armani", I heard the blonde shout from somewhere beyond the dull ringing in my ears.
 

I looked towards the sky and saw, hovering just feet above the golden arches a glowing ball of intense, white light.
    

"Get him to the ship!" the blonde ordered.
 

In an instant I found myself on my feet being shoved forward.
 

While I didn't understand exactly what was happening I certainly sensed opportunity.  I went limp hoping that my dead weight would slow the brunette Space Babe down.
 

It didn't.
 

She lifted me by the back of my neck like I was kitten and continued to carry me forward.
 

Streams of molten light rained down on the coffee shop from the Armani vessel, blowing craters in the concrete where they hit the ground.  Within seconds the Armani had blanketed the patio and parking lot with laser blasts.
 

The Armani are lousy shots.
 

Seriously.

They didn't hit a Goddamn thing.

Their inept marksmanship notwithstanding the attack certainly won the attention of the Space Babes.  The brunette shrieked as the lasers blasted around us but continued, despite her obvious terror, to bum rush me to their ship.  I looked over my shoulder and saw the blonde, armed with her own laser cannon, returning fire.
 

She, of course, was a much better shot; scoring hit after hit on the Armani vessel.
 

I silently cursed a universe that would send me rescuers and then make them meatheads.  Seriously, it was embarrassing.  The Armani were getting creamed – it was Annie Oakley vs. Gilligan.
 

The brunette dropped me in a heap in front of the open end of the Mike 'n Ike and then motioned for her friend to follow.  The blonde, seeing that the brunette had wrestled me into position, walked with steady, unhurried steps towards the ship, all the while blasting the Armani with her laser cannon.
 

The brunette turned back towards the open end of the Mike 'n Ike and began chanting something in a low, barely audible voice.  Suddenly, light began to emanate from the opening while from deep inside the ship I heard the sound of engines engaging.

This apparently registered with the Armani as well because no sooner did the Mike 'n Ike start to shimmer in translucent shades of green and yellow than my rescuers began to focus their fire on the ship.  This time they got their shit together and actually started to hit the target.
  

Of course, by now I was cowering in a heap right in the middle of the kill zone.

Whereas earlier the Armani couldn't hit shit, now, all of a sudden, they couldn't miss.  Shot after thunderous shot pounded against the hull sending shock waves out of front end of the ship where I lay curled in a ball with my hands over my ears.

"Just pay the license fee you fucking idiots!" I heard myself screaming at the Armani over the cacophonous din.  "Video piracy's a crime, for Christ's sake!"
     

When the blonde reached the ship the brunette quit chanting and yanked me to my feet.  I resisted, which is another way of saying that I screamed like a girl and again went limp.   Undaunted by my countermeasures, the brunette slung me back over her head and prepared to hurl me like a baseball into the mouth of the Mike 'n Ike.

This was the moment of my greatest terror.
 

As I hovered haplessly over the brunette's head it occurred to me that once fast-balled into the ass end of the Mike 'n Ike that I would be irredeemably screwed.  Inside I would be trapped and either the vessel would be obliterated by the Armani assault, or worse, the Space Babes would escape with me as their captive.  Either way, a successful toss by my captor spelled the end of an unremarkable, yet, to me, oddly precious life.

Hopelessness followed on the heels of terror and it was then, suspended over the head of an alien Space Babe dressed in a red leather boustiere, that I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the fickle dictates of fate.

Suddenly, over the din of laser blasts and my own shrill screaming, I heard a familiar sound;

- a low, ominous growl.
 

I opened my eyes and looked just in time to see a brown and tan shape streak across the patio and then launch at the blonde.
 

Ron's growl opened into a full-throated howl as he flew through the air.  She heard him at the last moment and tried to turn, but she was too late   Ron hit her like a freight train; 200 pounds of angry dog determined to catch her head in his mouth and crush it like a grapefruit.
 

The impact was horrible and beautiful.
   

The blonde made a sick "umpf" sound and cart wheeled head first into the bumper of a Ford Explorer parked next to the Mike 'n Ike.  Ron rolled off her, found his feet and launched himself again.  Despite the blow to her head she still held the laser pistol firmly in her hand.  Ron dove for her arm and caught it his jaws as she tried to level the weapon at his face.
 

The pistol dropped to the ground - along with her hand and most of her forearm.
 

"Oh shit," I cheered.
 

"Oh shit!" squealed the blonde.
 

Ron turned again and this time drove for her throat.
 

The brunette dropped me in mid-pitch and turned to deal with the pussy-dog-suddenly-turned-crazed-killer.  Desperate to help I grabbed at her comely leg, thinking that I might be able to trip her as she passed.  Her effortless kick launched me back half way across the patio.  (Fortunately, the metal legs of an upturned patio chair and large shards of broken glass were there to break my fall.)

She'd covered half the distance to Ron when the Armani fired their last shot of the day.  For a moment there was a look of shocked surprise on the brunette's face and then, nothing.  The blast incinerated her completely, leaving in its aftermath nothing more than a smoldering crater and an acrid cloud that smelled of burnt flesh and Channel No. 5.
 

The blonde, whose head now lay wedged inside the left rear wheel well of the Explorer, had also seen better days.

Ron emerged from behind the SUV and turned to look for me.  Ron trotted to me, his chest thrust forward and his head held high.  But for the horrible green gore smeared across his face he would have been handsome.
 

"You OK, Larry?" he asked.

            I picked myself out from under the patio chair, careful not cut myself on the glass.  "Yeah," I said.  "I think I'm fine." 

"You?" I asked.
 

"I'm good," he said.

I turned the chair upright and slumped into it.   Ron circled next to me and sat as well.  Together we looked out over the patio and adjoining parking lot and wondered at carnage.
 

The Armani vessel continued to hover over McDonalds.   While they showed no inclination to leave, neither Ron nor I sensed that they meant us any harm.  Perhaps, like us, they were just pausing after a desperate battle to catch their breath and celebrate the fact that they were still alive.
  

Perhaps they had paperwork to fill out.

I don't know.

I just don't know.
 

"I really thought you were going to let them take me," I said, finally.

"I really thought I was too," he said.

"I'm glad you didn't."
 

Ron leaned against the chair and rested his massive head on my leg.  I reached down and scratched him behind his ears.
  

"Want a mocha frappachino?" I asked.
 

"Yip!"
 

All rights reserved.  Copyright © 2007 by Robert Owen