On the college planet of Gorbodia, a small garbage spaceship hovered above an unobtrusive landing pad east of campus. A window rolled down, and the driver stuck his head out. He began to screech at his friend on the ground, waving his arms frantically. “Sauspit auibo GRU!” he screamed.
What he meant was, “We’ve just had a swell time over on Earth, but the rearview mirror’s a bit foggy, so would you please tell me if I’m backing up too far?”
With a few of the Gorbodian’s nonexistent hand gestures, the spaceship sashayed back and forth, haphazardly smashing into a dozen or so spindly tree branches. The Gorbodian had to take cover behind a daring boulder many a time before the spaceship finally found the landing pad. Steam began to pour from the door as it smoothly slid open. A ragtag group of three aliens stumbled from the ship, all laughing and poking each other and joking about their college professor, who was unsuited to the planet’s atmosphere and thus had to wear a ridiculous looking lime green helmet around his thin, maladjusted head.
The tallest of the spaceship crowd raised his arms over his head and began to howl. This implied that his nostrils were cleared of all irritants, and he could finally take a sniff without being overwhelmed by a plethora of offensive odors. Most alien races had evolved into an utter distaste for strong smelling objects, loud places, and violent films. Unfortunately, these developments had caused a further hatred for all actions involving sweat and noise, leading to a massive decline in food creation, music creation, and child creation. However the modeling industry grew tenfold, having found that with the eradication of obesity its hiring pool had increased substantially.
“Losqui tyech mir,” joked the Gorbonian who had previously been the only one on the ground. He thought male pregnancies were very funny, but was unsure if the crowd had actually followed through with the procedure.
The ship crowd proceeded to tell him that yes, they’d pollinated and the subject had given birth, but the whole miserable planet smelled terribly, and so they assumed she wouldn’t survive past her twenty fifth year. The Gorbonian nodded wisely, and suggested that they go out for an exciting night at the library and some coffee. Coffee was the strongest drink aliens enjoyed, and they would pursue it with all means they harbored. That included very large lasers. Gorbodia happened to possess some of the best coffee, the Gorbodian couldn’t help but mention. He hoped to impress his more worldly friends, who had seemed to have much more fun without him.
Jovially, they all agreed. Coffee sounded like a very exciting evening indeed.
Thirty light years away, Vodka Belue awoke with a pounding headache.
She put a hand to her forehead and frowned. Earth scientists hadn’t invented sickness yet. That would have to wait until November. This sensation was most unusual. Stumbling into the living room, she caught a whiff of espresso drifting from a coffee shop up the street. Her hands began to tremble, and Vodka found herself digging through the family’s money jar ferociously. If she had been frothing from the mouth, one could understandably assume that she had rabies.
Money dumped on the table, she began to sort it into bills and coins, rapidly counting up the dollars. Curiously, Nina watched from the couch. She recognized this behavior. Leaning forward, she called out, “Looking for something?”
Vodka froze. The shout had been deafening. She sighed, rubbing her head. “No,” lied Vodka.
“Yes, you are.”
“Of course I’m not,” said Vodka contemptuously. “If I were looking for something, I would’ve found it by now.”
Vodka was a very bad liar.
She returned to the hunt. Her green fingers connected with a green bill, and she pressed her nose to the jar, sniffing. It wasn’t counterfeit. “I’m just going to be up front,” said Nina suddenly. She rose and sat down beside Vodka. Vodka looked up, narrowing her eyes. Nina blinked. “Your eyes changed.”
“Thanks for the memo.”
Nina shrugged. She had imagined this conversation to be easy, as the rest were. She had born into a family of social affability, and while there were days when she wanted little else than to curl up under the covers and cry, Dina made sure to yank the blankets back. “Spill,” Dina would say, and so Nina did. No one before or since heard Nina’s thoughts, and up until three minutes ago, Nina would have liked to keep it the same. Her past was not a topic of conversation to discuss over coffee, but it seemed there was no other option.
“You want to get a coffee?” asked Nina.
Vodka nearly dropped the jar, but Nina caught it and placed it under her chair. She would need it for later. “What?”
“Actually, we should just get a coffee maker. That’d be much easier.”
Narrowing her eyes, Vodka answered. “Shouldn’t we be saving money?”
“My father used to say that if it was necessary, it would pay for itself,” laughed Nina.
What a silly idea, thought Vodka, but it was fitting for a very silly race. If Nina’s father had had half of a brain, he would have realized that money did not appear from thin air whenever he desired, but from printing machines who were very selective when deciding who to give their dollars to.
The bedroom door opened and Pandora ambled onto the scene, yawning in a zombielike fashion. She would have to wait until September to discover her morning state’s uncanny resemblance to the least intelligent of the undead. Despite the hour, however, Pandora was still smarter than your average zombie, and knew how to sit down at the table and join a conversation. She turned to Nina with wide brown eyes. “I’ve got a grandpa?”
“Sort of,” said Nina uncomfortably.
“So is he only half a human?” asked Vodka. “Part grilled cheese, perhaps? An amputee from the waist down?”
“How can I sort of have a grandpa?” Pandora mumbled. “Whizzer, I guess it’s better than not having one at all, but if he’s only a sort of grandpa, does that mean he’s wishy washy or totally brutal or something?”
“He’s just a little bit dead,” said Nina after a short pause.
An awkward silence descended. “What,” said Vodka finally, “could that possibly mean?”
“I mean that he’s six feet under,” Nina replied, laughing shortly. “He’s probably rolling over in his grave at the thought of me moving to the city.”
Nina was partially right.
In an isolated village about thirty miles away, Flamenco Caliente flopped around inside his coffin, shouting and grunting unintelligibly. He was not shouting because the youngest of his twin daughters had gunned down her sister and their unknowingly shared lover, gave birth out of wedlock-Flamenco didn’t care about the baby so much as the outrage it set off in Pleasantview’s apparently morally upstanding community, fled to the filthy streets of Bridgeport, and became engaged to an occasionally functioning alcoholic. None of these things bothered Flamenco in the slightest, not because he was a bad father, but because he had no brain left to worry with.
When he awoke, this mental absence was the first thing that he would have noticed; a grave notion somehow began to tickle his toes. He needed brains-and lots of them-to make up for the spectacular one he’d rotted away. And so Flamenco Caliente crawled out of the dirt, wiped his hands on what remained of his tasteful suit, and shambled into the distance.
According to the surviving reporters, his rising was the second sign of the coming apocalypse.
“Well,” said Nina pleasantly, “I’m off to get a coffee machine. Could one of you check the weather for me? It should be on the front page of the morning paper.”
With a quick wave goodbye, Nina left the apartment and entered into a long existential debate with the elevator. Pandora and Vodka both felt a bit sorry for the woman. Sympathy was an odd emotion for Vodka-a sadness that wasn’t her own? How bizarre. Shuddering, she cast her kind thoughts from her head and returned to the task at hand. Her head still ached but looking through the newspaper proved a decent distraction. She flipped to the second page. The weather was proving to be very elusive.
It was as her eyes were scanning the third page that Vodka noticed the advertisement. Her jaw dropped. Pandora leaned over, yawning, and read it aloud. “Plasma 501 is the hot spot for tonight? Big whopper.”
“Panda!” cried Vodka, clapping her hands together. “Do you have any idea how important this is?”
“It’s just some hub with a bizzaro name.”
“We’ve got to go there tonight!” As a car honked outside, a sharp pain struck Vodka’s head. “Sweet mother of science fiction! Must they always honk so bloody early?”
“Where there’s beeping, there’s a road jam,” shrugged Pandora. “What’s the big bazaar about Plasma 101? Does it have to do with the creatures?”
“Yes!” Vodka said. What she spoke was a hopeful assumption, and she hoped her faith in the couch’s message was not misplaced.
“So if we surf over there, we might find your eyes, yeah?”
“Cool,” grinned Pandora. “When should we head?”
At that moment Nina arrived home, a large coffee machine in her arms. Breathing heavily, she set it on the countertop. It was a large and red invention, and it announced its presence with a hearty, “Hello!” and a fresh cup of coffee. The scent of espresso flooded Vodka’s nostrils, blocking out the garbage and perfume and sweat and replacing it with a lovely, rich scent. Vodka leapt from her chair and snatched the cup. She gulped down the liquid without so much as a second thought. The pain in her head vanished without another parting glance; Vodka grinned. Perhaps, she thought, she could learn to like Nina. This gift was her savior. “So,” began Vodka, who was then cut off by a very excited Nina.
“I didn’t get the chance to tell you two this morning,” said Nina, “but your father and I have been talking about the wedding.”
“I don’t have to wear pink, do I?” Vodka wrinkled her nose.
“No, just something nice.”
“I’ll help you out,” Pandora smiled, elbowing Vodka. “You’ll dig it, I pinky promise.”
“We’ve decided to throw a small wedding tonight. A few of my coworkers are coming, and there’ll be dancing,” she said hopefully. “We’d really like you girls to be there.”
Vodka exchanged a glace with Pandora. Her heart sunk deep into her stomach before whirling around and taking a dive into her intestines. Resigned, she nodded. It would be too wrong to skip her father’s wedding, she knew. Even though she disliked him greatly, she wouldn’t do him the disrespect of skipping his marriage. It was a stupid inconvenience and a waste of money for sentimentality’s sake. Despite her great dislike for humankind and its superfluous traditions, Vodka considered herself to be of fine moral character-she would not sink to their pathetic ways. She’d go to the wedding.
This did not mean that she wouldn’t find a way to Plasma 501. A simple marriage couldn’t keep her all night.
Cold War Kids – “Coffee Spoon”
A/N: Sorry about the mix up with Plasma 501’s name. I messed it up in the last chapter. ^^; Anywho, this chapter is a departure from the usual super long chapters with eight per generation format. I’m trying to get a more even pacing (as opposed to Bender’s gen, which had all of the plot in the last three chapters) this time around, and make the chapters less of a chore to read. Any feedback on this would be greatly appreciated.
Also some thank yous are in order! I’d like to thank Spiderg1rl for the amazing Lunar Lakes photos, Fru for her Sims 3 photo editing tips, Sharona for Nina’s hairstyle, Vampire for Pandora’s day dress, and all the rest of the awesome people out there. (: You kick all sorts of ass, each and every one of you.
Here’s some shirtless Bender. 😀 Sorry he was so MIA this chapter.