By Erin Brookins

“Get to the chopper!” she said.

“Stop,” I said. “This is serious.”

“No it’s not,” she said. “You’re serious. But this isn’t.”

“There is a very large, very pissed alien in the garage,” I said. “How is that not serious?”

“Hearing it out loud just makes it more ridiculous,” she said. “Ridiculous is the opposite of serious.”

“Alright,” I said. “Still,” I said. “We’ve got to do something about it. Whatever it is.”

She nodded.

“Knives?” I said. “Ski Poles?”

She shook her head no.

“This,” she said. 

“That?” I said.

“This,” she said.

“... Why?” I said.

“Because,” she said. “I’ve never gotten to use it. Also,” she said, “I think it will work. It had that shiny pink coating that smelled like gasoline.”

“Gulp,” I said. Then, “What if it isn’t a threat? What if it’s just lost?”

“I think we’ll know within a few milliseconds if that’s true,” she said. “If not,” she said, “flame on.”

“Right,” I said.

“We should make creme brulee more,” she said.

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