Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know how to interpret it. But here goes.

General Talpa asked me to see him after the most recent cyber attack by our mole men invaders. I met him in the laundry room underneath the hotel. It was dark, only a few of the many fluorescent lights were on, giving each industrial sized washing machine a dim glow against its steel exterior.

“Mr. Panus,” Talpa said from the other side of the room. “Come.”

I was able to make out the unsettling scene as I approached. The general stood with four other soldiers flanking him on either side. They partly encircled a young man and woman on their knees. They were both blindfolded and had their hands and feet tied together.

“I need you to write about something, on your blog.” He pulled out a pistol from his holster. “We found these two playing with the fuse box last Wednesday. They cut the power to the hotel, and had a truck packed up with three children along with some rifles and grenades.”

He slowly circled the prisoners as they began to wail and affirm their innocence.

“I need you to write about how our resistance has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to humans selling out their own species. Tell your readers, tell the world, that these ‘homies,’ as you’ve decided to call them, are just as guilty and susceptible to our wrath as the invaders themselves.”

He pointed the pistol toward the man’s sweaty forehead.


He pointed the pistol toward the woman, whose piercing scream will follow me in every future nightmare.


“Write about that.”



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