The Immigrant

~*~

"We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn't want to meet."

~ Stephen W. Hawking ~

~*~

Richard Simmons had apparently let himself go, and wandered into the wrong office in search of a soup kitchen. The man standing at the counter was not the real Richard Simmons, of course, but aside from his grimy, ragged appearance, he could have been the famous fitness guru's twin.

Doppelgangers were a common sight in Phil's line of work; immigrants had a penchant for imitating celebrities. But usually they chose movie stars or musicians, not... exercise enthusiasts. This one resembled a younger Mr. Simmons, circa 1980s, unbathed and wearing a hobo's hand-me-downs.

As Phil understood it, the flamboyant star of Sweating to the Oldies and other fatties' favorites was anything but poor. The nearly century-old Simmons enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, still in tip-top shape and sweating to the oldies even though he himself was now an oldie.

The man's choice to duplicate Simmons was, in Phil's opinion, too odd to be random.

"Passport please," Phil said, holding out his hand.

The man handed him a gray rock covered with scaly pinkish flakes – some sort of fungus? Phil reflexively withdrew his hand to avoid touching the thing, even though he knew he would have no choice. Fighting to hide his revulsion, he forced his hand to extend once more and gingerly picked up the rock using only his thumb and forefinger. He placed it on the passport scanner, then glanced around his workspace for the bottle of hand sanitizer.

The machine beeped in acceptance and Phil pressed OK on the screen, making a mental note to sterilize all of the equipment after this fellow was gone.

He read the information on the passport scanner.

"It says here your first name is Richard." Even the first name was the same as the human he resembled.

"Yes sir! But I believe I will use the shortened version of my chosen Earth name. I believe the appropriate nickname is Dick?" he pondered for a moment before nodding to confirm. "Yes, you may call me Dick."

Phil looked at the screen again.

"Your last name is... Cheese? And you're happy with that? You know you are allowed to choose another name before we finalize your papers."

"Why would I want to do that, good sir? I have chosen my name with much thought. I am named for the man after whom I modeled my appearance. For a surname, it is common to choose a word one is fond of. On my previous visits to this planet, I developed a fondness for pizza. Cheese pizza."

"Your name is Dick Cheese."

The alien grinned, revealing a mouthful of jagged brown teeth. "Yes sir! Dick Cheese I am!"

Phil shrugged. "I guess it beats Dick Pepperoni." He studied the screen once more.

"Ok, so your home planet is Istz?"

"Correct."

"How long do you plan to stay on Earth?"

"That, my good sir, is undetermined at this juncture. The length of my stay depends entirely on you, and by that I mean all of you here on Earth."

"What is the nature of your visit?"

"Business, sir. I am here on business, but it is also what you would refer to as a humanitarian effort. I am a scientist; a geneticist, to be exact. I have been contracted by the United Galaxies to design an alternate food source for Earth."