Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

9

The Kapakapururu pulled out all the stops. Finding a table and two chairs that could be placed on the floor, not the wall. Not treating Clara like the ape descended barbarian that they no doubt believed her to be, and they kept their saliva away from the gelatine table cloth, which, with their eight noses, proved more difficult than anyone could give them credit for.

Clara knew she and Foston were causing a bit of a kerfuffle, but Foston didn't seem to notice, or care, in the slightest. He took the gelatine napkin and draped it over his knee, waiting patiently for their order to arrive.

The restaurant, or the Kapakapururu equivalent, seemed busy, and all eyes were on the aliens about to eat their food on the floor. Well, a table on the floor, but to the Kapakapururu, it was as bad. Possibly even worse. Their server, hanging from the ceiling like a normal Kapakapururu, placed the dishes before Clara and Foston, gurgling something akin to 'bon appetit'. It actually looked edible.

"What is this? Ice cream?" Clara picked up the dual-ended utensil and tried to work out which end she should use to suck up the food and which end she should use to drip the food into her mouth. She tried both ends.

"You know, in movies, where someone asks 'What is this?' and the other person says 'You don't want to know', but they ask anyway and then they push the food away, or vomit after they're told?" Foston sucked up the food into the utensil.

"Yes."

"You don't want to know." He let the food drip into his mouth, his eyes lighting up in appreciation.

Clara looked at the food, considered his words and then sucked the food up into the utensil before dripping it into her mouth. It tasted like Yorkshire Pudding, but green.

Every so often, as the server returned with more and more dishes and several new and incomprehensible utensils, Foston would check his watch, tapping the screen, closing one eye, closing the other, turning his head to the side. She didn't ask what he was doing, it seemed like he would only launch into another tirade of gobbledegook which would neither inform, nor enlighten her. At least, she didn't say anything until he stood upon the chair, holding the watch behind his back and looked it through his legs.

"What, in the name of all that's normal, are you doing?" She tried to get the pincer utensil to work with the slime encrusted crouton-type thing, but it kept crawling away. The utensil, not the crouton.

"I'm trying to get a decent signal." Foston appeared to do a strange, wavy handed dance, catching a glance at the watch as it weaved past his face.

"Aren't you supposed to, I don't know, hold it up in the air? Point it toward a cell tower? Or something?" She caught the pincer. Now she had to force it make a ballon from its air bag.

"Hold it up in the air? The Frivell Particles'll never find purchase that way!" Foston scrunched his face in a sarcastic, 'Humans!' fashion.

The slimy crouton dish disappeared from the table into one of the arms of their server, replaced by a large eyed, blue, furry critter that looked like it was about to cry, sitting in a bowl with a large lip. The utensil for this thirty-fourth course of the meal appeared to be a miniature lacrosse net.

"Okay. This ..." Clara pointed at the tiny, shivering creature. "I'm not eating that. It's still alive!"

"You don't eat the Trurgle! You monster!" A thousand eyes attached to a hundred and twelve bodies all spun to look at Clara. The Kapakapururu could understand English, it seemed. "Hold up the Trurgle Flitcher, the 'net', and wait. Oh, and best be quick on your feet."

Clara turned her gaze back to the Trurgle. The little thing still shook, as if terrified, its big eyes seeming to expand even more, tears appearing at the corners, fur standing on end. Then it began to shake even more. It shook so much that the table began to wobble. Clara could feel the vibrations through the floor, passing through the mismatched sneaker and flip-flop, running up her legs, past her knees, sending her stomach twisting, her lungs rumbling and, as her teeth started chattering, the Trurgle opened its mouth and belched out a ball of something almost half the size of the Trurgle itself.

"Catch it!" Her lemur companion yelled as the ball sailed through the air, over her head.

Never one for any kind of sport, at least not for long after coming second every time, Clara nevertheless launched herself backwards, knocking her chair over. She almost tripped up over the chair legs as she threw out her hand holding the Flitcher, diving backwards, landing on her bottom and finally, successfully, catching the ball in the net. And not a single hair fell out of place. Her skirt had ridden up, flashing her used knickers fished from the wash basket, but not a single hair moved.

She didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed, so she settled for 'slightly uncomfortable in public', instead.

The restaurant erupted in noise. The sound of limbs rubbing together. And Clara truly hoped they weren't the sexual organ 'limbs'. The noise deafened her as she stood up, brushing down her skirt, setting the chair upright and sitting back down again.

"Oh, my god! Have I embarrassed myself? Do they hate me for making a scene? They hate me for making a scene, don't they." She leant an elbow on the table, staring into the eyes of the Trurgle, shielding her own eyes with a hand across her eyebrows. The sound reached a crescendo and then stopped entirely.

"They don't hate you. They're cheering you!" Foston waved at the surrounding diners. "They've never seen someone with less than five limbs catch the Trurgle Globlit with such panache. Such acrobatic joie de vivre. Such dignity. You were marvellous! Now, put the Globlit in your nose and we can start the second half of the meal."

"In my nose?" Clara held up the net holding the Globlit, the Trurgle's eyes following her every move like a cat watching a red dot. "I doubt I'd fit it in my mouth. Look at the size of the thing!"

"Well, of course, it'll take a bit of pushing and a can-do attitude."

"It's not happening!"

"Trust me, it'll fit."

"It won't!"

"It will!" Foston shouted a little too loud and grinned, embarrassed, as he looked around at the many Kapakapururu not taking any notice of him whatsoever. "Just put it next to your nostril, breathe in and it'll sense you, changing itself to accommodate your nasal passages. You'll thank me when you do it."

"I highly doubt that." Clara looked at the Globlit. The Trurgle looked at her. Foston looked at his watch, frowning.

She had nothing to lose. She'd eaten sheep testicles before, for a dare (that date went downhill when she joked about trying testicles of other creatures, staring at her date's crotch). She felt certain nothing would happen. The Trurgle burped.

Placing the Globlit near her nose, it began to transform. Stretching out, changing colour, wriggling, as if searching for something. It straightened, then jumped towards her nostril, slithering up, catching purchase, tunnelling up her nasal passage and, as it did, Clara felt her taste buds exploding. A tingling, flashing sensation that rippled along her tongue, down her throat, into her stomach. Like a million tiny creatures were dancing the tango in the taste centres of her brain.

It felt amazing! It felt orgasmic! It felt strangely woollen.

She fixed Foston with a look bordering on the animalistic. She wanted to growl.

"Now." Foston pointed at the little blue furry creature in the bowl. "Kill the Trurgle with the Flitcher and we'll move on to the next course."

"Kill the ...! No!"

"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" Foston laughed, slapping the table. Then he stopped and looked deadly serious. "Ha! No. Just poke out its eyes with the other end of the Flitcher."