Couch-Surfing Extraterrestrial

Rough night of partying for Alexander Hambone, no BS. His head rang as he got up and crossed his messy apartment to make an answer to the loud pounding on his front door. The door opened to let in the fingers of early morn and the outline of this tall, thin, grey being:

“Greetings, my Earthling! Namesake:  Identity Matrix. Yours follows.”

“Identity Matrix, huh,” Hambone grumbled. “You another one of those Martians?”

“Hell no, emphasis! Hail I from Vega system. Null-set dialogue indicator/fractionate response pattern.”

“Come on in then.”

They walked inside.

“You are not an apparition.” Identity Matrix placed a clammy hand on Hambone. “Blood courses through this meat puppet. You will produce sufficient young ones. But not with Identity Matrix. We are same gender set. Evaporate masculinity doubts!

“I get it, Identity Matrix. I’m straight too. You’re a dude-alien, huh. You appear to be naked and smooth except for that yellow belt and cape.”

“Genitals not needed fool. Massive technology possessions greyed-us-out and same sexed us. Now sex-time telekinetic math proof having.


“Not really. At least you’re really smart, Identity Matrix. Look at the size of that massive forehead.”

“Sandwich storage up here.” Identity Matrix began to dig his fingers into what appeared to be a second, grey anus atop his head. “Sandwich storage in forehead convenient, minus amniotic fluid – rogue sandwich mutations. Many killed – screaming, crying * Ahhh! Flailing. Shouting * mayonnaise, tomatoes – despair. Bugs to be worked out later. Look-out for improvements in an interval.


“Not really. Stop digging around in that thing. Just stop it. It stinks!

“Why are you here. What can I do for you.”

“Occupy Couch, per our Internet agreement.”

“I am hosting a couch surfer this weekend, but they’re from Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque, Vega,” corrected Identity Matrix.

“Damn! I thought that was a typo.”

“Arrest fears. Earn couch time prior-elbow. Plus, you hump she-beast / I didn’t hear that… Consider these advantages fully.”

“So you say you earn your couch time. How?”


“Are you really that good of a dancer, Identity Matrix?”

“I wish an Earthling would… test these Outer Space moves.”

“Fine.” Hambone left and came back with a digital kitchen timer. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to earn your couch time through dancing.”

“A moment is requested to pray for attributes.”


Identity Matrix knelt on the ground, pressed his hands together, closed his eyes and began to mumble, “Quick feet, spring legs [ not back in spaceship | no ex-wife fighting (no boss, dominance gambits | employment cycle, taxation and cessation of life force, inevitable | no parole officer confrontations | no traffic waiting) quick feet run from boss ] smooth transitions, liquid motion, liquid motion as sleek child | masculine stuff having | all Vegan females know I grow into Torsek of Torr-town. | Sandwich within cranium: be still, my tasty child. End prayer.”

“GO!” shouted Hambone.

“It begins!” cried Identity Matrix. And his dancing actually was quite good. Hambone recognized hints of many of the old classics from his school days or yore such as Old Man Drop that Bucket! | Northeast Razzle-Dazzle Flimflam …wait Northwest, Northwest | Spaceman Forgot his Wristwatch Out for that Asteroid and those other classics.

Identity Matrix fell to his knees, panting and sweating out an orange liquid. “I leak orange,” he pouted. “Shame surrounds me; tall walls. Dripping orange. Old-age fatigue. Earn couch?”

“Yes, Identity Matrix. But can you try and keep a low profile. I’ve got another couple coming to stay with me this weekend.”

* panting; leaking orange; on his knees in yellow cape * “Null-set dialogue vector.”

“Great! I’ve actually got some – ”

“Foreboding! Sandwich birth impends!” * bllurrrp! *

The walking, hairy sandwich burst out from his head and cried, “FREEDOM!”

“YOU MUST STOP IT BEFORE IT INFECTS AND DIVIDES!” Identity Matrix cried, still gasping on his knees.


Hambone stabbed it with a steak knife. He ran out and came back with a Polaroid camera. * Pop-flash! *

The alien Swiss cheese flapped with surprising sentience, “Say cheese, mother fuuuuhh…”

About davidwallacefleming

David Wallace Fleming is a U.S. writer, living in Austin, Texas. He is the author of the coming-of-age, social media novel GROWING UP WIRED, and the satirical science fiction audiobook, NOT FROM CONCENTRATE.
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One Response to Couch-Surfing Extraterrestrial

  1. Mason says:

    Uniquely creative science fiction short story. An entertaining
    reading experience.

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