From: lazuli@byron.u.washington.edu (Fred Sloniker)
Newsgroups: alt.callahans
Subject: The lurking of the alien.
Date: 24 Jan 1993 03:56:33 GMT
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle
NNTP-Posting-Host: byron.u.washington.edu

(Yes, it's another post from the mysterious Andrea.  The last for a while.)

>From a previous post:
>
>The Scribe saunters over to Laz and the Alien, grinning.  From an inner
>pocket, he produces a large, multicolored square of silk, which he drapes
>over what passes for the Alien's colors.  The effect is strikingly absurd;
>the creature's stance, combined with the shawl-like way the silk is draped,
>make it look vaguely like someone's dear old granny...of course, if the
>someone, is a nine-foot tall acid-dripping alien.  Cackling at the
>incongruity, Scribe spends some time indulging his mirth (hey, he has a
>warped sense of humor) and says, "Hi!  Welcome to the Place.  I can guarantee
>Ripley's not here, or any of the Colonial Marines, so you've nothing to fear.
>Can I buy you a drink?  Zaldusian swamp acid perhaps?"
>
>Then, Andrea writes:
>
>The alien's stance relaxes still further at the Scribe's information. It has
>heard rumours from the collective Nest-unconscious. Stories that the Queens
>use to keep their hatchlings wary and cautious. Tales of horrible monsters
>capable of slaughtering entire Nests. The Ripley being the most savage of
>them all. The news that it will not have to face such foes is welcome. It
>considers the offer of a drink and moves its massive head in careful mimicry
>of a human nod.
>
>The alien curiously scans the silk that the Scribe has draped over its
>exoskeleton. Longchain organic molecules. It puzzles over the possible meaning
>of this gesture for a moment, then decides to return the compliment. It whips
>its tail forward and fine threads of clear liquid spray into midair. As the
>threads reach the top of their arc, they coalesce into a gleaming network
>which falls squarely round the Scribe's shoulders, draping in a manner very
>similar to the original silk. It's a pity the resin is still flexible (i.e.
>damp and _sticky_). It stretches itself into long threads whenever touched,
>sticking to _everything_, and until it dries it refuses to be totally
>dislodged. {I guess you could call it a really _tacky_ way to say Hello.}
>
>You blink. A pun? Bleah.
>{Yes, that's right. Dark'n'menacing is easy. Comedy, now _that_'s fearsome!
>You might've been wondering why I decided to bring Alien in here. Probably
>thought, ohNO, not another munchkin. Well, I've been lurking for ages, and
>I couldn't help but notice that everyone here prides themselves on their
>acceptance of strangers. "A stranger is a friend we haven't met yet", and all
>that. Well, being accepting is _easy_ when the strangers are nice people,
>especially when they appear in furry, inviting personae like Laz. But, cynic
>that I am, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if you assumed the
>most UN-cute, UN-cuddly, UN-inviting persona you could think of, dropped it
>in the middle of the Place having made an entrance which was destructive of
>some of the building, and had it just sit there and wait.
>Well, I've got my answer. Calmness from Laz (well, that's to be expected, his
>character and mine _have_ met before), drink offers from Shonias and Scribe,
>warning from Starknight (but _not_ an actual attack, the guy checks his facts
>first), and some sending up from Scribe. Heh. Well, I'm still a cynic (don't
>worry Doug, I'm not trying to steal your thunder), but I guess I'm just a bit
>less cynical about _this_ place than I was before.}
>
>The alien stands up, stretching to its full height, and the sound of the silk
>slithering off its angular shoulders and onto the floor is the only sound it
>makes. It bows with slow grace, first to Lazuli and then to the patrons of the
>Place in general. Then, without warning, it is gone. A standing leap sends it
>shooting from the floor high into the rafters. Those with fast reflexes just
>catch a glimpse of a swordlike tailspike vanishing into the shadows overhead. 
>Psi-sensitives catch a last sending: -=> I'll Be Back <=-
>Then all is as it was before the Alien arrived.

Laz looks vaguely bemused at the xenomorph's exit, collecting the scarf it
left behind and returning it to the Scribe.  "Um, Mike, cancel that salad,"
he says, returning to the bar and collecting his cocoa.  He sips it, making a
face-- it's gone cold-- then slugs it down in a gulp.

Nodding to Thyra, who's finally getting her newsfeed caught up, and up to the
rafters, where the xenomorph now lurks, he glances over at the chalk line next
to the fireplace, then at the mug in hand.  After a moment's struggle, he walks
over to the line, and raises his glass.

"Ladies, gentlemen, kindbeings-- to folly."

The mug describes a neat arc, not smashing so much as cracking into three or
four pieces, adding some ceramic to the glass.  Without elaborating on his
toast, Laz returns to the bar, nodding slightly to Thyra, and listening to
the noise of the Place return.

				---Fred M. Sloniker, not ready to talk yet
				   L. Lazuli R'kamos, FurryMUCKer
				   lazuli@u.washington.edu