[Clipart 060] Normal Alien at the Nightclub

[Clipart 060] Normal Alien at the Nightclub



The sun was gone, the moon came out to play, the neon lights flashed, and the music raged on against the dying of the night. The alien, who was perfectly normal of course, arrived at the doorstep of the nightclub and decided to start boogie-ing down, to party like no other normal alien had ever partied before.

Except the bouncer stopped him where he was with his hand. “Whoa buddy,” the bouncer says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I want to go into the nightclub, the normal alien said.

“That’s not happening,” the bouncer said.

“But I want to start boogie-ing down and party like no other normal alien has ever partied before.”

“Dude. You’re a fucking two-foot-tall head on stilts. You can’t boogie. I don’t even know how you can walk like that.”

The normal alien scowled. “I am most certainly not a ‘fucking two-foot-tall head on stilts’, sir! I am a normal alien who just so happens to have a very thin body!”

The bouncer scowled back. “This club is not going to get into full lawsuit central because some dumbass headless alien decided to go to a nightclub and ended up getting trampled and killed by all the other patrons. That is not something I want on my hands.” The bouncer patted the normal alien on his head, since he couldn’t pat him on the back or shoulders or anything. “You seem like a good kid. Why don’t you go study at the library or have a good time at home? It’s just too dangerous for you.” He gave a very slight nudge to the normal alien and pushed him away from the line. “If you really want to do something out here, why don’t you go to the Mexican restaurant across the street? I think it’s karaoke night.”

The normal alien pondered this. Could the bouncer be right?

There was only one way to find out.


“IIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS, LOVE YOUUUUUUU,” the normal alien bellowed into the microphone. He was half-drunk and full off tortilla chips, but his singing voice was great. Fantastic, even.

The song ended and he gave the microphone to the guy next to him, whose name he had forgotten. He stepped back and sat down in his seat while the guy began singing “We Built This City”.

Suddenly, he realized a man in a white jacket sitting right next to him. The man wore aviators even though he was indoors and the restaurant was already dimly-lit.

The man passed the normal alien a card. “Name’s Manchester Bennings,” he said. “I want you to come into my office tomorrow afternoon. You good?”

“Wait… Manchester Bennings? The famous producer for Yuletide Records? No way…”

“Yes way. I heard your voice. I know what you can do with that head of yours. Your body may be weak, but your brain and your heart is strong. Mr. Alien, sir, will you be a part of my studio?”

Could he really be that good, this normal alien?

There was only one way to find out.


Officers Timmons and Blake stepped up to the drainage ditch and looked at the deformed green head lying lifeless in the sewer water.

“This is some fucked up shit,” Officer Blake said.

“You said it,” Officer Timmons said. “Looks like Bennings strikes again.”

They filled out the report and laid the head on the stretcher. Officer Blake picked up two broken stilts and put them in an evidence bag.

Just another day on the force.