I
told them it was a mistake, that I hadn’t meant to land here; but before I could
protest they made me their ruler, their king, their smile-and-wave-to-the-crowd-
for-crying-out-loud-pope. Their teeth and claws drew fanatical blood: what’s a guy
to do but go along?
It’s been a week and a half since I landed. They won’t let me off the throne
except to go to the toilet and sleep. Even then they crowd me, these creatures,
my subjects. They scratch and pull to get close to me, they touch me everywhere,
exploring my body. I am not one of them and somehow that makes me closer to
deity.
My third day here, one of them brought me a history of their world. Remember
that rocket from 20 years ago? The one with the two astronauts, and the mice,
gerbils, and frogs that never came back–the one the news said blew up in space? It
was a lie. They crashed here. My subjects are their descendants. It’s like no genetics
lesson you’ve ever had. I can’t describe it.
I was like a rock star the first week. I had played nice, had gone along; they
were innocent little things, right? It was all love, rapture, and worship. But then
they wanted something from me, something I couldn’t give. They wanted me to
take them back to Earth, but there is protocol and regulations and besides, the
rocket was busted — I thought I could repair it and I tried to tell them the rules and
regulations and that I couldn’t bring them back with me. They burned the rocket to
the ground after that. That’s what made me a little… off, you know? That, and them.
They smell — can you imagine it? Amphibious human rodents. They used to sit at
the foot of this throne and worship me. They moaned and chanted. They grabbed
at me and chewed at me until they drew blood to show their love.
Yesterday I hit one of them. It was a light tap, you understand — just sent it
sprawling across the floor. It shrieked and got up. But I couldn’t sit here another
moment like this, with the scratching and the biting and the watching. I couldn’t