A friend just showed me the opening lines to his new story and said I could use them as a prompt:
“This is the voice of the Mysterons. We know you can hear us, Earth-”
*sound of tape rewinding*
“…Sorry for the technical difficulties. To clarify, we are not the Mysterons. We are arguably worse.”
“Approach Cairo at vector two-one-niner by alpha seven,” sighed Kevin. “And we’ll thank you for a lack of sideshows on the way in.”
Some aliens viewed humans with suspicion and distrust. Some viewed humans as dangerous. Some saw humans as insane.
But the most hazardous of all were the ones who viewed humans as entertaining. Every five years, the major cities of Earth held a lottery, and the one who got the short straw had the dubious honour of hosting H-Con.
And, like many humans who did not want an instant trail of alien paparazzi following their every move, Kevin was planning to move the heck out of Cairo, Egypt, and very possibly Terran local space for the interim.
Mars looked very good this time of year.
And Earth, being a residence of varying entrepreneurs, sold a fame experience to people who wanted to be followed by alien paparazzi and asked intrusive questions.
For the rest of the year, Cairo would be full of the people who paid to be here, the people who were paid to be here, and the people who, unfortunately, could not in all good conscience leave.
Of all of them, Kevin pitied the members of the third group. It was no wonder that those experienced with H-Con referred to it as the Year of Hell. A city full of maddening fanbeings, taking uninvited photos, asking unwanted questions, staring and grinning and getting into everything. And, if they were extremely unlucky, taking everything that wasn’t nailed down.
“Welcome to Earth, H-Con Cruiser One. Please keep all your receipts.”
Kevin hung up his headset, grabbed his suitcase, and proceeded with all due speed to the cruiser for Mars.
[Muse food remaining: 35. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
