The alien takes his feet off my coffee table rather reluctantly, I thought. I mean - who does he think he is? Travels several thousand light years through space using hypertechnological molecular-phasing parallelisms just to stick his muddy feet all over my wickerwork! Come on. There must be a greater purpose here. But, with the kind of breakdown in communication we're used to seeing in agony advice columns, what can you expect? Anyway, chatty he or she (or they - because this entity might actually embody a community of beings) is not. I get a perfunctory glare now and again, but I notice he, she, it or they has not touched the Lavazza.
Then, without warning, the badger reappears. Unfortunately, transmuted. It is badger-like, but in a two-dimensional sense. It's more of a black and white frisbee or a drinks mat: what we call a 'coaster' in the UK. What could I do? What is the polite, alien, hands-across-the-galaxies thing to do? Well, naturally, I put my empty coffee cup down on Mr. Badger. I'm not happy, but this is a tricky situation. And, given it's current transformation, it's probably better than the UK government's current policy of shooting anything black-and-white and not called a zebra.
I'm not an unfeeling person. So I do it with a heavy heart. Now, my visitor picks up the two-tone drinks mat and scrutinises it sideways. 'Future,' he, she or it says. 'Future.'
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