My alien intruder, disturbed by the poor UK soap scripts on TV, zaps the screen and frisbees the badger from one side of the room to the other. I catch it in my teeth - a lifetime's training in the park and at Ravenscraig Beach has been invaluable many times in my worthless life. I try to explain I'm a struggling writer. He , she or it is not impressed. In fact, his fixed eyeballs never blink, never roll, and never look up at the ceiling. The optical nerves at the end of his seventeen fingertips show more emotion, occasionally getting twitchy, scratching the sofa and rubbing themselves together with deep joy.
They caress the flattened badger still between my teeth. Again, I hear the alternating falsetto and bass tones of his communications. 'Future is bad... bad... badger. Things no longer black and white. Human race will shift. Must absorb whole pantone range of different views. Humans will embrace rational thought.'
Can it be true? Surely not. Not in a million years. And yet...
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