Bob stood in the midst of the barbeque, an alien New Yorker among the bootwearing, giddyup group, and searched for the culprit. Bubbles, floating by as if on wings of crystal, caught his attention. Not beer bubbles. Champagne bubbles. He knew in that moment who the party crasher was. She held a champagne bottle. LaSlitherina. She belonged at the moving in party not the moving out party.

Case solved, Bob grabbed a beer and chugged.

Two hours later, when the coroners arrived, they could still smell the smoke from the incinerated chicken wing abandoned on the barbecue.

“Shame. Looks like a nice party. Mickey’s retirement, the poor stiff.”

“Damn. I just wish he would’a paid more attention to the news. Ignorant old fart--it’s all over the web. Those acid bubbles are bad news. Bob right over all pretty, then SPLAT. I guess after thirty-five years on the force in Arizona, when you hear someone’s an alien, you never consider they might be the kind armed with acid bubbles from the Carboric galaxy.”

“Yep. Shame.”

Alien Bill’s barbecue was a roaring success. He’d provided all the trimmings – human wing dings, cat eye balls, and of course, cole slaw. There had been one drawback, though. He’d forgotten to secure the space effervescence needed to play his favorite game, “Bob for Bubbles.” Without the fizzy ingredient required, the entire gang spent all afternoon chasing lackadaisical globs skimming the dry, barren wasteland of Mars. Even with four mouths per alien, no one nabbed a single bubble. Next year, he’d remember to buy the star farts needed for the game in advance.

The bubbles rose up in a cascade, popping one by one near the top of Bob’s hairline and splattering his forehead with drops of green, glowing liquid that streamed down his face and ran in rivets past his sideburns.

“Why are there so many bubbles?”, the alien asked from the corner, his voice barely carrying over the sizzling coming from the barbecue.

Moving the wing over into the corner of the grill, Bob drops his face toward it and inhales deeply. Smiling, he reaches for the knife on the counter and turns around.

Bubbles dangled by his wing on the main deck surrounded by aliens. They were about to barbecue him in ritual fashion when his best friend, Bob, stormed in, “Since I have you all gathered here, I’ll be preparing this tasty morsel for your consumption.”
Bob released Bubbles wing and wrapped him under his arm, “It’ll only take a few moments, please be patient.”
Bubbles tried to wrangle free but was knocked unconscious when Bob cut the corner too tight. He continued on to the ships exit. He launched them forward into the great abyss of space hoping for the best.

They looked at me as if my bob was pink instead of purple. First day at a job always make me feel like an alien. People greet you without the bubbles of familiarity and stay that step back just in case you use barbecue sauce for perfume. Just wing it, I tell myself. It's not like I haven't stepped into a new office six times this month. After the first shock -- theirs not mine -- somebody is bound to approach. And introductions are always followed by the memorable words "you are not the auditor we were expecting."

Bubbles hated being a stripper, nevermind one with a clientele list comprised entirely of alien lifeforms. It wouldn't be so bad if any of them was a good tipper. She eyed the head of her newest customer as he stuffed a measly pittance into her G-string. He was humanoid enough, except for the wings on his head and huge teeth. She pulled back and considered his latest perverted request after he whispered it in her ear. "Yes Bob, you can pour barbecue sauce on me. And NO, you can NOT eat me afterwards."

Everyone had made it to our neighborhood barbecue. Kids were playing while parents held adult conversations without being interrupted a billion times. It was nice but I knew it wouldn’t last. I stood in line and waited my turn.

“Okay, George, what’ll you have?”

“A wing please.”

“You got it.”

He plopped it on my plate next to the potato salad and baked beans. I sat down in an empty spot close to the grill. I grabbed my fork and dug in.

“Hey, Bob, what are with all these bubbles?”

“I don’t know I’ve never grilled aliens before.”

Not an official entry, of course, but I couldn't resist:

Astronauts beware. Alien bubbles on the wing mounts will overload the engines and barbecue Bob.

>:-D

We were it, the only ones left to face the alien. The towering beast with his sharp and menacing claws was tensed and ready to spring. There was a sickly sweet smell of barbecue coming off the charred flesh of his wing, where the flamethrower’s blast had hit, causing bubbles across his scaly skin.

“Think he tastes like chicken?” Bob joked beside me, trying to break the tension hanging in the air.

I smiled and with a bob of my head, said, “Let’s roast this sucker and find out!”

Then the flamethrowers roared to life and he lunged for us.

Through the open door, Amber heard Marjorie call, "On the patio."

Standing over the barbecue with an alien calm, Marjorie said, "Sit. Delicious spineless wings."

Amber sat. "'Boneless' wings?"

Marjorie poured a Miller, bubbles overtopping the rim. "Whatever," She filled two plates with succulent morsels using an oversized fork, points honed to razors.

Amber asked, "Where's Bob's plate? He's in the kitchen?"

Marjorie set the plates, chewing on a hunk. From behind, she said, "I know about you two."

"I..."

"Shhhh. Eat--and I won't hurt you." Sharp points poked the base of Amber's skull.

"Where's...?"

Marjorie whispered, "Savor him."

Bob sank into the comfort of his favorite arm chair and eyed the party in the neighbor’s yard. The tang of barbecue and the sticky sweet smell of cotton candy swirled in the air breezing through his second floor window. Children squealed, a high-pitched alien sound, as mothers blew bubbles between bouts of gossip and shouts of discipline. Fathers waited in the wings sipping beers, checking their watches and the asses of the coeds home for weekend laundry and extra spending cash. The suburban rituals were so much more entertaining from this angle—full entertainment, half the bullshit.

One Earth hour before the barbecue, when the alien and Jasmine where blowing soap bubbles, the alien felt the temperature of his eight feet drop several degrees. It watched the bubbles bob around in the alien wind, around the alien bush, and he got an idea.

— Jasmine. . .

— Yes?

— It’s the gravitational constant on your planet. It’s giving me headaches.

The tiny girl narrowed her mere two eyes.

— In all heads?

— Mm. . .

Silence. One by one the bubbles burst.

— OK. I lied. I’m anxious about meeting your parents.

— Why?

— What if they notice my accent?

— Bah. We’ll wing it.

Phase one accomplished: infiltrate Earth disguised as natives. Phase two: locate the alien called "Bob." He is known to frequent this social gathering.

"What is this liquid with bubbles?" says Xalla.

"Refreshment," I say. "But humans use their mouths to consume it." Xalla removes her finger from her ear.

"Disgusting," she murmurs.

I see him, standing in the East Wing, consuming a plate of grated flesh called "barbecue." Before I can reach him, a gray-haired man grabs his hand.

"Senator," gray-hair says, "I want to discuss your plan for controlling illegal aliens."

We drop our glasses and run.

“Whassup?”

Carl approached Ted’s front porch. The two men and their families were long-time neighbors.

“Installing a new door,” Ted replied. “Not sure I’ve got the hang of the plum bob yet.”

“Pun intended?” Carl chuckled. “Not to burst your bubble, but it doesn’t look straight to me.”

Ted laughed. “Just takin’ the ‘wing-and-a-prayer’ approach.”

“Still up for the barbecue tomorrow?” Carl asked.

“You bet. It’s your youngest’s birthday, right? You dressing as a clown again this year?”

“Nope. Kid wants a space alien.”

“Really?” Ted faced his friend. “You won’t need a costume for that.”

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Wing Commander Biff Bravespeed peered intently from his cockpit looking for an alien presence in his sector. His instincts told him something was amiss.

Suddenly, time/space bubbles appeared to the left of his craft, and through them careened a trio of enemy invaders. They immediately opened fire in his direction.

“They’ll barbecue me if I don’t do something,” Bravespeed thought. “The old ‘bob-and-weave’ maneuver should do the trick.” Quickly, he banked, looped, and rolled to put himself in attack position.

“See you later, suckers,” he called out, firing his blasters.

The dogfight was over in seconds.

Ms. Slithers danced on the sidewalk in the rain. She guffawed. Her bob came undone and her curls resurfaced.

But she wasn’t concerned about her hair anymore because Madame Requin’s eyes had crossed and she’d pretended to smile. She’d fallen for that age old joke, salt in the sugar bowl. Brown bubbles had gurgled from her nose.

“That shark ruined my hair, worst dew of my life. Rats.”

Ms. Slithers knew the polite barbecue would continue without her, despite the rain. It was best she left before Madame Requin discovered that alien substance on the wings.

The champagne bubbles rolled up her glass. They paused to bob at the top before popping, tickling her nose. She set the glass down and looked across to the visitor.

The alien had translucent wings, but otherwise appeared human. He held a long fork on which was a sausage-like piece of barbequed meat.

“And you expect me to trust you?” she asked.

He tore a bite of meat and said, “Obviously.”

She looked to the contract – a single line read: life for anonymity. Let his race come, tell no one, or humankind would be “exterminated.”

What choice did she have?

Bob was barbecuing buffalo wings and blowing bubbles when the flying saucer came to rest in his backyard, his chef’s hat nearly blown off amidst a blast of jets.

The hatch lowered and two little green men emerged.

“What’s on the barbee,” the first alien asked, licking his lips.

“Looks like ribs,” said the second alien, drooling.

Bob smiled. “Best barbecue in town,” he said.

“Have us for dinner?” asked one alien.

“Love to,” Bob replied.

And so he did.

They were illegal, of course, not in season. A bit tough, but with a little marinading they tasted just fine.

The waiter checked his watch and said, "Can I bring you something to drink?" She hesitated a moment trying to decide between a Red Bull "wing" feeling or her usual and answered, "Vodka with club soda." She liked to watch the bubbles bounce against the sides of the glass but wanted the first sip more. It had to wash away last night’s barbecue debacle. She kept replaying it: the startled faces as Bob arrived very drunk, the thunderously crashing buffet table and his falling, face-first, into the mess. She was an alien among her friends before this party. And now?

“Whassup?”

Carl approached Ted’s front porch. The two men and their families were long-time neighbors.

“Installing a new door,” Ted replied. “Not sure I’ve got the hang of the plum bob yet.”

“Pun intended?” Carl chuckled. “Not to burst your bubbles, but it doesn’t look straight to me.”

Ted laughed. “Just takin’ the ‘wing-and-a-prayer’ approach.”

“Still up for the barbecue tomorrow?” Carl asked.

“You bet. It’s your youngest’s birthday, right? You dressing as a clown again this year?”

“Nope. Kid wants a space alien.”

“Really?” Ted faced his friend. “You won’t need a costume for that.”

Bob tossed the last wing into the barbecue sauce. His mouth watered in anticipation of the feast before him.

Little Suzie skipped by blowing bubbles. She tripped, sending suds flying, attacking his precious wings like an alien ambush.

He cursed and handed the plate to his unsuspecting brother. He'd eat anything.

The quartet of Satan’s angels swarmed down from the blackened nights sky, out unto the yellow streaked asphalt with crimson wings billowing out behind them and bone-blades permanently protruding from their forearms. The barbecue left untouched as Max and Bob stared in wonder at what their feeble human minds could only comprehend as attacking aliens filled their panicked thoughts. The closest angel of Satan bisected Max like wax paper with a simple but elegant swipe of his hand, bubbles of blood and gore frothed out from either side of his ruined form like a burst grape. Heaven and Hell was here to play football.

Wing Commander Biff Bravespeed peered intently from his cockpit looking for an alien presence in his sector. His instincts told him something was amiss.

Suddenly, time/space bubbles appeared to the left of his craft, and through them careened a trio of enemy invaders. They immediately opened fire in his direction.

“They’ll barbecue me if I don’t do something,” Bravespeed thought. “The old ‘bob-and-weave’ maneuver should do the trick.” Quickly, he banked, looped, and rolled to put himself into attack position.

“See you later, suckers,” he called out, firing his blasters.

The dogfight was over in seconds.

It was hard enough to bob for apples, but being dressed like an alien made things worse. Simon allowed himself one hot glance at the costumed crowd.
A sneering zombie tugged his girlfriend’s fairy wing, “Hey, it’s the new kid’s turn!” Voices lulled. Catching his reflection in the placid tub of water, Simon saw barbecue sauce on his cheek. Naturally. When someone shoved his head under, he came up gasping, blowing snotty bubbles as the room erupted. He ran for the door, broken antennae flapping, then home, where his own kind waited, in the sweet gravity of a friendlier universe.

The cheering at the barbeque only egged Naylan Perkins on, and he let loose with another roundhouse swing that connected only with air.

Manny Espinoza, who swore he was an illegal alien when he was pissed (he was actually from Detroit), threw a chicken wing that connected to Naylan’s forehead. “El bastardo!” he roared in an affected accent, spinning out of control from his pitch.

Both were drunk as hell, but it was redneck entertainment at its best, watching the two bob and weave, and always over the same woman, Bubbles Mallory, the town skank.

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Things were looking up. Way up. The cute brunette I’d spied twenty minutes ago was now playfully tracing the tip of her tongue around her straw. Her eyes twinkled as the light glinted off each bob of ice cube. The air was perfumed with a mix of barbeque and lavender, both scents stirring their own kind of hunger.

A grunt to the left.

“Ugh, creep! Darla, let’s get out of here.”

A pout, but the two ladies departed. Alone. I cursed and turned to the sound of bubbles being blown into glass of soda. “Zorblaxagon, you’re the universe’s worst wingalien!”

Jealous, angry Bob. He warned Sveta, yet it sounded sweet. A friendly message received during a dark winter. Learn it the hard way. He warned her, before Sveta ever left Kazan. Her parrot, Gilligan, broken winged near the door. Gray feathers smeared with barbecue sauce. A video of her blowing bubbles, frozen on the computer screen. What a strange language, English. Alien spouse; the two words together made no sense in any language. But now Sveta understood what they meant.

“GET IT OFF ME!”

“Hold still, Mike,” I said, as he ripped off his shirt.

“Oh shit, it burns! It’s a BOB, isn’t it?”

I scanned his back, tweezers ready. Yep, there it was, between the shoulder blades - The Burrowing Oven Bug. The little alien ticks entered through the skin, and then gradually, over days, barbecued their host from the inside.

I pulled. A wing came off, the rest of the bug disappeared, leaving only a bubble of blood.

“Mike, if it gets in . . . “

He didn’t have to finish. I released the safety on my gun.

Joking about extraterrestrials is good fun until they actually land. Then everyone takes up arms, grabs the last bits from the grocery stores. No bullets, no beer, not a drop of barbecue to dab a wing.

Since I’m minus a weapon, thirsty for a Coors, and sauceless as sin, I try something else: go balls-ass crazy.

I borrow plastic scissors from a grade school and, eventually, bob my hair. Douse myself in detergent. Laugh at the bubbles. Soapy and stylish, I charge the nearest aliens. It’s hard to say what surprises them most. The nudity, or the crayons I throw.

Blame it on the stupid Labor Day cookout. I had the barbecue sauce on the grill and was about to stir it when I noticed a wing sticking out of the thick muck.

Ewww, right?

But it wasn’t that kind of wing. When I pulled it out, it was attached to a miniature spacecraft. Then I noticed the diminutive…alien…being tossed by the bubbles in the pot.

I watched it bob up and down a few times in horror before I had the sense to pull its limp body out.

No wonder they interpreted it as a hostile encounter. I’m sorry.

Billy Bob picked up the chicken wing, dripping with barbecue sauce, and waved it dangerously close to the woman’s scanty white top. “Where’s the alien, Bubbles?”

Bubbles scooted her chair back and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “She’s not an alien.”

“She talks funny. She ate a freaking salad instead of Johnny’s pulled pork. She read a damn book instead of watching Nascar. You know and I know. She’s an alien.”

“No she’s not. She’s my cousin from New York.”

Cramming the wing into his mouth, the fat man gnawed on the meat. “I’d prefer an alien.”

“Where’s Bob?”

“Can’t make it. Wife’s pissed.”

“Oh?”

“Caught him with that stripper.”

“Bubbles?”

“Yup. Had her dressed up a like an alien.”

“Illegal or extra-terrestrial?”

“Extra-terrestrial.”

“Uhh…” Jerry grabbed the tongs and flipped over the chicken wing sizzling on the barbecue. “That’s pretty messed up.”

“Yup.”

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Dinner was over. I listened nervously to the alien sounds of African insects and watched the candles on our table flicker. Mom and Dad smoked cigarettes and Joey blew bubbles in his Coke, making the ice cubes bob and rattle in the glass. A horrible winged bug landed on my plate and I gave a small scream. Delighted, Joey reached over, scooped up the bug on his spoon, and slid it into the candle flame. Dad awoke from his reverie and smacked Joey's hand. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't a barbecue!" The bug, unharmed, flew away.

Inside the metal locker were scratches from years before; I traced the rusted barbecue colored stain with my finger. I sighed leaning my head forward, wishing that the locker was big enough to fit me.
If I could chameleon into being just one of the Bobs of the world, I would; but I was an alien in a hallway, merely trying to blend in.
The stale air smelt like old gym socks, and I thought better of ever wanting to be inside.
“Just wing it.” Bubbles of nerves stirred my stomach.
Just don’t let anyone touch me, I’ll be fine.

100 words
@theglitterlady

"Knock-knock. Office christening photo. Ooh, shiny."

"Bookshelves for now; barbecue grills in the end-times." Randa took the glasses and gave one to Shannon.

"I haven't eaten today," Shannon said. "Three aspirin."

Dorti said, "Lunch is coming. Saucey's."

"Again? After I found that wing in the ribs? The alien wing?"

"Say dowager countess."

Shannon said. "I was scratching. Take another."

But Randa had downed her champagne and resumed unpacking.

"I'm having wood in my office," Dorti said. "A couple of Billys. Billy-Joe and Billy-Bob."

Randa popped bubbles and giggled. She took Shannon's glass. "And a big couch."

"So...you're an alien?"

"Yup."

"And that's your spaceship?"

"Yup."

"What's it made of?"

"Bubbles."

"Bubbles?"

"Bubbles."

"Do you have a name?"

"Bob."

"Bob the Alien? Why are you here, Bob?"

"Barbeque. And chicken wings."

"Really? That's it? Barbeque and chicken wings?"

"Yup. And a literary agent."

"Get out of here! You need an agent?"

"Yup. Won't get one though."

"That's terrible. Why not?"

"Poor dialogue tagging," complained the morose alien with a smirk and a roll of his eyes, expressing his deepest frustration.

His face was plains, hollows and angles – alien. He looked like he had walked into our interview from a concentration camp. His jacket, new and cheap, was not suitable for winter or for a man. (It was printed with a pattern of bubbles). Neither was it suitable for this warm day. Barbecue wafted through my open office window. I could see his car in the lot: a van with Florida plates. I had my doubts.

Can you operate a ski lift, Zoltàn?

A bob of his head, a bony-shouldered shrug, almost lost beneath the stiff jacket. “I can wing it.”

'Road Trip'

"Told you! Should've stopped at McDonalds. No, you had to eat at the most interesting place. BOB'S BARBECUE. HOME OF THE BEST HOT WINGS THIS SIDE OF SATURN."

"Oh Marge, just get me the Alka-Seltzer. Those
fizzy bubbles always soothe my stomach."

Henry propped himself on the bed as
Marge went to the bathroom to fetch his salvation.

As she plopped the tablets in the water glass, Henry called out. "Nevermind Marge, I think I need something stronger."

Marge shrieked as she dropped the glass. She stared at Henry's belly as the alien broke through his stomach wall.

The skipping rope and bubble wand lay abandoned. Chalky letters spelt her name on a gritty sidewalk. Lucy. They knew her only as The Taker. Whether she was alien or god, that, they did not know. But occasionally, particularly on days that the sun seared the packed earth, one of their own would go missing. They would send scouts, darting into the open air, with heads that bobbed above the grassline, but it was futile. All they would find was a wing. A leg. The smell of burnt thorax. Glass turned light into a deadly beam. A cruel barbeque, indeed.

Bubbles floated around the cavernous ballroom. I told her to lay off the champagne. Her sleek bob was mussed and fluffed by a round of energetic twirling. She finally sashayed back to me.

"Lesss blow thisssshindig and gesssome barbecue." She hiccupped.

"This is the grand opening of the resort's new wing," I told her. "You can't leave. Here, have a canapé."

"Noooo. Baaarbecue or nuthin."

"Fine, Ms. Flemming, but you're the president of the company. People are going to think you've been body snatched by an alien."

"Barbecuuuuue. And I told you to call me Bubbles."

"Yes, Ms. Flemming."

Bob, the Barbeque King, flipped an indescribable piece of meat on the grill. He swirled wing sauce and drizzled it on the crispy flesh.

Sam reached over the grill and pulled a taste of flesh from the carcass.

Bob rapped Sam’s knuckles with his tongs and shook the utensil at his friend. “Wait till it’s done.”

A five gallon pail lurched next to the grill as pink bubbles squeezed from under the lid.

“What’s that,” asked Sam.

“Dinner.” Bob kicked the bucket as a slender, suction-cupped finger tried to raise the lid from within.

“Aww--not alien for dinner, again?!”

Pass the barbecue sauce cause I just charbroiled me an alien!

My goggles scan the area – no life forms.

Damn right! I sizzled all those flying suckers.

Creeping out from under my jeep, I inspect my kill.

“See, Bob, you don’t screw with Earthlings,” I say and kick it.

Great. Its gunk slimes my boot. Hissing and bubbling, it melts through, burning my foot. I holler and fall, trying to get it off. It's like a million chiggers biting me.

Then I hear the wings.

A gurgled translator voice projects over my screams.

“See, Bob, you don’t screw with Aerolings.”

The skipping rope and bubble wand lay abandoned.

Chalky letters spelt her name on a gritty sidewalk. Lucy. They knew her only as The Taker. Whether she was alien or god, that, they did not know. But occasionally, particularly on days that the sun seared the packed earth, one of their own would go missing.

They would send scouts, darting into the open air, with heads that bobbed above the grassline, but it was futile. All they would find was a wing. A leg. The smell of burnt thorax.

Glass turned light into a deadly beam.

A cruel barbeque, indeed.

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Dreams
It was morning I sat on the dock, the sun bouncing off the water. I think about that time when the alien was in my life, and I imagine what she might be doing wherever she was. Life is complicated without imagination, that seems like magic. Her skin glimmered like the iridescent colors that I’d see when the kids blew bubbles, she had translucent wings what species was she? Why did she choose me? So many questions still unanswered.“
Are we barbecuing later Bob?” Eileen my sister yelled from the house. I stood and glanced at the sky.

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Bob and I were mystery writers. Old school. Dashiell Hammett and Agatha Christie.

Until "The Brains Eaters."

That wretched book about an alien zombie rock band sold millions.

Bob was a star. I was disgusted. It was a sellout to, dare I say it, genre.

He had to die. Literature demanded it.

Barbecue wings on sourdough with bubbles of poison in the sauce.

He resisted.

I insisted on an answer and all he said was "I'm going gluten-free."

He resisted.

I insisted, punctuating it with a baseball bat.

And discovered, when licked off your fingers, brains are actually quite tasty

The unruly crowd at the barbeque goaded Nyland Perkins into fighting, and he let loose a roundhouse punch that connected with warm humid air and maybe a skeeter or two, but nothing better.

With an eruption of sauce, Manny Espinoza squashed his chicken wing between Nyland’s eyeballs. “El bastardo!” he roared in an affected accent that was as alien to Manny as it was to Alabama, taking a wobbly fight stance.

Both were drunk as hell, but it was a regular redneck ballet, watching those two bob and weave, rastling always over that wicked female, Bubbles Mallory, the town skank.

She felt alien next to him. He watched her as she took a plastic cup from the barbecue table and nudged the moth into it. It bobbed like a feather and she covered the cup with her hand. One of it's wings was torn. The swat that Bob had landed fell just off the mark. He had struck when she was trying to let it out. She now exited that door briefly, releasing the moth. It flew like a miracle. "Hey,Justa joke!" She smiled, pouring a large soda over his head; she let the bubbles answer for her.

Sticky liquid oozed out of the gaping wound in his stomach, and bloody bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth.

“Why?” he whispered.

“Shut up,” she snarled. “You know why. I took you under my wing when you started. You should have been mine! But you chose that ugly bob-haired bitch, Jessica.”

Delving into her bag, she found the lighter: the one with the alien face that she had stolen from his desk. She giggled in glee as the flame appeared. It was so tantalizing. Slowly her eyes moved back to his panic-stricken face.

“Barbeque time…” she sneered.

-Hey! Yeah, you—dude in the alien mask. Will you stop blowing bubbles for a second? I’m trying to clean this kid’s wound here.
-Free country, yo. I’ll do what I want. I didn’t shoot the guy.
-C’mon, please. Quit it. The soap is—Christ. Do I’ve to call a cop? Have some respect. This freakin’ city. I hate Halloween.
…
…
-Wow. That be a lot of blood, yo.
-It’s a gunshot wound, genius.
-Looks like barbecue sauce.
-Shit, I need another trauma dressing.
-Dressing? Want some Ranch for that wing, yo?
-Bob? Get this jerk out of here.

The feeling in Bob’s stomach, a swarm of agitated bubbles bursting against his insides, was alien to him. It was likely the thick darkness all around him that had his stomach on edge. He could feel small stones beneath his hands and a anxious shiver shot through his nerves as his fingers ran across the hot remains of the barbecue he’d just vomited up a few seconds prior. He sat himself up and rubbed his numb arm. It lay limp, a broken wing against his side. It had been a nasty fall. How long had he been laying here unconscious?

“Freakin’ illegal aliens are destroying this country,” Bob Wright said as he tended to the Filet Mignon on the Barbecue grill.

“I totally agree,” Bill Gop replied, reaching for a new bottle of Corona. “Mexico has nothing we need.”

“Amen to that, Brother.”

“Bob, I meant to tell you that I love the new wing you added to the house.”

“Thanks Bill. I have some problems with it, though. There are bubbles in the sheetrock.”

“Damn, what are you going to do to fix it?”

“Pedro and Ricardo are going to come over Monday and replace it. They work cheap.”

Bubbles, wearing a mask and known as the Bob the Alien strapped on a broken wing and flung herself into the barbecue sauce filled pool that was supposed to look like blood as soon as the word, ACTION was shouted. When she was immersed in the stuff and trying to look like she was drowning she heard the assistant director yell, CUE THE SHARK! Bubbles felt a CHOMP on her leg and screamed.
“Great shot, Bubbles,” the director said through his bullhorn. “Realistic. You looked like you really were in pain.”
“That’s why I get the big bucks,” she joked.

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My heart trampled through my chest, stepping on my lungs, kicking the crap outta my sternum. “Run, Bubbles.”

Throwing his half-eaten barbecue wing to the ground, he did his best to haul ass. After maybe thirty seconds, I looked over my shoulder. Bubbles gasped for air, clutching his rotund belly.

Torn between going back for my friend and escaping the alien, I took two steps toward Bubbles.

He waved me forward. “Save yourself, Bob. I ain’t gonna make it.”

Fear warred with loyalty, but when the alien snapped Bubbles in half, I ran like hell.

The kid's head bobbed as he chewed. He started blowing bubbles the size of his head and it mesmerized me.

Reaching for another wing, I dipped it in the sauce. Biting into the meat, I wondered why all food wasn't barbecued.

In the corner, a bubble burst, the kid's face a green, sticky mess. He looked like an alien. I chuckled.

"Have you heard a word I've said?"

I turned to my companion who had been whining about our relationship since we arrived.

"Not at all." I stood, walking out of the restaurant and her life.

Next up to the podium was a large man wearing overalls over a dirty flannel shirt.

“I’m Barbecue Bob, and this here’s my wife Bubbles,” he grunted, motioning to the portly woman at his right. “Each year I have my annual wing cook-off in the park, and I’ll be damned if you’re telling me to cancel it so some dirty illegal aliens can have their parade!"

The hearing room erupted into jeers as the chairman smacked his gavel, trying to restore order. It was no use. As Bob stormed out, everyone knew then there would be no easy solution.

I looked at my host, not sure I had heard him correctly.
“You want me to what?”
“Just what I said,” he replied, his words muffled by the Darth Vader helmet obscuring his face. “Bob. For Barbecue.”
“Because?”
“Because it’s fun, Hadley. You remember fun, right? Or is that alien you to these days?” He chuckled at his own wit.
I adjusted my Obi-Wan cape. “I can have fun as much as anyone. I just don’t see...”
“Suck it up, man. Bend over the pot and aim for a wing but watch out for those bubbles. They sting like hell.”

"Nothing inhuman is alien to me."

"It's 'nothing human.'"

First time one has dared to correct me. I stay calm, put the record on and crank up the volume.

"Struttin with some barbecue. Like the happy people do ."

Before the fire is ready she's exhausted, head bowed, neck powdery white under the paintbrush bob dark as a blackbird's wing. I pull back on her hair and sink the fork into her throat; blood bubbles up.

She's more right than she knows; it's nothing human.

I sing along with Louie. "Mister waiter if you please, another rib or two."

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The alien watched the bubbles float to the top of the Hookah pipe. Nobody paid him any attention. Like a chameleon, he easily blended into any environment he chose to inhabit. His earth name was Bob, if he said his real name aloud, glass shattered. He took another bite from his chicken wing and smiled. He could have any food from anywhere on the planet yet was addicted to chicken wings. He took out his cell phone.
“You can bring me back now, I have all the information we’ll need. Humans are self-indulgent creatures and will be easy to conquer.”

A thin veil of smoke greeted guests upon arrival. Bubbles bounced through the air, dancing to the melodic laughter of giddy children.

“What's on the menu today boss?” Bob asked.

“Your ass if you don't come help me figure this thing out!” she quipped.

“Have a drink, you'll feel better.” he said, handing her a glass brimming with liquid courage.”or at least I will after you're drunk.”

The barbecue was like an alien to her, but she was going to give it her all. On a wing and a prayer, Sharky donned her chef's hat and faced the hungry crowd.

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BADGERED - 100 words

----

Read my synopsis?

I'd love some schnapps.

That's not what I said.

Or champagne. J'adore bubbles.

Please just read it.

Mother of Blerg! I'm tired of reading your crap. Send it to that blog— Winged Synopsis Badger.

No such thing

Is too— yanno, that thingamabob, by what's-her-name.

Query Shark? That's for queries. Who's going to pay the rent when she barbecues my ass and feeds it to her minions? Not alienating myself from FPL

Address it Synopsis Badger and maybe she'll forward it.

Arrgh. It's only two pages.

There should be a Badger. I'll take that schnapps, now.

It was a perfect summer's day for Bob's neighborhood barbecue. Guests lined up early, anticipating this year's big surprise. One year he had jugglers. The next, he had aerial performers. The year after that, stunt planes roared past.

The food, as always, was superb. As everyone was enjoying their meal, a strange sound came from the heavens.

“Finally! The entertainment!”

The dot in the sky quickly became a huge spaceship, floating on a cushion of iridescent bubbles toward the crowd.

“Actually, I just came for the food,” the alien said, disembarking.

Bob held out a plate. “Honey hot-wing?”

As my lips graze up the thigh, I smell a sweet scent of barbecue sauce. My hand freezes. Bubbles churn from the target of my passion. I peer up at her. A wing sprouts from her back as she bobs her head in delight. “Not again,” I groan.

She props herself up on her elbows and gazes down at me. “Something wrong?”

“Why can’t aliens be honest and tell us up front?”

“Does it matter?” She cocks her head to one side and winks.

“It’s just that it tastes like chicken. I’m a vegetarian.”

It’s dark when a bubble, not unlike those blown from plastic bottles and wands, stops above my head. Another alien? Really?!

Before it can spot me, like 007, I roll to the floor and light the barbeque. (Yes, I have a barbeque next to my bed.) Rushing to the other side of the room, I turn the fan on, and use the airflow to push the balloon into the flames. Within seconds, the bubble pops, and a small blue body ignites.

We’re here today to wish farewell to Bob, the third alien to try to steal my Oreos this week.

Whoever said there's someone for everyone never watched this guy eat. 
Bile bubbles up my throat as he licks glutinous barbecue from nubby fingers. I sip my beer to wash it back down.
He eyes my plate. "Not hungry?" 
Subtle. I slide my wings over. 
He says something else but I'm  too fixated on the desperate bits clinging to his face to listen so I nod. Apparently napkins are as alien to Bob as polyester free suits and haircuts. 
  "Thanks,"he grins, spraying sauce. "I won't forget my wallet next time."
What? Shit. I take another swig.
Online dating sucks. 

"Can't we just barbecue?" Lionel asked.

"It's the Dia de Guadalupe," Vernon said.

"I know. But clubbing in Spanish Harlem? I feel so alien."

"Well, you are Norwegian."

"Plus, I hate tequila. It's flat."

"Get a club soda. We're going."

And so, despite Lionel's heritage and the appalling lack of bubbles in the alcohol, he soon found himself surrounded by salsa dancing Cubans.

"Don't bob around so much," Vernon shouted. "It's more earthy."

"How do you know?" Lionel was sweating profusely.

"Duh. Zumba." Vernon shook his head. Lionel was a great friend, but he made a terrible wing man.

Playing Chicken

Air bubbles revealed its stealthy progress below the silken black surface of the lagoon. I watched, mesmerized. The sounds of the barbecue drifted through the night. Laughter, pop-tops releasing carbonation, a screen door slapping shut.

Twigs snapped on the path behind me. A girlish squeal was quickly echoed by a masculine chuckle.

“Follow me, Bob,” she said.

“I’ll go first. I’ve got the flashlight,” he said.

The beam caught its alien yellow eye, and illuminated my frozen form at the water’s edge. As the crocodile lunged, my mother’s strong wing enfolded me, bore me away, safe from harm.

The smoky scent of barbecue wafted through the night air as Bob climbed out of the car tiredly. His tie drooped over his shoulder, soggy and ruined. He stepped onto the driveway, bubbles oozing out of his loafers. When the bat swooped down from the tree above, he watched the wings arc through the night, bemused. He had never seen bats in his yard, but given recent events, Bob wasn't surprised. An alien could land in front of him and he would probably just nod hello.
He slammed the door shut.
Tequila was the devil.
And why was he wet?!

It was one of those weird theme parties, the kind I usually avoid. This one was a barbecue and the invitation said "Bring an alien". Well, none of mine had been out for a while, so I wavered.
Bubbles cried and said it was his turn, but I hate whiners at parties. Zuzu had a broken wing - he'd been in Central Park again. In the end I took Bob with me, but his scales kept falling into everyone's champagne like green dandruff and they asked me to leave. Next time I'll go alone, and tuck my antennae under a hat.

Well, I had the craziest dream the other night. I was dreamin' that I was outside in my garden when this spaceship landed right in the middle of my yard. This little alien got out and asked me for some di-rections. Well, I told him how to get to Disney World. He thanked me kindly, and then took off in his spaceship. And that there spaceship was blowin' bubbles as it was goin’ up in the air. Well, I declare, I have decided I ain't never gonna eat anymore barbecue chicken wings before bed ever again. No siree, Bob.

"Bubbles," a fiery hot illegal alien and sociopath, nervously tastes the habanero chili.
Her American beau returns with carryout barbecued ribs. He sneaks up on her.
Her eyes blur … from the habaneros?
She feigns he's an intruder and wings him with a .38 revolver slug.
He drops something into his chili.
Using a rib, she bobs for it … and skewers what? An engagement ring?
"Such a fool."
She tastes the "haphazard melange."
"Barbecued ribs are his secret ingredient?" she wonders.
"Finally! My ticket to freedom."
"The ring?" he asks.
She shoots him again.
"No. Your recipe will make me famous."

She reads his note.

Her body bobs (a buoy, a storm).

Her plucked heart is held to flame. Blood bubbles, hissing in heat. Grill barbecues black lines across four chambers.

She cannot sleep sharing sheets with alien emptiness.

Dawn: She fights to fly to future a one-winged bird.

I once said I wouldn’t be caught dead in wingtip shoes. I was right. My shoes have enough holes to be sandals now, but I haven’t been caught dead yet.

A rare accomplishment, here.

I bob among the still, abandoned cars, my feet crunching with each step. Snow in Chicago is nothing new, but the alien silence makes me shiver. Unwelcome memories rise like bubbles as I walk. Hot chocolate. TV. My mother‘s face. Navy Pier. Barbequed, all of them--nuked like so much Ramen. Nothing left but me and my goddamned shoes.

I press on.

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Bubbles escaped her lips as she propelled herself up; fingers elongating towards the light above her. She gasped for air when her head broke the surface, bobbing while she struggled to catch her breath.

On her tongue the water tasted disturbingly flavorful. Floating, she took in the alien surroundings – someone’s backyard – not her warm bed.

She turned towards the crackle of the spitfire. Pigeons crudely tied with twine onto a skewer were barbequing, their nubby wings burning into the graying coals.

She scrambled as the water around her bubbled. Now she could place the flavor of the water – bullion!

Bob bent over the computer screen, the chicken wing forgotten and suspended between his thumb and forefinger.

“Holy shit,” he muttered before the rest of his curse was swallowed by the techno track that blasted from the speakers at SETI Central. The pattern repeated; a blip followed by a row of bubbles superimposed over the otherwise unremarkable sequence. He catapulted his dinner over the instrument panel as he pulled out the intercom, ignoring the barbecue sauce splattered over his khakis like bloody evidence of murder.

His voice shook as he spoke. “Mission control, we got ourselves a real life alien!”

You see that man at the bar? The one with the rubber chicken in wing in his left pocket and the alien T-shirt? That’s Barbeque Bob. That ain’t his real name. That’s just what folks call him. His face got burned in the fire of ’92. He’ll turn around in a minute and you’ll see. His wife’s name is Bubbles. People around here say she got bubbles for brain cells but that ain’t no nickname. You know how Bob got them scars? Setting the fire that killed the last man to bed Bubbles. If I were you son, I’d run.

“Alien!”
“Bubbles!”
“Wing!”
“Barbecue!”
“Bob!”

These words ricocheted in Danny’s mind as he stood with his back to the wall and his feet partly off a ledge as guards poked their heads out windows. What did the words even mean? Was this the equivalent of seeing your life flash before your eyes? If it was, it was pretty weird.

“We have you now!” One guard said, and Danny heard the words again.

He mouthed the words and began to float. Wow! Danny didn’t remember his master ever teaching him that one! Danny the wizard’s apprentice flew off to safety.

The bubbles tingle against the roof of my mouth, but the champagne tastes decidedly bitter. Perhaps it’s my approaching marriage to the alien overlord that has soured everything. If I could, I’d wing away to somewhere far, far from here. But instead I’m hosting this all American barbeque so that he and his minions can look upon us in our natural habitat. Their heads bob up and down upon their too slender necks.

Shivers of dread course through me as I think of our wedding night.

WING'S PRIZE

There once lived a seagull named Wing,
Who joyously dove for herring,
He bobbed on the sea,
Like bubbles, happy,
Not a care in the world, he would sing.

One day Wing came on a strange sight,
A flicker, a fire at night,
He flew close to see,
Well, what it could be,
This alien glow of gaslight.

A barbecue roared from the earth,
A bonfire and dancing with mirth,
Wing spied a fish fry,
Swooped low from the sky,
And made off with a prize from the surf.

Bob was right. The view was unbelievable, an endless ocean stretched from the jagged coast to a glorious horizon, the sunset a display of magenta, crimson, and gold. I struggled against my restraints to no avail. I was tied to a large barbecue like rotisserie that barely held my weight and if I struggled, I would fall a thousand feet to the rocky shore below, where the bubbles and foam of an alien sea would caress my broken body with bogus concern.
He lit the fire below me. I had no choice. I used all my strength to take wing.

Architects are like aliens. I was engaged to one until yesterday, until we started planning our dream home. All I wanted was a jacuzzi where I could put my feet over the jets and have millions of bubbles wriggle between my toes. He said, "Yes! Yes absolutely!" And he bobbed his hands around as though molding the air. "That will be our theme. Bubbles."

He began to sketch.

"The entire south wing by the barbecue pit will have a glass wall of effervescent bubbles."

"Can we afford that?" I asked.

He dropped his pen. "You mean we have a budget?"

A whole hour to talk about some story called “Bernice Bobs Her Hair?” Michael slunk lower into his desk, longing for a fire alarm, an alien invasion, anything. Across the aisle Trevor nibbled on some barbecued meat from a baggie. Two rows over Harrison blew a huge bubble and showed it off to Lexi.

Lexi, who made that stupid song, “The Wind Beneath My Wings” play in his head. She smiled at Trevor, and Michael looked away.

When the window shattered and a figure too tall to be human stepped through, Michael sat frozen in fear and guilt and relief.

The Hazards of Hooking in Area 51

After her three-way with Bob and “the alien,” Bubbles slipped the wad of bills into her bra strap and headed for her favorite wing joint to meet Candy. Over a plate of Schezuan barbecue, she described the big dude’s green body paint and freaky hotel room. She licked her fingers one by one and said, “I don’t entirely get the alien schtick.”

In a been-there-done-that tone of voice Candy said, “Honey, there ain’t no UFO shaped hotel down past Groom Lake.”

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“Pass me them ‘taters.” Grandma beckoned with knobby knuckles.

“Yes, Granny.”

“Hand me my dentures. They’re stuck in the butter.”

At least they weren’t at the bottom of the applesauce this time. “Yes, Granny.”

She dipped them in a mason jar of coke by her plate, then took a bite of possum barbecue.
“Bob says he seen aliens.”

Bob saw a lot of things, including Judge Forney’s wife, most afternoons.

“An alien. Like Maria and Jose, or Spock?”
Either way, I’d make sure to unload Granny’s shotgun tonight. Calus county got aliens, but they mostly mowed lawns, not probe brains.

"I told 'em they was coming, but now they're gonna reap what they sowed," Bob said, dipping his fat, sausage fingers in a ramekin of barbeque sauce. "Now they're here, there's too much screaming to listen, and I'm done flapping my wings."

He sucked the gelatinous sauce off his fingers. Ordered another Coors. He took a swig and the foam and bubbles splashed down his chins. "People always choose the worst for themselves. Why aliens would find that interesting's beyond me."

Three booths down, two darkly dressed men stood up, deciding the man named Bob had finally had his fill.

“Want to bob for apples?”
I glanced across the yard. Allison Mester and her brilliant brigade hovered.
Sure.
I trudged past the barbeque grill, snatching a chicken wing.
What is one’s last meal called?
I stood behind her, waiting my opportunity.
Strands of blond hair floated on the surface around Allison’s head as she plunged her face into the caldron.
Opportunity arrived.
I pushed her head down under the water and held it there while raging bubbles burst forth. Her hands flailed violently like an alien from Fortuna.
I felt a shove from behind.
“It’s your turn freak.”

The One

Honoring their new digs, the agents chattered and laughed and drank. Despite the early hour it was hot as a Texas BBQ, heat funnelling in from the library wing.

Ms. Shark sailed in, Brooks bobbing in her wake. “You'll never believe the manuscript I just read. There's intrigue and bondage and aliens. It's: The One.”

With the swiftness of her namesake predator, an arm swept the foyer table sending flutes of Prosecco to the floor, once effervescent bubbles dying amongst shards of glass like dreams of mediocre writers. She slammed down the bottle of single malt.

“Let's celebrate.”