At first Hurley was afraid he was going to die. After 45 minutes of puking his guts out and similar disturbances from the other end, Edgar Hurley was afraid he might not die and would have to live through this.

This condition was the result of a three day drunk. The three day drunk was the result of having received his- dadadot- tada- 100th rejection letter. It was from Analog and it was for a story he really liked. He’d poured his heart and soul into the piece. He didn’t even think they’d read it. Somebody was being paid to just take his story out of the original envelope and place it in the return envelope with a rejection slip. Hurley was convinced the reader wasn’t reading anything.

It didn’t make any sense to go back to bed. He’d better stay close to the commode. So he crawled to the couch. He put a plastic bucket beside the couch in case he was ‘inspired’ again and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. It was 3:00 AM and he was thirty and the readers weren’t reading his stuff anymore.

Under these conditions, Hurley was not sure how long he’d been staring at the little green man before he’d realized something was amiss.

The little guy was sitting on the TV remote. That was okay because Hurley was so depressed, he didn’t even want to channel surf. Let the TV remain on the shopping channel. Hurley didn’t care. But he did feel he should comment on the situation in some manner.

“Ummmm,” Hurley said, too tired to think of anything clever, “May I help you?”

“Yes,” the little man said. “I am Hezlig. I am here to conquer your planet and enslave your race.”

“Well, you’re all alone and you’re four inches tall,” Hurley said, his head pounding. “How do you see this happening?”

“I have come here through an inter-dimensional link.”

“Like a stargate?”

“No, it is nothing like a stargate due to intergalactic copyright agreements. But know that my size is not a problem,” Hezlig said smugly. “I have been observing you. You are weak and fearful. A race easily conquered.”

“You’ve been watching me?” Hurley asked. “You can’t judge the world by me. I’m a writer.”

“A writer? Hmmmmm,” Hezlig said. “I assume that in the last 72 hours, you’ve been involved in a mating ritual?”

“Mating ritual?” Hurley said. “What are you talking about? I’ve been alone.”

“With all the moaning and laying about that you’ve been doing, I assume you were preparing yourself and signaling to the male of your species-”

“Whoa! Hold up!” Hurley said. He pointed to his chin which sported three days worth of stubble and said, “I am the male of my species! I’m a guy!”

“I see...” Hezlig said thoughtfully. Then he added, “Sort of a whiney, sissy guy, I think.”

“I’ve been through a bad time,” Hurley whined.

“Yes,” Hezlig said. “And when you have a bad time, you give up. You quit. Very good slave material. Easily controlled.”

“I am not easily controlled! I have received 100 rejection slips! Do you know what that means?”

“You overreact to minor setbacks? Because, again, good slave material.”

“I am not overreacting! I poured my heart and soul into that story and they didn’t even read it! And earth will never surrender to you! We’re made of better stuff than that!”

“Are you certain of that?” Hezlig laughed. “Are you certain of anything? Even now, you are asking yourself, did this guy arrive via interdimensional link or did he come out of a Jack Daniels bottle?”

Hurly stopped short. Could this guy read his mind? Or was this a hallucination newly arrived on the alcohol express?

“See?” Hezlig said. “No self confidence. Easily defeated. Slave material.”

“Well,” Hurley muttered. “I’m not the best example of the human race. You need to contact the president or the Pope or Oprah. I’m just some guy that wants to be a writer and hasn’t sold anything.”

“But you will.”

“Will what?”

“You will sell a story.”

“Oh, is this where you tell me that you come from the future and you know that I am destined to write a great book or something?”

“No,” Hurley said. “This is where I tell you that you haven’t opened your mail in three days and one of those magazines wants to buy the story you sent to them. I was bored. I read your mail. Sue me.”

Suddenly Hurley seemed to be very much the opposite of good slave material.

George sat up in bed and said, “This had better be good. It’s 4:00 AM.”

Laura rolled over and pretended she was asleep. If George had known that the secret service followed you everywhere you went- everywhere- he would have never taken this job.

But it was not the secret service man that had awakened him. It was a little green man. No bigger than 4 inches tall! He was sitting on the memo pad next to the phone.

“Hello,” Hezlig said. “I have come to conquer this planet and enslave your race. I have been observing your species. You appear to a race of whiners, quitters and sissy boys. A race fit for enslavement.”

The words Hezlig used were so foreign to George that at first he thought the alien was speaking a foreign language. Perhaps French.

“It’s too early in the morning to deal with this crap,” George said. He motioned to the secret service man standing nearby. “Charlie! Area 51 this guy!”

So, once again, America has thwarted world domination by an invading alien species. That is a good thing. If you don’t like it, you are welcome to contact the Intergalactic Authority with your complaint. Expect a rejection slip- er- reply in six weeks.