Chapter One

You're probably a bit confused right now. Let me introduce myself: my name is Sam O'Sullivan – I'm a marketer.

That beasty down there is what we Americans like to call a hessian. They've got their own name for themselves, but hell if you could ask me to pronounce it. Not that it matters anyways – it was my job to hide that sort of thing from people.

You see, we, as human beings, have a natural distrust of the unknown. That might be bad enough if hessians were just some foreign minority, stealing jobs from hard working Americans, but as you've no doubt noticed, hessians are a bit more complicated than that. Throw lingering resentment from the war (of course there was a war) on top of that, and you've got yourself the lovely public relations disaster that my company, Humanity Incorporated, as the world's largest employer of hessians, has to deal with.

That's where I came in. To the corp, the hessian species was essentially a product. It was my job to sell them.

Which brings us back to where I was: it was some time in Summer, 1987, and I was in an L.A. film studio to observe the fruits of my labour firsthand. I'd been called on by the company to mess around with some NBC sitcom called “House of Cards”. The order came down from the boss himself – he wanted me to somehow inject a pro-hessian message into the show.

After spit balling around a few ideas, I had it: BAM, there was Joe Kerman. The idea was to introduce a hessian character that people could laugh at and connect to - to throw out the dusty old image of the ravenous alien conqueror and replace it with the wacky but well meaning neighbour. Judging by the laughter I heard around me, it seems that people had been craving for the ability to laugh at hessians.

“That's a wrap!” shouted the director. The air around me was filled with murmuring and shuffling as the audience slowly vacated the studio. I got up and walked over to the director. On my way, I passed the hessian.

“Hey Majiiz, nice acting out there” I said.

“The director commands and I obey” said Majiiz, coldly. “A proper warrior of the Djin clan must-”

“Sorry, no time for chit-chat, compadré” I said, dismissively.

I approached the director. He was a little on the overweight side, but was saved by his fine head of curly blonde hair. He looked a bit young to be a director, but I knew better. Nate O’Neil was his name. We'd coordinated on a few projects in the past. You might say he was an acquaintance of mine.

“Sounds like they liked your new character, eh Nate?”

“Kiss my ass, Sam.”

I chuckled.

“Go ahead and laugh while you can, shithead. We'll see what the actual audience thinks when this thing airs.”

“Trust me, Nate: the “actual audience” doesn't exactly watch your show because they're looking for high art. People are going to love the hessian.” I gestured towards the crowd filing out the exit. “People do love the hessian.”

Nate didn't look convinced.

I smirked at him.

“Besides, asshole: you're replaceable.”

Nate looked like he wanted to punch me for a moment but thought better of it and sighed.

“Well shit.”

I patted him on the shoulder.

“I'm glad you see it my way.”

I turned and walked away.

“Well... at least the hessian is good at following direction” Nate mumbled to himself.

I followed what was left of the crowd out the exit and left the studio. It was a sweltering hot midsummer day, which made me immediately regret having chosen a car with a black interior when I sat down in my seat and nearly seared my ass off.

The streets of L.A. were well maintained. If there's one thing I hated about travelling outside of New York, it's that the roads were almost always bumpy. The buildings lining the streets were mostly new constructions. There was still plenty of new construction going on, in fact. The city was prosperous, there were plenty of employment opportunities, and crime was at an all time low. It was all around a model city. You never could have guessed that the place was an apocalyptic hellscape just a few short decades ago.

I spotted a billboard along the highway advertising the upcoming House of Cards episode. “Jack gets a big surprise when his old college buddy comes to town!” The pun was my idea. I crack myself up sometimes.

In the picture, Jack stood in the foreground with his face in his palms while Joe stood in the foreground with his arms outstretched and disturbing toothy grin on his face. God, I still remember that photo shoot.

The photographer was incredibly nervous - the poor bastard had probably never seen a hessian in-person before - but tried to maintain his composure and act as though everything was normal.

“Okay, Majiiz, you're reuniting with an old friend.”

Majiiz just stood there with his arms outstretched, a blank expression on his face. He looked like a confused animal that someone had stuck in a stupid pose.

“-Which makes you happy.”

Majiiz blinked.

The photographer scratched his head.

“Okay, like... uh show your teeth, I guess?”

Majiiz bared his fangs. His canines must've been the size of bananas.

The photographers eyes widened and he took an involuntary step backward.

“Woah! Woah woah, okay no. No. Maybe, ummm... how about less of the teeth?”

Majiiz closed his mouth.

“Okay, no, not exactly. I'm going to ask you to slowly show your teeth. That's it... keep going... there!”

Majiiz stopped, his face frozen in sort of a toothy scowl that you could mistake for a smile if you looked at it sideways.

“Good enough.”

Yeah, fun times. It's true what they say: in show business, one should never work with children or hessians.

I pulled up at a restaurant named“Jakarta” - the place had the best coffee in West Hollywood, or so I'd heard. I got up and tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation of my sweaty shirt peeling from the seat.

Upon entering the building my gaze was immediately drawn to a table guarded by an L.A.P.D. officer. Not so coincidentally, that was the table I was looking for.

Sitting at the table, sipping on a cup of coffee, was a familiar man in a five thousand dollar suit. I recognized his gaunt face and trademark mullet in an instant. His receding newly receding hairline was new to me though. He wore horn rim glasses though I knew for a fact that he didn't need them. He noticed me walking over and a broad smile appeared on his face.

“Sammy!”

“Floyd!”

He was my old friend, Floyd Finnegan.

“Take a dip in a pool before you came here?” he asked, pointing at my sweat stained white dress shirt.

He was also a dick.

“Come on, Sammy. You've got to have a sense of humour about yourself.”

“No sense in wearing a good suit to lunch.” I said, and took a seat across from Floyd.

Floyd chucked.

“Fair enough.” Floyd paused for a moment until I was fully seated. “Please, have some coffee. I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

I picked up my cup and eyed its contents.

“Best coffee in West Hollywood” chimed Floyd.

“So I've heard.”

West Hollywood must have low standards because that coffee tasted like crap.

“What's up with this place's name?” I asked, hoping to change the topic.

“Jakarta?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn't it obvious?” asked Floyd, with a look of exaggerated surprise on his face.

“No.”

“Jakarta is the capital of Java.”

“Uh huh.”

“The capital of java. Get it?”

“Oh, I get it - it just isn't very funny. Puns are bad enough even when they aren't too vague for anyone to understand.”

“Speak for yourself, Sammy. Anyone with a bit of worldly knowledge could get it.”

See, this was the thing about Floyd that rubbed me the wrong way: he always went out of his way to prove to everyone just how sophisticated he was. More often than not, this involved being an asshole.

“Sure.”

I gestured in the direction of the police officer behind me with my thumb.

“So what's the deal with him?”

“Ah, I see you've noticed Steve. Say hello, Steve!”

“Hey” said the officer, in a casual tone.

“Tell me, Floyd: when did your crimes finally catch up with you?” I asked dryly.

“Oh that won't be for quite a while yet” chortled Floyd. “Steve here is just one of the many perks of having a corporate sponsored police department.”

“Do you honestly think you need a personal bodyguard?”

“Need? No. Deserve? Absolutely.”

I turned and faced the cop. “What do you think, Steve?”

“I think this guy doesn't give me enough breaks” said the officer without pause.

“Quiet, Steve. Nobody cares what you think” snapped Floyd.

The officer glared at him.

Floyd froze for a second before his face suddenly contorted into a smile.

“I got you! You thought I was serious, didn't you!” laughed Floyd. He turned to face me again. “Steve and I, we like to tease each other sometimes.”

“I'm sure. Enough small talk though; what did you really invite me here for, Floyd?”

“It's the boss” said Floyd in more serious tone.

“What about him?”

“He's here in L.A., right now. Nobody knows why.”

I took it in and thought for a moment.

“Interesting timing.”

“I'll say.”

“So you think he's here for my show?”

“He's always been invested in human-hessian relations. It wouldn't surprise me. After all, your show is technically a milestone.”

Floyd wasn't exaggerating. Prior to House of Cards, hessians had been relegated to the ass end of the entertainment industry. Before his breakthrough role as Joe, Majiiz Djin had played many illustrious parts, including, but not limited to: “alien #2”, “evil warlord”, and “monster under bed” - and those were the Hollywood productions.

“I do what I can.”

“-To make money” added Floyd.

“That's a given.”

I took another sip of coffee. I decided it probably wasn't just an acquired taste.

“So the question is, why are you telling me this?”

“Come on, Sammy. We're buds. Chums. We tell each other things.”

“You're hoping to latch on to me and absorb some of the good vibes I might get from the boss, aren't you?”

“Of course.”

“Floyd, my friend, you're as predictable as the sunset.

“Only because I always make the best choices.”

“You sound confident.”

He had every reason to be. Floyd could be a real idiot at times, but I've never really had it in me to shake him off. Call it loyalty or call it gullibility, but I wasn't going to say no to him - besides, if I ever screwed up, he could be my scapegoat.

“Fine. I'll fit you in somehow.” I said, with resignation.

“I already know how.”

“Oh?”

“Word on the street is that the boss is going to show up at your show's relaunch party.”

“So I'm guessing you want me to bring you along as a guest and pretend that you helped me out?”

“You read my mind.”

“Alright, it's a deal - but only on one condition.”

“What's that?” said Floyd cautiously.

“That we blow this joint and get ourselves some real drinks.”

“I begrudgingly accept.”

As I got up from the table, I made sure to “accidentally” bang my leg against it. Floyd's cup of coffee collapsed off the table and spilled onto his lap.

Hey, I wasn't going to let him win completely.

“Aghhhhh! Fuck! You-”

I imagine that it was at this moment that Floyd realized that if he continued the sentence he'd just started, he'd probably have lost his guest spot at the party.

“-totally weren't responsible for that! We should sue this place for having such cramped leg room!”

“Maybe some other day, Floyd.”

A few hours later and we were both drunk at a nearby club. Floyd and I were sitting at the bar. The place was pretty packed. Some song by New Order was playing, I think. My memory gets a bit hazy at this point.

“Sammy, have I ever told you that you're my best friend?” asked Floyd, in a slurred voice.

“Three times in the past ten minutes, buddy.”

“Well, I mean it. If I didn't have a friend like you, then I don't what I'd do. I'd probably cry or something.”

Funny enough, Floyd and I only ever acted like real friends when we were drunk.

I looked at the crowd on the dance floor. I've always been fascinated by dancing. When people really get into dancing, they can just throw away all worldly cares and devote themselves entirely to the song, blissful in their temporary ignorance. To them, nothing really matters outside of the music.

Floyd tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to face him.

“Hey Sammy! Sammy, I think those two over there are checking us out” said Floyd, leaning his head in the direction of two women sitting at a table nearby.

There was a blonde and a brunette. I'd give 'em about an eight and a six and a half, respectively. They saw us looking at them and smiled. I smiled back.

“I call the brunette.”