Bog scene 2

Continuing with my dumb short story idea, about an ameba alien invasion on earth, but unfortunately for the aliens themselves, only learning later in the story, they’re harmless to humans. This is troublesome for the tiny ameba given that their survival depends on a successful invasion. The story is told from the perspectives of two clashing brothers from the Og generation - The General and the Cultural Expert. Read the first scene here.

***

The planet’s only star had crossed the foreign sky thirty times while the Bogs built out their encampment. Without a need to sleep, the amoeba aliens expanded quickly. They consumed the potatoes nearest the mothership cube, creating crop circles. Strategically, the mothership had landed dead-center in the expansive field, so their activities went unnoticed. A Bog would hover to a nearby potato and absorb the biomass. The feeding process lasted a few hours, usually cutting a single potato short by a fourth. Afterwards, given several days to digest and process the material, a Bog would begin a copy cycle. 

An incredibly personal experience, most Bogs underwent the binary fission in private. It’d be incredibly shameful to divide yourself in the streets, but the process began unannounced, starting when your water broke, so it happened from cycle to cycle. Since arrival, the population had grown by five generations, with each copy cycle having around an 80% yield rate. It took longer for the undernourished, immature, or depressed to divide, but as reported by the Bog Dailey, national happiness was high and the potatoes were plenty. Og-B was very impressed with the 80% yield rate and current population count of about 40,000.

Cultural Expert Og-B floated at his booth promoting his profession. Bogs decided on a profession usually a week after separation, so career fairs were frequent. The G5 career fair, the largest fair to date, bustled with 25,000 Bogs needing jobs. Og-B took pride in the Bog freedom to choose their own career, having blazed his own novel professional trail, but most Bogs usually chose a family profession or one of the glory jobs. The line to his brother’s table, The General, promoting the glories of war, wrapped around the other booths. Scarcely a Bog approached Og-B’s table, safe for the few expressing their respect for him being part of the Og generation.

In the beginning, there had been a single Bog, Og-B’s father. But tragically, Senior O-g died in an aviation crash. Such a sad story would probably be best for another time.

“It’s called a pyramid, you know.” A young Bog had approached the booth, wearing a potato chip on his head was fashionable for his generation. “I double checked the literature. You’ve been telling people wrong. Our spaceship is a pyramid, not a cube.” 

“Excuse me,” said Og-B, who never quite could relate to the young folks. Potatoes were meant to be eaten, not worn. The fashion choice was preposterous.

“You’re horrible at your job,” said the chip-wearing hooligan. 

“Watch your frequency, kid. Mind you, I’m the foremost expert on cultural matters. If anyone would know the customs and facts of the planet, it’d be me.” 

“You’re the only cultural expert. Your profession is a joke. No accountability really. You can just say whatever you want and Bogs believe you. That Abraham Lincoln fellow you talked about at community hall last weekend, he wasn’t the planet’s mightiest warrior. He’s dead. Killed by an actor.” 

“What, an actor? That’s crazy. Nobody has ever been killed by an actor. They’re the weakest caste on the planet. Who’s been filling your plasma with this nonsense?” Flustered, Og-B dismissed the request, “Nevermind that, if you don’t respect the art of cultural excavation, scram. Go join the troops.”

The kid didn’t budge. “No, I don’t respect the profession, but, I’d like to join.”

It caught Og-B off guard. “What, I don’t understand. Why would you want to join if you won’t respect the profession?”

“Do you know where we are?” asked the kid.

Og-B scoffed. “Iowa. The capital and geo-center of the planet. What’s this have to do with anything?”

“No, we’re in Idaho,” said the kid laughing. “And, it’s that lack of accountability that makes me interested in the profession.”

The Cultural Expert wasn’t convinced. “Who told you that? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I Google mapped it.” 

“What the hell is Google?”