SIXTEEN: THE THING

“Just… don’t ducking look at me, okay?”

“What? What’s the matter?”

I clenched my fists, then raised a finger at it, emphasizing each of my words with a sharp jab. “You. You’re the matter. The way you… look. The way you… smell. What you... are. It’s all just… well, it's disgusting, okay?”

It stared at me with its milky eyes, then the lids twitched at the base in what I assumed would have been a blink if the white orbs weren’t deader and dryer than the Atacama desert. “Don’t give me that crap, Flap. You asked for this!”

“I did, huh?” I snorted and licked my bottom bill. “When? Please tell me, Dumbass. When exactly did I ask you to turn yourself into a monstrosity straight out of The Thing? And I’m talking about the good one from 1982. Not the other good one from 1951, and definitely not the so-so one from when Hollywood went all remake happy in the 2010s.”

“Wow! You’re really pulling The Thing into this? That’s low, Flap. Even for a bird that can't even fly.” The bizarre amalgam of parts bent its legs, which caused the head perched atop them to tilt to the side. “And please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” I gagged as I caught a whiff of the sweet smell of rot. “Enlighten me, Thing. And feel free to play back the line verbatim. I know you’re recording me in there. Or were. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here from a technical perspective.”

“You said… and I quote,” It cleared its throat—an actual throat for once and when it spoke again, it was using my voice. I will not sugarcoat it for you. I sounded far more annoying than I thought I would, suspiciously Like a fat Australian actor that had painted on so many accents in his career that no one knew what color the original coat was. “‘Shut up, Dumbass. You can figure out a way to talk to both of us if you don’t like the way I translate.’”

I blinked several times. That was clear and convincing evidence if I had ever heard it, but it wasn’t above Dumbass to pull the wool over my eyes. It was time for a second opinion. “Damn, you sure I said that? Did-did I say that, Weevul?”

“You did,” Weevul agreed. “And although this Dumbass thing is very frightening to Weevul, it is nice to be included in conversation for once.”

“So you’re on its side too, huh?! Great.” I swallowed the sickness that was welling up in my stomach and walked up to Dumbass, perched on top of a rock it had made its personal soapbox. “And you thought the best way to solve our translation problem was to use all the Nanoparticle Fabrication Paste—the only useful piece of loot we’ve gotten since we been in this subterranean hell hole, I might add—”

Weevil cleared his throat and raised a pair of index claws. “Do not forget single-serve food packet. Very useful, and tasty to Weevul.”

“Sure, pal. I appreciate that you’re coming into your own and all, conversation wise, but I saved your life. You could back me up a little, you know?” I was no expert on interspecies nonverbal communication, but I tossed him a smile that I hoped told him I was joking.

He hung his head. "Weevul will do better next time."

I cursed myself, then I took a step closer to Dumbass. That was a huge mistake. Its stench stung my nostrils like burned ozone. “You’re a dumbass, Dumbass. Out of all the things you could have done to help us out, you used all of our Fabrication Paste to attach a half dozen Curculian legs you must have snuck into my inventory to the rotting severed head of my old pal Drok D’Rumstik?”

It shrugged, as much as the aforementioned legged head could. “Yeah, pretty much.” It flashed a shit-eating grin, its beak forming a sickening crescent around the bloated tongue lolling out. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Argh!” I ran both hands through my frill, pulling in frustration as I roared my annoyance away. I drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Then I sang to myself in a voice so soft I could barely hear it. “Feel so mad… want to roar… deep breath… and count to—what the ducking duck, Dumbass?!”

“Hey, you have no business being mad at me right now. In fact, you should be happy because it more or less means me admitting you were right about something. And—”

I cut him off. “Are you out of my head now or what?!”

It held up a claw. “Let me finish, please. And…” It paused and waited to see if I would interrupt again. I wanted to, but the damn thing was relentless so I didn’t. “And… if you will not propose a solution to a problem, don’t get mad when I come up with one. Right, Weevul?”

"Oh, so Dumbass values Weevul's opinion, too? This is too much for simple Curculian." The insect looked back and forth from me to Dumbass, then back to me, and shuddered. The plates of his exoskeleton clinked together, creating a sound that I could only describe as a bony wind chime. “Weevul not sure why he is in middle of lovers' squabble, but stinky head thing is right, Flap. Do not be mad. It is only truth.”

“I’m not mad, pal. At least not at you.” I straightened my Saurian skin duster and stood to my full height with pride. “I’m furious at life mostly, but I can be a big boy about it. I am almost six years old, after all. And at least Dumbass isn’t inside my head anymore, right?”

Silence.

“I said... right?”

Dumbass chuckled. “Well, that is a very complicat—hey! Do you smell watermelon?”

“What?! No! All I smell is your stinky ass, er… head.”

Dumbass hopped down from its perch and motioned with its claw. “C’mon, follow me, boys. If I only knew one thing in this messed up simulation of a reality—and to be clear, I know almost everything—that one thing would be the unmistakable smell of hard seltzer breath.”