osmoala

It was a heatwave from hell.

   Tony Cox was sitting at Viva! next to the Old Market and the frozen margaritas gave him the most pleasent brain freeze. He felt like his body was still in the tropics and his mind was temporarily located in Iceland. For once he loved the contrast. And the heat would cool down in a few days anyway, because he had eliminated what was causing it in the first place.

The aliens from the planet with three suns, HD 18875, had been around for a week to cause trouble, by increasing the temperature to a level normal to their home planet. People would die from the heat and following the front troops there would be a colony taking over this part of the world. And then the rest of the planet.

   The front troops had only consisted of two individuals, because it was supposed to be an easy take over – since they were using one of the most powerful weather control devices ever, The Blaster. It was not the HAARP, it had technical similarities, yes, but it was much more potent, and it was the size of a pack of cigarettes. You place it somewhere, push the button and within the radius of hundreds of kilometres it heats up the air, blowing up people like putting living frogs inside a micro wave oven. It would take some time though and Cox had caught them half way through their evil scheme.

   Cox ordered another margarita and took a trip down the memory lane. It was the code word for sending reports, and he started focusing on images and details for his last two hours. He sent the report telepathically to the Organization.

Here we go:

”I approach the individual in the intersection – black eyes, studying the map of Siem Reap, upside down – showing him the gold nugget asking what he thinks it's worth.

   ”Five dollars.”

   ”It's not five dollars, it's 5000 dollars.”

   ”Okay, 10 dollars.”

   ”Let's go and talk somewhere.” His greedy eyes look to the right and I spot his companion, sitting at the bar opposite of Sok San Road, sipping a draft. These guys are both greedy and thirsty, so the second one finishes his beer in a hurry and the three of us walk down the road leading towards Blue Bar.

   ”Here, to the right.” It's a dirt road with no lights but there are a few houses further on. ”But I want 500.”

   ”Hahaha!” they both laugh in the alien language you've heard so many times before. ”250, it's just a small piece. And that's final,” the first one says.

   ”Guys, here's something else that's final.” From the dark in front of us four shadows appear. They are my partners in crime – even though I would not call it a crime. Or them partners for that matter. They are silent co-workers and they finish the business. And the two aliens somehow disappear from the face of the earth. Their whereabouts are unknown at this moment. Over and out.” Cox deliberately used the Hollywood movie cliché to end the telephatic contact.

   Cox heard inside of his brain freeze the final, ”Message received. Over and out.”

   Apparently someone at the other end has a sense of humour. He orders a third margarita. Now it is time for a few days off.