STRICTLY ALIEN DANCING

As far as Hufflepoffle was concerned he most certainly was not an alien, and how dared the insects on the third planet revolving round the sun of this rather insignificant system suggest that he was. I’m. Hofflepoffle, he thought, and considerably superior to them.

But he know that’s what they call him by monitoring their broadcasts. They called anyone in the yawning gaps between the stars aliens

Hofflepoffle locked his yacht, a fine vessel that could eat up the parsecs as it caught solar winds and went wherever he told it to when he issued vocal commands in his wonderful baritone voice. But he was going to stay where he was for the time being rather than delve into the deep wonders of the fifth planet from that same sun even though that fifth planet looked more like home than this third one did. Hofflepoffle’s home planet was a long way away and it had taken him, a dozen lifetimes to get to where he where he found that he could enjoy their broadcasts on the electromagnetic spectrum. The insects found the strangest things to be more than fascinating, even referring to him ans his kind as aliens!

And there were so many what they called broadcasts. He loved the dancing ones because of the patterns flimsy frocks made as their silly dancers swirled about. When he shoved the sound track through an automatic translator there was an awful amount of white noise that threatened to deafen him until the visuals showed hundreds of those insects banging their forelegs together, making that clapping noise. When the noise died down the word “Strictly” became evident, and an analysis of the words using the universal solar dictionary (a publication that he worshipped almost as much as he worshipped his favourite Hoffle females, especially the ones he kept in hibernation ready for when his desires awoke, like they did every so often). Strictly involved discipline and even (here his mouth watered) punishment.

He loved punishment, the way the females lashed out at hi when they were awakw and out of hibernation, making his bruises bleed glorious puce blood. He could happily spend the rest of his life being lashed, but his life would be obviously shortened via the loss of too much blood, and his females had yet to be inseminated by him, which they had to be if they were going to produce him a son to replace his being, and his essence would be reborn for him to enjoy another life before the cycle came round again.

But back to that silly third planet from this particular sun.

One particular broadcast had suggested that the inhabitant insects considered anyone in his position, out there in yachts enjoying the glorious spaces between the planets, as aliens.

He was no alien! True, they were aliens, of course they were, cretinous insects who enjoyed war games, blowing up entire cities for the fun of it and then having to rebuild them whilst other insects buried those whose life had been extracted from them by what they saw as humorous explosions, though personally he couldn’t see much amusement in it. It all seemed so silly. Immarture.

When young uns (that’s what they were called here and he might as well use the same vocabulary as they used just in case they decided to visit him, though he doubted they would, their technology was hardly adequate) showed signs of being intelligent they were educated out of it. No society makes progress by doing that!

He shuddered. If one of them dared knock the door of his yacht and greet him in one of their clumsy ways they’d best not use the word “alien” or he’d be forced to sort them out! He’d show them all about being strictly! He’d show them some dancing! He knew some moves!

His arse giggled. That was another thing he couldn’t get his head round. When the insects laughed it wasn’t via their arses. It was a raucous noise from their mouths, and he’d never heard of anything so… alien! He giggled again just for the joy of it. And it felt rather nice too.

He tuned his brain into the third planet’s broadcasts. One was more powerful than the others, probably because it was on more than one frequency, and he found it silly beyond belief. Two teams of eleven insects, ten painted red and ten painted blue and two marked as targets, charged around a field of some kind of green vegetable, kicking a spherical object and obviously aiming at one of those marked to be aimed at. It was, he decided, a form of discipline. Those being on the receiving end of the spheres were quite clearly being punished.

What had they done to deserve such treatment? Maybe they had failed to inseminate their females in time for their life’s ending? A crime in any society, he would have thought. His gluggle stirred when he thought of it and it crossed his mind he might just awaken two of his females and inseminate them ready for his own inevitable death.

There had been a time when death had been final, but thanks to modern evolutionary miracles, if he died (and he would, there was nothing that could stop that from happening) all his thoughts and memories would be present in his sons when they were born. He frowned. He was too young to die yet. Maybe in a while when he was exhausted.

Back to the third planet from this particular sun. They were doing some more of their strictly dancing on another channel. Wasn’t it silly? Yet there was something almost erotic about it if you accepted that insects could understand something as advanced as eroticism.

There were two distinct types of insects, half of them being more fluid with what could only be some kind of floaty artificial fabric draped on them whilst the others looked more formal.

If they had males and females, which was which? Maybe those in floaty stuff and with extravagant swirls of what might be hair on their tops were males? They looked beautiful enough to be a primitive sort of masculine figure. And the others, disciplinarians, stern. Rigid until they moved. Feminine.

Must be.

Now what’s on the sound track? Quick: feed it into the translator.

They’re being judged? How offensive!

Well, he knew something about judging on the third rock from the sun. He’d watched their television programmes and know exactly what’s important to the insects. They have a competition called “Pointless” and I’ve seen how lower scores are more desirable, and higher scores are disastrous. That must be the way they think, if they think at all!

he thought and then decided to watch the, what do they call them, judges, as they score the dancers.

Ah. The second pair score, let me see, he thought, ten from the first of the four insect judges whose job it is to award scores, and ten seems to be as high as a score can go.

That must mean that this pair are of no merit at all. Probably going to be punished at some time.

Strange because, he quite enjoyed their strange movements. They reminded him of home, with his own females out of hibernation, needing him.

But these insects must know what ten means. After all, it’s their playtime, not his. He decided there and then that he’d nip to the hibernating females and see if they’re in the mood. They might be, and having witnessed this Strictly stuff he guessed he was, too. They wouldn’t believe it when he told them back home.

His gluggle twanged as he thought of it

© Peter Rogerson 24.09.22