"Hey bro," says my buddy Wylescroft, "the news says aliens are real."
Sure, okay. Makes mathematical sense. "Are they buying our used cars?" I ask.
"No. They're doing some weird stuff to our brains. I don't get the news anymore now that it costs money. Ted in 4-A told me all about it when I was down doing laundry. You know the dryer is broken again?"
Fucking dryer. Of course it's busted, it's always busted. "Less competition for me, at least."
I return to endlessly searching the local classifieds for low-to-high-mileage 1970s economy cars. Or at least I try to, because I keep getting distracted by sirens as everyone outside is freaking the fuck out about something. Down the street, the police station is on fire, but that could be for any number of reasons. I close the blinds so the roaring flames stop flickering on my phone screen.
There's a good deal on a '75 Scamp. I pick up the phone and call directly, because that's the kind of thing that this sort of seller prefers. "Will you take $1000?" I ask as soon as they pick up, without looking at the original asking price.
"Yeah man, yeah. I gotta get out of this city. The Goddamn Martians are coming for our frontal lobes, man. You got cash?"
I realize I have highballed myself. "No," I tell him. "The coin dryer ate all of it. It's broken again, you know." I'll call back later with a fake voice and offer $500.
