Just Another Tuesday

Three loud bangs against the door, followed by the ringing of the doorbell like someone trying to win a button mashing minigame in Mario Party, jolted Clarence upright from his partial recline on the couch.

He swallowed and, while attempting to ignore the accelerated beating of his heart and tightening splish and splash of his insides, looked at his phone.

The confirmation of no texts or missed calls was punctuated by another round of fist against door and rapid-fire pressing of doorbell.

Clarence slid off the couch, tiptoed over the window, and created a sliver of view with a careful pinky barely moving the curtain.

A semicircle of uniformed individuals stood calmly, black equipment cases of varying sizes in hand, while a man holding a locking storage clipboard banged on the door.

They were all wearing short sleeve shirts that were the offspring of work and military tops. Charcoal grey button ups with shoulder straps, with thin black ties running down the length toward the black leather and silver buckled belts on deep green Dickie pants that rested at the ankles on maroon colored Pumas.

Before Clarence was able to close the eye-width gap of the curtain, one of the members outside glanced over at Clarence, seemingly made eye contact, and stepped forward to speak to the man at the door.

Clarence cursed under his breath, and backed away from the window.

There was a brief pause in the knocking that was soon replaced with a “Sir! We know you are in there.”

Another expletive huffed out of Clarence’s mouth, and, falling into a state of resignation, approached the front door.

“Who are you?” Clarence shouted as he stood at the still closed door. “What do you want?” He looked through the peephole, giving him that fishy view of the group outside.

“I’m Sergeant Bently Hawk,” the ID he held up to the peephole showed the same. “These are my agents. We have a warrant.” He held that up as well. “There is something in your house that could be a threat to you and others in your neighborhood.”

Clarence did not respond.

“We just need to ask you a few questions, and do a quick search of your house,” Bently continued. “Won’t take long. And, well, not to get too cliche but we need to get in, so easy or hard way?”

On cue, one of the agents held up a two handle tactical door ram and all the implications with it.

With a sigh, Clarence unbolted the door and opened it.

The agents rushed inside, spilling into the kitchen, frantically setting up cameras, sensors, and all kinds of equipment that Clarence wasn’t sure of form or function.

One agent, ID Juliana S., set up a table, while others rifled through drawers, and others punched holes in the walls.

“What the hell are you doing to my house?” Clarence threw both hands on top of his head.

“Sir, please calm down,” ID Letisha P raised a hand.

“What?” Clarence looked at her.

“Sir! This will go a lot smoother if you would just calm down.”

Clarence scoffed.

“Now, Clancy…” Bently continued.

“Clarence.”

“...we’ve detected a spatiotemporal continuum distortion centered at this location.”

“A what?”

“Sir! Calm down!”

A handheld taser crackled in warning.

“I’m calm.”

The taser was raised, and the flashing blue, accented with a tilted head, and raised eyebrows above wide-eyed seriousness, emphasized the point.

“I’m calm! Jesus Christ.”

Letisha wagged the taser in another reminder, then lowered it.

“Cut the cards,” Juliana held out a stack of cards.

“What?”

“Cut the cards,” she smiled.

Clarence complied.

“Have you been practicing any witchcraft, dark arts, voodoo, or any other form of mystical rituals?” Bently asked, unfazed.

“What? No!” Clarence answered.

“Oof.” Juliana turned over a tarot card.

“Have you ever tried reaching out to UFOs or UAPs using any method including, but not limited to, CE5, laser pointers, or wishful thinking?”

“No.”

“Yikes.” Another card.

“Have you at any time current, past, or future, been in contact with, or involved with, any cult?”

“Cult? No. Funny question given the way you all are dressed.”

“That’s not good.” Yet another card.

“I think you are confusing Dickies and Pumas for tracksuits and Nikes,” Bently chuckled and smirked. “Pumas are way cooler. These even have a little pocket. Can keep all kinds of things in there. Quarters. Spare buttons. Maybe some tic tacs.”

“Maybe we should just put these away,” Juliana grimaced and quickly gathered the tarot cards.

Clarence looked around in disbelief.

“Have you been having any dreams? Portents. Visions. Vague senses of deja vu?”

“No. None of that.”

“Interesting. Interesting.”

Shouting from various field agents and technicians suddenly filled the kitchen.

“We are spiking!”

“Breach is imminent!”

“Salt it! Salt it!”

“Who ate the last eclair?”

“I can’t see anything!”

“Take the lens cap off, idiot!”

“Guardian subroutine ceti alpha six is online!”

At the center of the large, hastily poured, ring of salt, a flash of colors that Clarence had never seen before erupted, and a giant, glossy, gunmetal black humanoid entity appeared, its head and shoulders smashing a hole in the ceiling, and immediately hunching over after the damage was done.

“Oh, fuck!” The entity looked up at the hanging debris and hole it created, and grimaced in embarrassment.

“Tolliver?” Bently shook his head, his face a puzzled scrunch.

“Bently?” Tolliver responded “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh shit,” Tolliver muttered as he finally took in his surroundings. “I inverted the ‘lat and lonj’ again, didn’t I?”

The entire crew affirmed the issue, with the more annoyed members shaking their heads and tossing up their hands in frustration.

“Sorry,” Tolliver apologized as the crew began dismantling and packing up their equipment. “Sorry everyone.” He then focused on Clarence, extrapolating that he must be the owner of this location, “My sincerest apologies, mister…” he waited for Clarence to introduce himself.

Clarence shook off as much of the shock as he could, and responded with his name.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Clarence, despite the, uh,” he waved his long fingered hand at the scene around them. “I’m Tolliver.”

“Your name’s Tolliver,” Clarence said, not sure if he believed that or not.

“Well, my real name is…”

Everyone, save Clarence, slapped their hands over their ears right before the sounds of withering galaxies, jubilant planets, the deepest notes of some cyclopean marimba, and purple echoed through the kitchen.

As Tolliver spoke his name, Clarence quivered as the resonance caused the particles of his existence to begin to pull away, and the reverberation assailed his insides.

“Tolliver is much easier to pronounce,” Tolliver shrugged.

Clarence nodded, and threw up all over the floor.

“Looks like we’re done here,” Bently announced.

Most of the crew had already filed out

“Can I get a ride?” Tolliver asked Bently. “Used a lot of energy to dimension hop here.”

“Don’t see why not,” Bently shrugged.

“Could you, uh?” Tolliver gestured toward the salt ring.

“Oh yeah. Sure, sure.”

Bently kicked a portion of the salt, and Tolliver, with a final wave of parting, and still hunched over, exited the house.

“Anyway,” Bently turned to Clarence. “A little something for your troubles.” He handed him a card and jogged out of the house, closing the door behind him.

Clarence surveyed the kitchen and the holes in the walls and ceiling, His eyes swept over the broken salt ring, the oily scorch marks that covered the ring’s area, and the puke on the floor.

He sighed and looked down at the card that had been handed to him.

It was good for one order of Chick-n-Minis.

Expired last week.