Incineration Detail

Withers did not prefer the company of others. Instead, he begrudgingly volunteered to shovel alien softball stinkbugs into a giant furnace.

The funk was so potent his eyes stung and filled with tears, but with few options to dispose of the creatures, Withers reported to the commissioner's quarters each morning for incineration duty. He nearly chuckled to himself as he slid his keycard into the slot, straightened his tie knot, and patted his pocket to confirm he had his gloves. Nobody would have expected the first appearance of extraterrestrial life to be wrinkled, winged, bulbous creatures that left indiscriminate trails of noxious goo on every surface. And the stench was horrid: Hot garbage and methane mixed with the physical effects of slicing onions and huffing trillium flowers. The scent was so saturated, so permeating that, despite the threat of a migraine, Withers didn't bother holding his nose.

Others were responsible for handling—catching, collecting, and transporting—the softball-sized flying varmints. Even with his trusted gloves, Withers preferred completing his daily task with the end of a shovel instead of his hands. He made his way through the building, barely perceiving news of a new drop-off request. Operation Alien Cleanup was estimated to last an additional five weeks, given the volume of creatures present and their reproduction rate. Eliminating them as fast as possible was a massive undertaking including millions of people all over the globe.

Withers made his way down a sterile hall and rounded the corner to his dressing quarters, where he carefully covered every inch of his clothing, skin, and hair in a sturdy suit made to withstand and outlast hazardous materials. When he was done dressing, he pulled on his gloves and went to the incineration bay to collect his cart and shovel.

The small but heavy bodies squelched, whistled, and oozed from an early morning truckload, and the smell emanating off the blue aliens was enough to almost filter out the veritable potions wafting from the yellow ones—aged cheese and rotting eggs—or the spiciness of the green ones, whose goopy, slick trails caused hundreds of thousands of second-degree burns and cases of temporary blindness. Incineration was temporary but necessary. It was also disgusting and off-putting in conversation, which was just as well. Withers did not prefer the company of others. Instead, he begrudgingly volunteered for work efforts like shoveling alien softball stinkbugs into a giant furnace and selling commissioned artwork pieces of the glistening candy-colored gargoyle-like creatures, a process that was both absurd and lucrative. Withers supposed the creatures could have been adorable as his eidetic memory captured the highlights and shadows and general revulsion of the heap of carcasses beside him, the heat of the incinerator already warming the air within his protective suit until his skin dampened with sweat and his carefully starched collar sagged just as it did each day before that one. Still, Withers took his post seriously. Thus, he picked up his shovel, heaved several hissing, squelching carcasses into the flames and smiled to himself for the expert toss that spilled none of the pustulous creatures, letting a chuckle escape through his teeth.

His specifications to the genie had been clear: Small and familiar in shape and size; non-threatening colors; relatively easy to contain. But the aliens had been his third wish, so there was no room for revision. As the newly elected Commissioner of Alien Affairs for the state of Nevada and a rising star in hyperrealism—wishes number two and one, respectively—Withers was responsible (in more ways than one) for handling the steaming, acrid mess left behind, a last reward for attempting to use all three wishes for selfish purposes.

He'd meant no harm, truly he did not. And he certainly received credit and immediate notoriety for discovering the first confirmed arrival of aliens on Earth. The public had been all-too excited to offload their intergalactic pest problems on the newly appointed commissioner. Withers chuckled to himself again. His artwork buyers had generated a months-long backlog of commissions of the stinking aliens, a steady income from an otherwise nothing-burger job—Commissioner of Alien Affairs, hah!—in exchange for a few migraine-fueled weeks of osmophobic work.

The blue ones smelled the worst, but Withers thought he liked those the best.

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