I used to have Martian
dreams a lot.
I'm always saying
this...dreams of trying to keep away from fearsome tripodsof varying
colours in a deserted modern London...paralysed as finally one loomed
up over Tower Bridge and reached for me with grapple claws sharply
open.
Another time I was trying to
cross a wood near Horsell Common, in the dead of night, and the
Martians had sent out strange bio-machines to patrol the woodland –
mechanical metal birds, with big cone shaped heads, lit up in
christmas light flashes and hunting me making soft synth owl sounds.
It cornered me behind a
fallen, burnt out tree, and I woke up a-shiver.
But for all there
technology, as HG Wells kept pointing out, the Martians were feeble
and vulnerable under Terran conditions. But no-one ever did the
obvious.
No one ever waited until
they had all climbed down from their fighting machines for the night,
and then treated them to what Wells rather more talented rival Jules
Verne would have said was “A fine application of English fists.”
In short, why didn't anyone
ever just walk up to one and twat them?
I imagine doing it myself. I
leave the artilleryman to his delusions of underground society, seek
out the nearest Extra-Terrestrial nest, and evade any patrolling
tripods and drop upon the tentacled monsters unaware.
And then I'd just march up,
and punch their lipless, slabbering faces smack in their luminous
disc – like eyes. I'd punch them over and over again, fist making a
sound like someone hitting a bag full of liposuction by-product. Look
at its tentacled flabby body trying to get away, when it can barely
move in our gravity.
Kick it for good measure.
Kick hard and often, leave army boot imprints in its leathery hide,
fungal lesions starting too ooze a pus type substance. It can “Ulla”
all it wants, it won't do it any good.
Kick it like a deflated
football until it bursts. And then start on its friends, until the
world is our again. Don't wait for the bateria! Smash their alien
faces in!
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 22/11/2013
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