Page 28 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Too many objects, too many colors, too many labels screaming in capital letters: FASTENERS. SANDING DISCS. BUG B GONE. The human fixation on acronyms and mascots bewilders me. Why does a spray designed to repel insects require a cartoon lizard wearing sunglasses?
I pick up a wrench—heavy, forged steel, decent balance. I rotate it slowly, testing grip points and weight distribution. It would make an excellent emergency cudgel. The rake beside it, longer reach, more fragile tines, better for light territorial defense.
“You need help, buddy?”
The voice is nasal, disinterested. The clerk behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone.
“No,” I reply carefully. “I am hunting…bolts. Screws. Rotational clamps. Also,” I pause, “a soldering wand. Possibly a containment valve.”
That earns me a blink. “You mean like...a soldering iron and some PVC fittings?”
“Yes. Those. I would like those.”
I collect the items I believe will be useful: duct tape (a marvel of primitive adhesion), zip ties (criminally underrated), two steelpipes (blunt, multifunctional), and something called ‘Liquid Nail’ which, judging by the label, might be some kind of bonding agent—or perhaps a weaponized grooming product. I don’t ask questions.
As I pay in cash—Earth currency now loaded discreetly onto a prepaid card—I notice them. Three males, clustered near the exit. Early twenties. Leather jackets. Jeans that hang too low. They’re watching me with that particular human expression I’ve learned to distrust—something between amusement and aggression.
Predators. Low-tier.
The smallest one nods toward me and mutters something I catch through the comm-bead in my ear.
“What kinda accent is that? Russian? Martian?”
The others snicker.
Outside, I keep my head down. No sudden movements. No signs of engagement. I tuck the bag under my arm and step into the alley that cuts behind the hardware shop, heading back toward the road.
The moment I turn the corner, they follow.
Of course.
My steps slow. My breath evens. I center myself—not in fear, but in resignation. Conflict is inevitable. I am not eager for it, but neither do I shy away.
“Well, well,” the tall one drawls. His voice is thick with local bravado. “New guy's got a funny walk.”
“Funny everything,” the squat one adds, cracking his knuckles. “You from Canada or somethin’?”
I glance over my shoulder.
All three of them are in a loose semi-circle. Sloppy formation. No discipline. No strategy. Their posturing is designed to intimidate, not actually follow through.
Unfortunately for them, intimidation is not a field in which they hold advantage.
“I advise you to step back,” I say, calm and low. “I am armed with a wrench and an extremely short fuse.”
“Did he just threaten us?” the squat one laughs, stepping forward.
The third—broad, with a chin like a tactical shovel—cracks his neck. “I think he did.”
I drop the bag gently to the pavement and stretch, slowly, deliberately.
“This is your one warning,” I tell them. “Leave. Now.”
They don't.
Of course they don't.
The broad one lunges first.
