Cameraperson spun their finger and I flipped my mic on.

  “I’m Alison Alistair from Channel 13 News, and I’m here in Skeeter Swamp, Missitucky. With me is Jack Jims, founder of The Friendly Temple. We’ve heard the stories. Tell us, Jack—in your own words—what the heck is The Friendly Temple?”

  “Well, Alison, I want to remind you what an honor it is for you to be in my presence. Very few are given that pleasure—and it is a pleasure.”

  He beamed. I didn’t laugh.

  “The Friendly Temple is a group of like-minded folks who want to live in nature, be self-sustaining, and fornicate for the entertainment of our alien overlords.”

  I blinked.

  “I’m sure the people—and myself—are curious to know about that last bit.”

  “I could demonstrate, if you wish.”

  I stared.

  “Perhaps later,” he continued. “The Earth is ruled by an alien race, the Pervards. They‘ve agreed not to destroy us as long as they can watch while I bless my followers with my—” he lowered his voice, “—holy gift.”

  “Did you just say the alien race is called the Perverts?”

  “Pervards.”

  “Perverts.”

  “No, Pervards.”

  I moved on. “Where exactly do the Perverts hail from?”

  “Pervards. They traveled here from the Vayeur system millions of years ago.”

  I refrained from asking if their home was really called the Voyeur system.

  “So, they waited millions of years—for you?”

  “Well, I am the chosen one who will finally appease the Pervards.”

  We stood in awkward silence.

  “Would you like the honor of being escorted by the Supreme Father to the Temple proper?”

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  Dozens of red flags flashed in my head.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  As we trudged through the swamp and curtains of mosquitos, Jack talked nonstop.

  “In 1507, Machiavelli became the first of us to be contacted by The Pervards…”

  I tuned him out as we approached the temple.

  People were attempting to farm—in a swamp—chasing frogs and dragging livestock through the mud. Children ran around caked in filth and shreds of cloth.

  “Jack, your followers don’t look healthy. The kids are malnourished and covered in shi—er, muck. You’re their leader. Isn't their well-being your responsibility?”

  “If the followers worked harder—gathering sustenance and pleasing our overlords—their health and children would not suffer. I can get more followers. They cannot get another Supreme Father.”

  “You don’t care about your followers? They’re just objects to you?”

  “I care deeply. I would not bless them otherwise. It is the Pervards who care not—they command sacrifices of those who fail. Or those with… strange proclivities.”

  “Sacrifice?”

  “They will no longer have the capacity to perform.”

  “Are you fuc—ahem. Tell us about these strange proclivities.”

  “Those who… belong to the rainbow brigade.”

  I knew it.

  “So your organization—and the Pervards—are queerphobic?”

  “We are not queerphobic. It's just not to their tastes.”

  “There are lots of men here. If you don’t bless them, what do they do?”

  “Well, Alison Alistair—”

  “Alison is fine.”

  “Well, Alison. The sacred rite begins with me. All women start as one of my wives. When I tire of her, I graciously bestow the role on a new follower; the previous one is gifted to one of the brothers, whom she blesses immediately after receiving her final blessing.”

  He looked me up and down and wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Well, isn’t that disgust—a unique way to run your Temple?”

  A large skyscraper with a familiar logo appeared on the horizon.

  “What’s that?”

  “That is the first gift the Pervards sent. It means we’re pleasing them. Over there,” he said, “our twenty-four-hour performance.”

  In the center of the compound was an orgy of muck, malnourished limbs, and mosquitos. I had to hold back my vomit.

  “They sent an advance party and constructed that ship for their junior members. They watch us day in, day out. From those cameras.”

  He pointed to cameras set up all around the compound. I recognized the logo—it matched the one on the skyscraper.

  “Would you like to join?” He reached for my ass.

  I stepped back and shot a look at Cameraperson: get ready to run.

  “Well, Jack Jims, it's been—well, something. I should tell you that skyscraper isn’t a ship. It's the headquarters of BolaCola—and you’re not chosen. You’re just useful.”

  I pulled back and kicked Jack Jims square in the balls. I considered stomping them—but I’m a better person than that.

  We bolted for the helicopter before he could recover.

  does involve kicking the truth square in the balls.

  If you’re enjoying Alison and Cameraperson’s increasingly dangerous assignments, comments and follows help more than BolaCola ever would.

  Reaper stories—quiet, darkly funny looks at Death dealing with very human problems (burnout, bureaucracy, scarves, and existential dread). They’re a different flavor, but they live in the same space where the absurd and the sincere shake hands.