Warning: Visiting aliens can be kind of…alien. At times. Snarkiness can result in unintended consequences.


“You ain’t nuthin’ but a houn’ dog… aw-roooo
Sniffen’ round nigh my back door… aw-rowww
You ain’t nuthin’ but a—”

“Sir?” Our cheapskate dawdle-watchers were angling for attention now but I pretended to ignore them. Put a little money down, comrades, and you’ll get all the attention you want. Why can’t they get that straight? Elvis snapped his jowls shut and glared at the newcomers while I continued playing and nudged my donation hat with a foot but—
“Sir? Excuse me, sir—or should I call you Mr. Presley? I love your music! And is that a genuine houn’ dog howlin’ by your side?”
I sighed and set my guitar down, resting it carefully on the new-mown roadside parkway strip so I wouldn’t stain the faded crimson candy gloss finish. Nice guitar, wonderful sound, not so pretty as she was in her youth but cheap. Cheap enough even even for me to afford. “Ahh… no,” I stalled, striving to focus my thoughts. When I play I think of nothing else, and the transition back to normal conversation can be jarring. If you wanna chat, dudes, can’t you at least let me finish the set, for pity’s sake?
Weird rubes, and I’ve seen some doozies, couldn’t say just what it was. Hair and faces and clothing just kind of… off. There were two of them, rudely staring at me, alike as peas in a pod and—no, not quite identical. One had mustard stains on the front of his store-new blue bib overalls. And a hat. Black-striped polyester tourist-crap abomination with the words “JAILHOUSE ROCK” in block letters across the front. That’s the one who had stopped my playing. Was he… er… she… er… best to go with he for lack of a better word… was he really unaware of just how annoying that is to a musician? Never mind, doesn’t matter, time to blow ‘em off and move along. The Graceland security guards would be sending us packing soon in any case. Elvis and I had chosen a busking spot outside their jurisdiction, on the public right of way, but the guards had come scowling by twice already and their city-police buddies were surely on the move to pay us a call. No matter, the afternoon was near-gone and the spot was worthless in any case. Lots of cars came by but few pedestrians, and my two cheapskates were the first to actually stop and listen. Maybe the downtown bars would prove more welcoming to our offbeat man-dog Elvis impersonation routine.
I stared back blankly until Elvis nudged my wrist, reminding me of my manners and giving me the bullshit inspiration I needed. I shrugged and sighed, then, clamping his head in my arm and scrunching his loose-skinned steel-gray-furred features into a silly hound-dog-ugly-mug-montage. I gestured theatrically with my free arm and proclaimed, “This is Elvis.”
“But… that cannot possibly be Elvis Presley. Elvis is human!”
“Well yes, he was, and I was his sidekick Lassie. What a difference a day makes!”
“Really? Zeta-Mom never mentioned—ow! Stop that Zorg… er… George. I wasn’t doing anything!” That was the mustard-stained one talking and the other one—Zorg—had shut him up by kicking his shin.
“You’re lying,” Zorg informed me, but his tone carried no conviction. “That’s not what we were told, anyway. Please explain yourself.”
“It’s a sad, sad tale, my friend, too sad to tell without a bit of tangible assistance, if you catch my drift…” I toe-nudged the tip hat again and my drift he did not catch, but I carried on with my story regardless; wanted to see for myself how it would end. “…we were on tour in the Crab Nebula, you see, the revenant King of Rock and me, his brain-boosted crowd-charming canine sidekick. Our act caught on and all was fine bloodwine and premium Taste-of-the-Tribble kibble ‘til we ran afoul of a gang of Andorian intellectual property smugglers who transmogrified us both as punishment for reporting their evil deeds to the Gallifreyan Copyright Constabulary.”
“You mean Arcturian smugglers, right?” prompted the mustard-stained one.
“Ziggy! Let the man tell his story!”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Ziggy muttered and…
“Yeah, yeah, Arcturian,” I agreed. “They wanted to record us without a proper contract and when we refused they got mad and transmogrified us both, then signed on Max Headroom in our place. That’s what hurt the most, you know. That dude can’t dance to save his virtual life! Really if they’d offered us a square deal we’d have jumped on it in a heartbeat. It’s all the same no matter where you go. Why is everybody in the music business always trying to rip you off? It just doesn’t make sense to—”
“Wait!” Ziggy squeaked. “Are you saying they transmogrified you?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Without permission and against your will?”
“Hey mon, we’s jest a couple o’ lowlife two-bit earthlin’s, eh? Aliens be messin’ wit us folk all de time an’ no one pay no mind.”
Ziggy puffed himself in righteous indignation and proclaimed, “That’s not right!”
“Well, no…”
“We need to fix it now!”
I toe-nudged the tip hat a third time and told him “Sure! Mr. Presley has sadly lost the gift of speech in this sad affair so on his behalf I willingly grant you permission to rectify our sorry circumstances forthwith, if’n you be so inclined. We shall consider ourselves forever in your debt.”
“Ok, I’ll do it!” Ziggy reached in a pocket and brought out not money but a space ray gun, or something much like one, complete with shimmer-sharp translucent lateral fins and three viridescent glow-pulsing muzzle disks and a bulgy twisted grip quite unsuited to the grasp of human hands. No matter that last part; the hand that held it no longer appeared human at all. It was four fingered, and purplish pebble-scaled gray, and one thick digit was squeezing firmly down on a bumpy blue nubbin that looked very much like—