Foul
By Donna McCrohan Rosenthal, East Sierra Branh
The old, old, wiry, wizened, weathered prospector dragged himself along the hard Death Valley back road, lumbering slowly until finally reaching a rock at the mouth of a mine. He sat on the spiky surface and a friend emerged from the darkness, looking pretty much identical.
“Hey Punchy, want some water?” asked the scruffy fellow joining him.
“I hate that stuff. Tastes terrible. But sure,” said the other, smelling it first, making a thoroughly disgusted face, and swilling it anyhow. “Stretch, you actually like this?”
“You get used to it,” replied Stretch.
As they relaxed, something resembling color returned to them. Less dusty and faintly orange.
A third figure appeared over a mound, taller and beefier than either one of them by far and covered entirely by thick, matted hair.
“What brings you in from those Sierras?” asked Punchy, adding It’s too hot here.”
“Too cold there,” growled the hirsute one. “I had to get inside.”
“Water?” offered Punchy.
“No choice,” said the hairy giant. “But it’s even worse from those mountain streams. Tell me again why they sent us to these hellholes, and why I have to go around like this and you two some sort of tramps like that.”
“You’re Bigfoot!” screamed Stretch, slapping his thigh and laughing hard. ”You’re supposed to blend into the High Sierra like that, and we’re supposed to tramp around unnoticed in this gear, never mind that Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek haven’t seen anyone like us in fifty or a hundred years except for the last reenactment.”
“Our team did crappy research,” said Bigfoot. “When are they coming for us?” As he relaxed, the hair subsided and his skin tone brightened, while the wiry guys seemed to plump up.
“What can I get you from inside?” asked Stretch. “The good stuff? I have a very little left. After all, it’s been a long time. Bigfoot nodded a hopeful yes. Stretch extended his arm, reaching about 100 feet into the opening, retrieving very thick cigarettes. The three lighted up, greedily inhaling the smoke, pure pollutant, pure pleasure, deeply, right down to their stomachs, as it wrapped around their faces.
“How about a skenk to go with this?” asked Punchy, spotting one through the ground and punching his fist a foot or two into its burrow.
Time passed as they ate, griped, and counted the minutes, the hours, and until nightfall.
“Again, again, again,” shouted Bigfoot. “I can’t stand this. How long will they leave us here? They wanted us to scout for habitable surroundings for our people, but we didn’t find any here. All the opposite. Crisp, clear water. Crisp, clear air. They’d all die of nausea. I’m surprised the three of us haven’t wretched ourselves to death by now. They could never live here. I say forget it.”
“Guys, I think there’s good news on the horizon,” said Punchy. “I’ve been watching those things they call TVs at the tourist shops. One of our guys has landed, and he’s on our side. He’s got plans to turn the water to swill and the air to, you know, like home. Foul.
“Then it will be a paradise, and the mother ship can settle down, and we’ll take over.”