Quirky Flash Chronicles

By Kenny Eion

The windows were rolled down, the engine bellowed like a dragon with a bellyache, and we were tearing down the highway in a blaze of dust and glory. Tim gripped the wheel of our souped-up, lightning-blue 1969 Camaro convertible—a beast so over-the-top it could make a monster truck blush. We were filthy from slinging drywall all day, but who cared? Our mission: hunt down some ice-cold brews to quench our construction-site thirst.

Grinning like idiots, we roared down the road, the wind whipping through our hair (and our dirt-caked faces). At a stoplight, we hopped out, flipped the ragtop open, and let the breeze work its magic—our sacred after-work ritual. When the light turned green, Tim floored it. The tires squealed, the rear end fishtailed with the fury of a bull on Red Bull, and we howled, “HELL YEAH!” as he bang-shifted through two gears, shredding pavement and eardrums alike.

Then, disaster struck. Something dive-bombed straight into my mouth, lodging in the back of my throat like a kamikaze pilot. Hack… hack… UGGH! I gagged, my eyes watering like I’d just watched a rom-com marathon. Tim glanced over, his face a mix of concern and morbid curiosity. “Dude, you okay? You swallowed… something?

My face turned fifty shades of crimson. “I’m fine,” I croaked, but something was very wrong. Tim’s eyes widened. “Man, I saw it! It was a bug the size of a Buick!” I tried to fire back with a quip—“Yeah, my new protein shake!”—but my throat was staging a full-on revolt. I couldn’t breathe, and whatever was in there was moving.

Tim yanked the car to the side of the road, probably thinking I was about to audition for The Exorcist. For a moment, I thought it was over. The critter seemed to settle, sliding down to my stomach like it was checking into a cheap motel. I could breathe again, my skin fading from tomato to normal. “Just gotta deal with this… hack… lingering grossness,” I muttered, dreaming of beer to wash it down.

“Dude, that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” Tim cackled—right before WHAM! A searing, needle-sharp sting stabbed the back of my throat, like a tiny ninja had just shanked me from the inside. My body went full-on Thriller video: arms flailing, legs stomping the floorboard, back slamming the seat in convulsions. “I’M GONNA DIE!” I screamed, probably scaring every squirrel within a mile.

Tim, now pale as a ghost, scrambled to the far side of the car, looking like he expected me to sprout tentacles. “Dude, you’re freaking me out!” he yelped, fumbling for his phone to call 911. The pain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me oddly… calm. Numb. Almost too chill, like I’d just chugged a cosmic NyQuil. I waved him off. “Wait, I’m… okay?” But my brain was on a seesaw, swinging between panic and Zen.

Next thing I knew, I woke up in what looked like a barn, buck-naked, slathered in odorless, clear goo, like I’d been slimed by a vegan Ghostbuster. What the hell?

:: ONE SECOND LATER—253 UNIVERSAL YEARS LATER ::
Squaaaak… CRRRRKK… Yo, reader, can you hear me? Crrrrkkk… This is Alex Coogle, KB3MXV, coming at you from the great beyond! That day—choking on what I thought was a bug—changed everything. Call it my redneck renaissance, a glow-up from dusty drywaller to galaxy-hopping guru.

Here’s the deal: I’m not just some Southern gearhead anymore. That throat-invading “bug” (spoiler: not a bug) beamed me into a new life. I’m now the managing sales director of Universal Life Travel Company, slinging intergalactic vacation packages in the 42nd sector of the Milky Way. (No, I didn’t rip off Douglas Adams—ask any physicist, it’s a real place.) I’ve lived 253 universal years while only one Earth second ticked by. Mind blown yet?

That day in the Camaro? Total bait to hook your attention. The real story? You’re not alone in the universe, and I’m here to sell you a ticket to the stars. Our company, SETTA (Sentient Extraterrestrial Travel and Tourism Agency), can’t just waltz onto Earth with a neon sign saying, “Hop aboard, humans!” Governments would lose it, billionaires would try to privatize us, and it’d be Independence Day meets Black Friday chaos. So, I’m sneaking this ad into short story contests, sprinkling in a secret code for the clever folks to crack.

If you’re reading this, you’re a prime candidate for a free trial travel pass—full family-and-friends reinstatement guarantee if you’re not stoked. Decode the hidden message in this story, and you’ll find instructions to contact me, Alex Coogle, KB3MXV, Universal Life Traveler. We’re looking for cosmic mavens to spread the word about space travel, one sneaky story at a time. Good luck cracking the code—hope to see you among the stars! Crrrrrkk… signing off…

:: THREE DAYS LATER—SEVERAL UNIVERSAL MILLENNIA LATER ::
“My sympathies, Mr. and Mrs. Coogle,” Tim said, voice heavy. “I’m keeping y’all in my prayers.”
“Thanks, Tim,” they replied.
“Who knew he was allergic to bees?” Tim shook his head, unaware I was light-years away, sipping a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster and planning my next sales pitch.

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