XXVIII. Obliterate!

The little martian stumbles blearily out of the loo and stares at me with wan eyes. His cheeks are a sickly pale green and his face is drawn.

“I feel like crap,” he mutters sweetly.

I hand him a plate of fresh pulpy mango and he proceeds to vomit all over it.

“geez. Just say you don’t like mangoes”

“Could you stop describing my vomit in such excruciating detail” he grumbles and I backspace about 500 words of explicit pukey content

“You feeling okay? Got it all out? “I ask in what I hope is a gentler tone

“It's out alright,” says the little martian wearily as he silently vows to never plow through another plate of red hot chili chicken tikka again.

“What is it with you earthmen and your constant need to obliterate your tastebuds anyway?” He groans

“It's fun!”

“The blasting sensation? The smokey fury? The WRATH OF UNDIGESTED FLAMI-“

I cut him off before the little martian traumatizes readers with more delicate sensibilities.

“It's the pain. It makes them feel something.” I say, all prophetic and deep,

“Bulllshit!" He mutters

“No. Martian shit!”

He doesn’t find me amusing today.