The Tattler: Cancelled

By Chad Descoteaux

The 3rd book in ‘The Tattler’ series...
In just a few years, The Tattler has grown from a small print tabloid publication, reporting on strange phenomena few believed (aliens, Big Foot, unicorns etc.), into an online news streaming network. This is mostly thanks to Nikki Graves, the mastermind behind TTLR News. But also, because Earth has gotten much, much stranger since the invasion.
A mysterious time traveler has been helping President Lee Finn hunt down monsters, made from a mineral that can repair the alien invaders’ home world. Barry Young has quit TTLR News to pursue a career in artsy photography, leaving Nikki with unresolved feelings. Will Barry and Nikki get back together? Will the aliens go home? And what of seductive, snake-haired media mogul Lenee Medusa, who wants to add both TTLR and Barry to her list of conquests?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chad Descoteaux
• Release date: Mar 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463508718

Chad Descoteaux

I am a self-published, mildly autistic science fiction author who combines quirky sci-fi elements with issues that we can all relate to. Check out my official website www.turtlerocketbooks.com

Book preview

THE TATTLER:

CANCELLED

by Chad Descoteaux

copyright 2020-Turtle Rocket Books

Check out the first two books in THE TATTLER series (and more sci-fi) at turtlerocketbooks.com

All the characters and entities in this book are either fictional or used fictitiously. And while the author brutally mocks Twitter in this book, he hypocritically invites you to follow his own Twitter @turtlerocketbks.

FOREWORD

The following book is a work of science fiction. Well, technically science-fantasy, because the author usually makes up the science. (Star Wars, Dune, yeah, pretty much all of it.) This fact will become obvious very early on with its ramblings about aliens, time travel, unicorns and the like. It was written by a forty-something autistic man who watches the news too much, uses Twitter to promote his books, abhors self-righteousness and is quite proud (in that humble kind of way) of the fact that he never voted.

So, while the proceeding pages contain extremely silly fictional characters who ferociously argue about what are, at the time of this printing, political issues, the author does not care about your political views. He respects your free will and your thoughts and would let you speak at length if he met you in person for a beer. But the simple fact that he doesn’t vote makes his ideas no threat to yours, as his vote will never cancel out yours on any issue.

There are enough characters in this book for you to agree with some of them and think others are moronic, bigoted monsters who would threaten your way of life if they were real. But there are so many of them, you will never be able to siphon the author’s non-political viewpoint from any of this mess. And any assertion that the author is right, wrong or some kind of phobic will only make you look foolish if you came to this conclusion reading something he wrote about alien naughty parts, Medusa’s other body hair or a mythical elf’s pepperoni nipples. Honestly, these fictional characters care more about your opinion than the author does, so please direct any complaints to them. Their mailbox is any wastepaper basket. Toilets are express mail. Paper shredders are fax machines.

All joking aside, the best way to enjoy the following heartwarming saga is with your tongue placed firmly in cheek. The main message of this farce is that people should listen to one another’s viewpoints and search for truth, whether in working relationships, romantic relationships or god forbid, social media.

We wholeheartedly hope that you enjoy the following story and all the other quirky sci-fi we publish. And if you don’t, just remember that there are billions of other people on planet Earth who disagree with you.

There always will be.

Until the Brain Slug Apocalypse of 3142 A.D.

All Hail Lord Xub Nark!

Turtle Rocket Books

Brain Slug Damage Control Division

PROLOGUE

December 24th.

New York City.

Barry Young had been looking forward to this event for quite some time, a sentiment that was all over his face. It was an opportunity to get to know his coworkers outside the normal hustle and bustle of the job. Strutting into the lobby bar at the Paris Hilton Hotel, Barry was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the words ‘Now I Have a Machine Gun. Ho-Ho-Ho’ written on the front in red Sharpie. ‘Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer’ was playing on the overhead speakers and sung karaoke-style by a tone-deaf coworker. Adjusting the white pom-pom on his Santa Claus hat as he edged towards the tinsel-and-wreath littered bar, Barry spotted many familiar faces from his first few months working at the Daily Chronicle.

You trying to get arrested wearing that? asked a voice from behind Barry. Barry spun around, recognizing this slightly slurred voice right away. It was his boss, a man Barry had been best friends with since they were six years old, meeting in a children’s hospital playroom.

It’s cool, Barry replied before giving chief editor Scott Tanner a one-handed bro hug. You know I look white. Scott laughed at Barry’s joke about his biracial heritage and how Caucasian (like his mother) he looked to others. So, who picked the movie? Barry asked, gesturing towards the animatronic Rudolph on the nearest TV screen.

We took a vote, Scott replied after sipping fruit-flavored liquor from the glass in his hand. Should have worn that sweatshirt to work on Friday, we might have picked one of yours.

You had me covering the Mayor’s press conference, remember? Barry teased as his eyes drifted off towards someone he didn’t recognize, one of the newer additions to the Chronicle newsroom. She was about his age, light brown skin, pretty eyes, staring into her liquor glass like she was shy.

Right. Right, Scott remembered. Great pictures, by the way.

"That’s the third casual Friday I’ve missed thanks to you, pal. Barry jokingly acted like he was angry, discreetly gesturing towards the young woman, sitting at a small table by herself. Probably why I never got to meet the hottie in the black skirt," he decided to whisper.

Scott laughed, throwing his arm around his old friend, clinking the ice in his empty glass. Well, I guess I owe you some liquid courage then, brother.

Oh, you know I don’t need it, Barry remarked, spinning so he was out of Scott’s grasp. Don’t even tell me her name, Barry said, brimming with confidence. I got this.

Scott laughed, partially because he had forgotten his new employee’s name himself. And partially because in the time it took Barry to get dragged towards the bar, the woman was gone, no longer sitting at the same table between the bar and the jukebox. Rolling his eyes, Barry decided to take Scott up on his offer of a drink.

Sitting on a barstool, Barry noticed a mistletoe underneath a nearby doorframe, near the TV. A sign next to the dangling plant read ‘the seasonal plant for practicing good consent’. I like the sign, Barry told Scott after ordering his drink. Good message.

It was Human Resources’ idea, for legal reasons, Scott admitted. But I wholeheartedly approve for moral and personal ones.

Oh, me too. Especially where people are drinking, Barry said. Sexual assault is a very real problem.

Some companies have actually banned mistletoe from their office parties for that reason, Scott added. I’m glad ours let us keep it. We’re all adults here. Ryan and Missy just got together. They should have a consensual mistletoe selfie for their Instagram.

Of course. I mean, the mistletoe is way less tacky than the ‘honk her boobs and run away’ cactus, Barry quipped with a mischievous smile.

Don’t let HR hear you say that, Scott cautioned sternly.

What? Barry shrugged, receiving his drink from the bartender. "I said consent was better! Sheesh! Can’t even joke with anyone around here. He slapped Scott’s back playfully, getting him to smile again. This is a party, son! Get woke!"

Halfway through his icy rum Coke, Barry saw the new girl again, leaning up against a doorframe, between a miniature Christmas tree and a neon Budweiser sign. Barry walked right over to her, catching her eye with a boyish smile on his face.

Excuse me, miss, Barry said. I couldn’t help but notice you aren’t wearing an ugly Christmas sweater.

And? the woman replied, looking at Barry with a hairy eyeball. What she was wearing was none of his business.

Well, here at the Daily Chronicle, we adhere to certain standards of dress and grooming, Barry said, making it clear he was teasing with a smirk. Even at our office parties.

"Well, um, you’re not wearing a Christmas sweater either," she teased back, leaning forward with a whole lot of attitude.

This sweater is a subtle homage to a Christmas movie, Barry assured her.

"No. That sweatshirt is an obvious ass homage to Die Hard, which is not a Christmas movie just because it takes place during Christmas."

Barry pantomimed getting an arrow shot into his chest, grunting and staggering back a few steps. Proud of himself when he got this lady to laugh, Barry continued, Well, by that logic, Gremlins, Home Alone and Batman Returns aren’t Christmas movies either.

Batman Returns?

Yes. The first spoken line in the movie is ‘Merry Christmas’, when Penguin’s parents are throwing their baby in the sewer.

Sounds Christmas-y, she replied, frowning.

Now that I say it out loud, it was more of a Bizarro Moses kinda thing. Cuz the baby was in a basket and went down a river and…became a villain who wanted to kill all the firstborn. Holy crap, Barry thought. I’d better tweet that. It’s got to be a fresh analysis on a twenty-plus year-old film.

Never saw it, the woman said, breaking Barry’s aspirations of going viral among film nerds.

"You never saw Batman Returns? Barry said with disbelief. It’s a Christmas classic."

She scoffed. I doubt it. That’s a Tim Burton movie, right?

It is.

Christmas movies aren’t supposed to be dark like that. That’s why Gremlins doesn’t fly either. The darkest I go with Christmas movies is the bigotry metaphor that is Rudolph.

Or Frosty melting away at the end, Barry added. See, they all have a dark underbelly beneath the cheery façade.

Not like throwing babies in the sewer.

Listen, you mean to tell me you didn’t laugh your head off when Phoebe Cates revealed how her father died in Gremlins? Or when that gremlin blew up in the microwave? Barry clawed his fingers and did his best impression of the hilarious facial expression that specific gremlin had before he exploded.

Of course, I did, the woman admitted between giggles. But that doesn’t make it a Christmas movie.

That’s it! Barry pulled a red Sharpie out of his pocket. It was clearly the one he used to write on his shirt. Handing the marker to his new friend, Barry extended his right arm.

What is this?

I’m going to need you to write your name and phone number on my arm.

She gave him another hairy eyeball. "Aaaand why would I do that?"

"So we can get together later, and I can school you on what makes a good Christmas movie," Barry said. To his surprise, the woman popped the cap off the marker and started writing on his arm. She’s probably gonna write ‘buzz off’ or something, Barry thought. And I’m not even buzzed.

As she was writing, three police officers showed up at the door of this bar and briskly walked towards Barry, grabbing the attention of the entire party (and Barry himself). Barry was manhandled at gunpoint, handcuffed and arrested right in front of this beautiful woman, a crowd of his colleagues and his best friend, before being dragged out forcefully.

He was told that someone, an older lady who was a guest at this hotel, had called the police, claiming she saw a terrorist in the lobby. As Scott had jokingly suggested earlier, it was all because of the ‘I Have A Machine Gun’ sweatshirt Barry had been walking around in. When the cops actually saw the shirt, there was at least one officer who understood the movie reference and the misunderstanding this stuffed shirt old white lady (Barry’s words) would have had.

Barry was touched when the woman he had been flirting with came outside to defend him to the cops. As a reporter who had covered many legal stories for her college newspaper before working for the Chronicle, she was morally outraged at the way Barry had been arrested. No one read that man his rights! she shouted, waving her press pass in the cop’s face and pointing at the squad car. You want me to write a story about this? Huh? Do you, Barney Fife?

Sitting in the back seat of a police car that night, wrists aching from the handcuffs, Barry would, for the first time, notice beautiful inner qualities in a woman he would later fall in love with. Her sense of justice. Her determination to do what is right and use her journalism skills to defend those who were in a tough spot.

This was all before he knew her name. Because his arms were handcuffed behind his back, he could not see what she had written on his arm. Only when the handcuffs were taken off in the interrogation room at the police station would Barry know the name of his cutest defender.

Nikki Graves. Extension 243.

Well, we do work in the same building, Barry thought, determined to get her real phone number soon enough.

CHAPTER ONE

ALIEN EXIT STRATEGY

The holiday season.

Years later.

When invaders from a foreign galaxy took over planet Earth, using ray guns that could control the minds of humans (and actual ray guns for destruction), they left behind a twisted form of democracy, a cruel satire of the real thing. It was a system where human votes only counted for half against their alien betters. It was a system where humans were forced (by the aforementioned ray guns) to vote for somebody, without the freedom to not vote freethinkers enjoyed before. In the first human-alien election, humanity’s choice was between two alien candidates who loved eating humans, (claiming the brains had a delicious unused taste to them), so it was really six of one, half dozen of the other.

For four years, the United States was under the reign of President Kromwell, from the invading planet of Kardash, who shipped deceased human soldiers back to his impoverished home planet, covered in barbecue sauce, for food. But the second election brought a bit more hope for the human race.

Lee Finn, a humanoid half-man, half-fish, originally from Scotland, decided to run. This fish-man was the most ‘man’ (as in ‘human’ or ‘mankind’) humans had in a candidate since the invasion. And Lee won over the alien vote by promising he would allocate government funding to repairing the depleted ecology on planet Kardash, the reason these aliens came to Earth in the first place. With this strategy, Lee Finn won the Presidency in a bipartisan, human/Kardashian landslide.

One cloudy afternoon, while Lee was in the Oval Office, doing research on something his staff wanted him to sign, his thoughts drifted over to his fully human wife Jessica. She was in an elementary school, reading ‘Curious George Finds A Gun’ (the tragic final book in the series) to a class of third graders. This was part of her charity work, a literacy program she had started called ‘Fish for Knowledge’. Lee had his television muted on the far side of his office, next to an oil painting of Abraham Lincoln, because he knew there would be something on the news about the First Lady’s efforts.

But first, the news broadcast a story about President Finn and a statement he made at a fundraiser, about sending federal aid to rebuild a small town after an earthquake in Scotland. After being asked why America was giving Scotland livestock like sheep and calves to replace those lost, Lee dismissively quipped, with his trademark Scottish accent, Those people love their haggis!

Social media, particularly Twitter, was ablaze minutes later with people who thought President Finn was being insensitive to the people of Scotland by saying those people. And others from animal rights