The first word out of his mouth is, "bro." It's as bad as I feared. Maybe even worse.
"Bro, this is it. We totally made it to Mars. Can't wait to start our vape shop. By the way, are you going to split that sub sandwich? It's way sloppy, but I think we can cut it in half," I hear the first colonist say as the trio of Earthlings departs the space ship perched on a red slab of Martian rock. They're three brothers, obviously. Just look at their matching noses; they're practically snouts. Or don't look, since I'm sticking my furry neck out from behind this boulder, watching the arrival of my new neighbors.
"Yeah, bro, it's going to be awesome AF here," the second colonist says, taking off his red baseball hat and wiping sweat from his brow.
He and his brothers are loud AF, too, even in the thin atmosphere of Mars. The air is still sparse despite how Earthling scientists a few years back engineered the oxygen mix with plants. It wouldn't be so bad, honestly, but the plants are these ugly, stout succulents. They installed them because they, "don't have to be watered." Except they do need water, eventually, which is why half of them are dead and the other half are dying. The plants, I mean. Not the people. Not yet.
"Bro, you smell that?" the third colonist says and sucks in air through his swine-like nostrils. "That's the smell of freedom to live the way we were always meant to: free porn, legal weed, and robots take care of all the boring shit like sweeping the floors and vacuuming. Welcome to the future, bro-skis."
"Yeah, bro, it's way different than Earth. Hashtag EEXIT," the first colonist squeals. "Hey, what about that sub sandwich? I'm hangry. Don't hog it all."
"Bro, I told you before. NASA didn't trust us with anything sharp on the flight over from Earth, so I don't have a knife. I can't cut the sandwich in half," the second colonist says.
"Bro, then how did there get to be so much mayo on that thing? You must've spread it with a knife, right? I mean, it's practically dripping off the bread, bro."
The second colonist raises his voice even more, "Bro, I got this made at Subway before we left. There's one here, too, somewhere, I think, probably."
"I thought you were watching your weight, bro."
"I am. Mayo is totally keto, bro."
The first colonist snaps his fingers. "Bro, I'm glad you're the smart one between the three of us, bro."
This conversation continues for the next 30 minutes. I listen to every word. I thought I passed out one time and was simply confused about the direction of their narrative, but, no, they literally restarted the entire conversation from the beginning, apparently forgetting that they'd already covered that ground about the sandwich and the knives. And then they high five. All three of them at once in a palm pyramid. Unironically. You can't make this up. I wish I was, because then I'd have a better reason for taking all this time describing this scene to you.
After the high five comes the complaining about the flight over to Mars from Earth. Chief among them: "the view is so boring," "the seats are cramped," "they overbooked the flight so I lost the seat I wanted in the emergency exit row," "security sucks," "the in-flight meals are too expensive," "I sweat like a pig," "they won't let you bring booze on the flight anymore," and "pretty sure they went through my luggage." All this despite the flight being free.
Mind you, they still haven't done anything yet. They stepped off the space ship and this is it. They're standing around arguing about the sandwich and complaining about the flight.
My notes, if they're correct, indicate they're supposed to be building a habitat for themselves. Martian dust storms can be awful, but they appear more concerned about the need to "check out the ratio on this tweet, bro" and to "see if my ex's Netflix password works on Mars, too," as well as the desire to "get a refund if Prime doesn't deliver in two days."
This throws off my plans. Expecting a team of skilled colonist-astronauts, I laid out building materials to lure them into a false sense of security. Three piles, to be exact, each selected for familiarity. The first is canvas and poles for a flimsy tent, ordered from Earth from a place called "IKEA." The second is plywood and nails, from "Home Depot." The third is called a "Starbucks" structure, which I assume is indestructible because of how frequently they appear on Earth. I'll destroy each structure one by one until the colonists are grouped together, then go in for the big kill. That's the plan.
But these three colonists are not astronauts. They're more like astro-nots.
Oh, no, their college humor is rubbing off on me, and it's only been 45 minutes. Time to take action before I start giving myself finger guns in the mirror in the mornings.
I reveal my position from behind the boulder. I point to the three piles of building materials. I shout, "Hey, I bet you could make some nice shelters with all this. Bro."
The three bros stop talking for once in their lives and stare at me. One of them says back, "I'm not your bro, bro. Don't bro me like that."
I'm a little confused at that response, so I say, "Aren't you worried about the dust storms?"
That same little shit says back to me, "Why don't you worry about yourself, cuck? You look like a mess with that long snout and four legs and big jaws and pointy ears and hair all over."
And then his "bro" chimes in with, "Yeah, watch your mouth, Martian, and show some respect for what we're going through. We're pilgrims, fleeing persecution from the snowflakes back on Earth, so you can take that attitude and fuck yourself with it."
It sounds unreal, but I'm telling you it's all true. They really say that. The cherry on top comes next.
"You know, bro, it's just like Martians to think they can tell other people how it is. They act like Earthlings are all planet-ists, but Martians are the real planet-ists because they get triggered by the stupidest shit and act like they're second to God because of it. They seem to forget that Earthlings built Mars themselves out of nothing with their bare hands. People like you and me, bro," the first colonist says.
"That's exactly right, bro," the third colonist says. "You can't even make jokes around Martians anymore. They take everything so seriously."
I groan and follow those gems up with, "So are you going to use your bare hands to build these shelters, too?"
"Fuck no. You're the Martian. Get off your lazy ass and come build these shelters," the second colonist says.
I can't make this up. I wouldn't want to make this up.
My patience is running very, very, very thin with these dolts, but I keep trying to get them to build the shelters anyway. I like it when things go according to plan.
"Dust storms. You must've heard about the dust storms, right? They're brutal. The winds will rip the skin off your face," I say.
"Actually, I'm skeptical about whether dust storms exist in the first place. How long have they been supposedly studying them anyway? A hundred years or so? That's barely enough time to come to a conclusion," the third colonist says.
"Skeptical," "supposedly, and "conclusion" are big words, so I ask him if he has a background in the sciences.
"Is someone paying you to ask those questions?" comes the response.
I give up.
On the one hand, he's right. Dust storms aren't due in this part of Mars for another week. On the other hand, even an idiot can be correct every now and then. On the third and fourth hands is nothing, because my two hind legs have fallen asleep with all this waiting around. I shake myself off to get the blood flowing again.
"OK, bros, tell you what. I'll leave you alone," I say and turn to leave. Looking back over my shoulder, I call out, "You're clearly the experts in this situation."
"That's better. We was kings on Earth. We don't need your handouts," the first colonist says and initiates yet another round of high fives.
They're not worth the energy. I go home to my cave one hill over, eat a couple Martian rodents, take a nap, and forget about my new Earthling neighbors. That carries through to the next day, and the one after that, and after that, until the dust storm finally hits. Then I remember. Listening from the protection of my cave, I swear I hear a scream for help. It could be that there really is one. It could also be my imagination. That wind will play tricks on your ears. It really will.
I shrug it off and go back to sleep. I'll check on the Earthlings when I get a free moment after the storm settles. Or not.
Bro.
About the author:
Benjamin Sobieck (BenSobieck) is a Wattpad Star and the editor of, "The Writer's Guide to Wattpad" (Writer's Digest Books). He's best known on Wattpad for "When the Black-Eyed Children Knock" and the "Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective" series. When not working as an editor and product manager in the publishing industry, he runs The Writer's Glove (thewritersglove.com) and Writer's Block Coffee (thewritecoffee.com). His latest work is "THE END OF WAR," a near-future, sci-fi story available here on Wattpad; and "Outdoor Survival: A Guide to Staying Safe Outside" (April 2019, Adventure Publications).
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