Old Leopold wiped the bar counter with a rag and frowned at the band at the other end of the bar. As long as he remembered, he had been a barkeep in this town, more than thirty years by his count, but he had had no idea that this bar had a stage for live music. He knew there was a storage room through the door in the left corner of the bar, opposite the counter and the entrance, full of broken tables and chairs and extra furniture. But it was a surprise to him that the door to the storage room was actually a superfluous one and instead there were tall folding curtain doors revealing a stage.
True to that, the walls of the bar were full of photos from the 1950s and 60s when live bands had last performed in the bar. The bands and the singers carrying the pre-war Republic if in nothing else then at least in the spirit of the music. But that all happened before Leopold’s time and thus far he had thought that the stage had been by the wall and not inside it. Or maybe he had spent all these years looking at the photographs wrong.
In any case it still felt strange to hear live music drowning out all the regular conversations in the bar. Especially the kind of music these young people had come here to make. With their synthesizers, transistor-based amplifiers and de-tuned guitars sounding so unnatural. And of course miles and miles of cables and switches to get the exact sound they wanted. It was all topped off with the fact that they only sung in English, of which the average villager understood nothing. And there was something in their music. That slow, heavy and mechanical rhythm was well suited into this dive. As if this bar was the last place to get a drink before the end of the world. And this band whose name started with the letter Z was the last music to hear. The last girl able to sing being reduced to singing along to music like this.
Every day they arrived at the same time, spent an hour playing about fifteen songs and then left to return in the evening and play the same setlist in a different order. In the evenings, the performance actually dragged on when they played one of the songs of the girl, which usually took about 4 minutes, stretching it out to be much longer and much more sleep-inducing.
But the villagers did not care. They did not care who was performing, whether they performed at all or not, or how they performed. Only having music mattered. But Leopold cared. He felt as he had lost his bar. Some asshole came to perform and he could not forbid them or stop them. At least this group was better than some tall guy with red beard who liked to sing about some drunk hole in Valgepalõ, a winter lasting forever and spiders. Or these young people from Pölve, whose music still haunted people’s dreams and brought horrors into being awake. It was actually good that nobody else besides those three had come to make music.
Or, actually there was one other group. Young boys and one other fat bearded guy. They too sang in English and made music that was fit for the last ever bar remaining in the world but not here. Now also did they take their places of the stage, replacing the other band and their instruments, moved around the drum set to soon start playing their own music which nobody listened to, the musicians least of all.
Suddenly, the door to the bar opened and bright daylight blinded Leopold for a few seconds. He could still hear how somebody ran to the counter with rough steps and then tried to catch his breath with large deep gulps.
“And who closes the door?!” Leopold asked, still being blinded in his one good eye.
“Vodka! Now!” A man with a buzz cut, heavy forehead and non-existent jawline demanded between breaths.
“And the door?!” Leopold asked. “If I wanted light in here, I would hold an outdoor bar!”
“And if you wanted people to be warm, you would light up the fireplace. Fuck the door! You do not want to know what just happened to me!”
“I really don’t.” Barkeep put two tea glasses on the bar counter and filled both to the brim. “This other one is not for you, it is for the one who closes the door. But you’re still gonna pay for it.”
“The fuck?” the man with the buzz cut asked, taking the suspenders off his shoulders.
“I told you to shut the door.” Leo said. “My bar, my rules.”
“In that case you will hear what happened to me. I… I am not sure sure, but I think I met some ufos!”
“Ufos, you say?” a man smelling like fish with long unkempt mustache sat at the counter. “Every Thursday, Rops keeps seeing ufos who relieve him of his vodka, or who get him between his ass cheeks when he has none.”
“Rops is blind drunk even when driving!” the man replied. “But I met the ufos a few minutes ago! During broad daylight! I came from Tontla by bicycle and there they were! The five of them stood by the side of the road around some strange machine and stared at a huge flying saucer hanging in the air right above them.”
“And what did you do, Manivald?” Fishy George asked.
“I have always thought that should I meat a real ufo, I will be scared out of my mind. But there was nothing like it. I stopped, came off my bike, and pushing it along I walked up to them as if they were regular village folk.”
“Keh?!” was the only thing Fishy George could say in his bewilderment.
“So what were they doing there on the side of the road then?” Leopold asked.
“They were worriedly walking around the field and kept staring at their flying saucer.”
“Out of gas?” George asked, grinning.
“You’re as stupid as those red-skinned ufos!” Manivald swore at him. “How the hell can it be out of gas if it still hovers in the air!?”
“Red-skinned you say?” Leopold asked.
Only a week ago, the young town drunk had also talked about the red ufos but everybody had laughed at him. Well, except for that one silly journalist from Valgepalõ.
“In any case.” Manivald continued after a big sip of his vodka. “Only some strange magic kept me from running away. Instead, I asked them what were they doing here with their saucer. Those guys looked at me for a really long time, then looked at each other and finally one of them produced some weird pen which had a series of lights on it.”
“What was it?” Fishy George asked. “An ass probe?”
“What fucking ass probe?!” Manivald swore. “The ufos are no ass doctors! You’d really think they put a pencil up your ass for no reason in broad daylight?! One of the ufos explained, pointing at his pencil that the spatial ship it not working, that nothing is working.
“Of course I asked in return how exactly isn’t it working, as it was obviously hovering and rotating and giving off a low hum like the Substation.
““That’s the thing that means it is not working.” the red ufo said and hit his fingers with the pencil a couple of times. “Beduin is also totally sloblok.”
““Schto? I mean what is… what?” I couldn’t even posit a question properly.
““Screen field.” The other smaller ufo said from the distance. “is in rectum. That’s why you found us. Antag may still be working.”
““But still...” I could not understand. “How can it be that the saucer is not working when it obviously is working? It is doing something.”
““It is not working.” The first ufo said in a convinced tone. “We also don’t know why. This has never happened before.”
““If it wasn’t working, it would be on the ground like a stone.” I said.
Stolen story; please report.
““Rocks work on the ground.” the ufo said. “If our ship was on the ground like a stone then it would not exist. Then there would be nothing. Then we might as well collabate.”
““To detonate.” The other ufo said when I did not understand.
““You were on a road to someplace?” I asked.
““On a road?” the bigger ufo tilted his head like a dog, not understanding me.
““We have to get to the Deefa base.” The other alien said. “But the program found a lighthouse and brought us here. And the machine stopped working. Now we can do noting else before the program finds the lighthouse again.”
““What kind of lighthouse are you looking for?” I asked. “There is no sea here so there cannot be any lighthouses.”
““The lighthouse sends signals.” The ufo in front of me spoke. “The program found a signal, but it cannot see the lighthouse.”
““So it is looking for a lighthouse?” I asked.
““No.” The ufo said. “It is not working. There is signal, but there is no lighthouse. That is the reason it is not working. It cannot work any less then it already is.”
““It could not work any less… what does that mean?”
““If it worked any less than it is, it would not exist.” the ufo replied.
“I don’t know how long I stayed there with them, trying to understand what they wanted, but it felt like a long time. Finally I had nothing else to say and they also had nothing else to say so I started coming here. Only after biking another kilometer did I realize that oh, shit, those were ufos! And then I drove into the ditch along with my bike! But those apes never managed to realize that if their saucer is hanging in the air and humming, then it is not possible that it is not working.”
“You’re the stupid ape who could not understand!” a discarnate voice suddenly said.
The villager with the square cut flinched so violently that he lost his balance on the bar stool and started tumbling over. In his last ditch effort he grabbed the tie on the barkeep, which finally stopped him and his stool from falling over. Fishy George had no such luck and he along with his stool fell, back first on the bar floor.
“What are you youngsters so afraid of me?” Village Hag No.5 with her purple coat asked, pouring down the glass of vodka set aside for whoever closed the front door.
Leopold forced the villagers fingers off his tie, adjusted it and for a good measure took a step away from the counter.
“How did you…?” Fishy George took a look at the Village Hag now sitting at the counter on top of the bar stool. “...get on top of that stool?”
“Oh George, little George. Didn’t your granny ever teach you not to ask women such impolite questions?”
“What was the thing I could not understand concerning these ufos?” Manivald asked.
“What it means for the flying saucer to work and not work.” The Village Hag said. “They told you right away, right? That it was no flying saucer, but a spatial vessel.”
“Is there a difference?” the barkeep asked. “It is just a fancier word to describe the flying saucer.”
“So you know what a flying saucer is?” the Village Hag asked as a mysterious smile appeared on her face. “Airship moves thought the air. Spaceship moves through the space. But a spatial ship moves through spatial dimensions. Whether anything fills this spaciality is irrelevant.”
“And what does that have to do with the ufos?” the man asked.
“A spatial ship moves through space, not along space. That’s the difference. A spatial ship which does not move through space but instead along space is a flying saucer. Do you get it now?”
“So what hovered there, was a spatial ship?” Manivald said dejectedly, still not understanding the difference.
“Yes.” The old woman said. “Ufos do think rather differently. Stones work on the ground, because that’s where they are supposed to be. Stones do not work up in the air the same way as on the ground, because they fall down. At the same time stones work in the air in a different way because they fall down. Likewise a spatial ship is not working when it is hanging in the air and visible to everybody as a flying saucer.”
“Because in this manner it is useless as a spatial ship?” George asked.
“Yes.” The Village Hag smiled. “Just like a bicycle is not made for flying, a spatial ship or a flying saucer is not made for landing. Just like you’re asking how come the flying saucer is not working when it is clearly working, i. e. spinning and buzzing, I may also ask how a bicycle is able to work if it is clearly not working. For example when you are trying to balance on a bicycle standing still.”
“But a bicycle is not intended for trying to balance it on two wheels while standing still.” George said.
“A spatial ship is not intended for hovering in the air.” The Village Hag smiled.
“I remember!” Manivald, the villager suddenly shouted out.
This time Fishy George could focus better and not fall down with his stool.
“What did you remember?” Leo asked. “That you have to pay for the vodka?”
“I remembered what signal it was that messed up the program on their airship and brought them here. They said it was music. That their program picked up a music that should not exist. A music which they said is from autumn.”
“Music?” Leopold ask. “Just some music could mess up the ufos’ flying machine?”
“What music was it?” George asked.
“The said that some band whose name started with P. I can no longer remember. They said it was an unimaginable music of the world’s end and that was the thing to pull them and their ship here. But something went wrong and the ship stopped.”
“Paean?” George asked.
“Yes, I think it was a weird name like that. No wonder I could not remember.” Pete fell silent looking at fear on Fishy George’s and barkeeps face. “What? What’s going on?”
His eyes were then pulled towards the other end of the bar, where the band was still performing. Their wide-shouldered leading man making all sorts of noises into the microphone, while producing some unearthly sounds from his guitar. Everybody around the bar counter fell silent.
“What do you think?” Fishy George asked, having observed all the people currently present in the bar. “Could these ufos be here right now?”
“They most certainly are.” The Village Hag said. “They wouldn’t miss a performance like this.”
“It cannot be.” Leopold said. “I would’ve seen if four short red-skinned ufos came here. And nobody weird has come here in the mean time.” He looked at Manivald. “Other than you, that is.”
“Weird, am I?” the man asked.
“You come in here, demand vodka and then you tell us how you argue with ufos by the roadside under a flying saucer. That’s pretty weird.”
“Has any weird customer been here today at all?” the Village Hag asked. “Ufos are not stuck in time like we are. Meaning they could have been here long before this guy here met them.”
“Wait what?!” Manivald got bewildered. “You mean to say that they weren’t really there while I saw them there?!”
“Stupid.” George laughed. “She wants to say that the ufos met you, you came here running yourself ragged, while they fixed their machine, traveled back in time and then… came here first thing in the morning…?” The man’s voice grew shakier the further he got with his explanation.
“Exactly!” The Village Hag exclaimed.
“Old crone, you’re gone mad with old age! Honestly!” Leopold said.
“That may well be,” the Village Hag replied. “Or maybe I finally see things how they really are. That’s why I usually don’t talk to young people. Only with other old hags or ufos, as they are the last remaining people to still get me.”
“Wait, you talk to ufos, you old crone?” George asked.
“Well, the sky people.” the Village Hag said. “One lovely young man from among the sky people comes by my house every Sunday, we drink tea, we ear cake. And we talk about people and the sky folk and the world.”
“That I would like to see!” Fishy George said.
“You are welcome to come and see.” the old woman said.
“In answer to your question.” Leopold said. “No, nobody strange has been to this place today. There were some young guys who were slightly drunk and wanted a hundred liters of vodka each. But when I told them that I’m a bar and not a vodka factory, they relented and settled for a bucket of draught each.”
“How much is your bucket?” George asked.
“Five liters.” Leo replied.
“Five liters, eh?” George continued, rubbing his nose. “That’s nothing one cannot finish in a few hours, nothing strange about it. That’s only ten bottles.”
“Hundred liters of vodka, you say?” The Village Hag asked. “that would be a hundred thousand grams, would it not?”
“It would be.” Leopold said. “What of it?”
““When we order vodka, thousand time a hundred.” like these youngsters once wrote in their song.” the Village Hag said.
“Get outta here! Them?!” George shouted. He then lowered his voice and bent closer to the others. “Those are the anaks Rops is seeing?!”
“If not the same anaks, then at least of the same species.” the Village Hag said. “They can carry an inordinate amount of hard liquor. But now it seems they have found themselves a whole new thing which has a far better effect that vodka.”
People at the bar counter now kept glancing at the table in front of the stage in the middle of the room and the five young men sitting around it. Despite the low light, it was obvious that they were all dressed the same: black shoes, black leather jackets, blue denim pants and white tailored tees. The thing that made them stand out from other bar customers was that they were the only ones to really enjoy the music. For everybody else, the music might as well have been played off the radio or a vinyl record. That would not have affected the air in the bar the least.
“Your stories are way weirder than these young men.” Leopold said to the Village Hag. “Honestly, even the fact that they are actually listening to the music is not that weird.”
“Maybe. It was just an errant thought of mine, nothing else.” The old woman said.
The band on the stage finished with one song and started the next. From the way the young men with buckets of beer in front of them changed their position and perked up, it was clear that they were going to really enjoy this new song. Music and the growls of the singer traveled the hall but only managed to make it to that single group in the front.
Then something changed. Following some guitar passages, the figures of the five young men around the table started to shimmer like mirages. And seemingly nobody besides the group sitting at the bar counter noticed this.
A few dozen seconds passed, and shimmering turned into flashes other people around them started to notice as well. Flashes where the strapping young lads with blonde hair disappeared and instead of them sat five short red-skinned aliens with big heads, moving their legs along with the music and used some sorcery to make the buckets hover so they could drink from them.
Some more music and more flashing between the young men and the red-skinned aliens and the final flash happened. The young men were gone. But the red-skinned aliens were present. George and the villager with the buzz cut could only rub their eyes. The band stopped playing and the bar was suddenly full of different shouts and screams when people got up from their seats only to escape the group in the middle of the room.
One of the aliens looked around, now paying attention to what was going on.
“Sloblok.” He only said.
Then a new flash happened. In the middle of the bar, only five chairs around a table remained. No young men. No red aliens. No buckets with beer either.
People started settling down and the band on stage restarted the song.
“God dammit!” Leopold swore. “God fucking dammit!”
“I told you.” The Village Hag said.
“They ran off with my beer! Without paying! Twenty five liters!” the barkeep cried.