The craft rose into the night sky as fast as it had appeared, leaving the Hybrid alone in that little village on that remote planet, with nothing but his big head and an instruction disc for guidance.

It was not a very nice planet; its inhabitants had already destroyed most of the natural wilderness, and the average temperature was right off what the neighbourhood association recommended. No sir, nobody wanted to come to this garbage pile, but the association still had an obligation to reach out once every 2.26 million years.

Some people might have complained about that job. The Hybrid, however, was quite happy to be here, because for the first time in his life the Hybrid was somewhere. Yesterday he had been an embryo in a tank, but today was a day for new beginnings.

The homeless man flinched. “Did… did you see that thing in the sky just then?”

The Hybrid grinned from ear to ear. Literally.

“What, the spacecraft?” he asked. “Why, yes, I came out of that. Did you like it?”

“Good god, you’re one of them aren’t you?” he said, hiding behind his printed wood-pulp blanket.

“One of what?”

He pointed up. “One of… them!”

“What? Oh, you mean an alien? An extraterrestrial? A ruddy good, close encounter of the third kind?”

He nodded, his jaw agape.

“Well no, I’m only half extraterrestrial. You didn’t think I could manage the whole… speaky word things if I was 100% bona fide, did you? I would not get far.”

“Are you going to probe me?”

The Hybrid was quite insulted. “P-probe you? What do you take me for, some kind of cheap proctologist? I don’t think there are very many species at all that would do that sort of thing outside of the nebula!”

He took his instruction disc and walked away. The homeless man was quite obviously scared of the Hybrid, but for what reason? His makers had gone to all the trouble to make him appear friendly. His smile was extra large, and his eyes extra blue. The fact that they were the size of the homeless man’s head should make him super, duper friendly looking.

He read the disc; according to the instructions, he was presently in the most populous city on this continent. The manual said that there were so many humans here that the association had once considered moving some of them to a new planet, just to meet the tenancy guidelines. This wasn’t a very big place at all, though; the Hybrid could have walked across it in half an hour.

“P-parlee… parlia-ment hou-house,” he read, trying to figure out where he was supposed to be. “Good lord, I think I’m lost.”

Most of the buildings in the town were closed. There were shops for clothing, shops for food, a place that sold the refined oils of carbon-based lifeforms, but nothing that shouted government at him. Then his eyes landed on one of the only places that were open; a shaggy building just down the road. There was a big sign over the entrance, and the people inside were laughing and joking about.

He read the sign. “Parli-ament hotel? Well this is completely wrong. Who even wrote these instructions?”

It was an embarrassing mistake for the association to make. The Hybrid had no idea what a hotel was, or a house for that matter, but it seemed like the sort of detail one would try to get right when visiting a foreign government. It was such a happy looking place, though, so he strode over and looked inside.

The smell of chemicals and some kind of smoke wafted through the entrance. Although he was confused about why a species would want to inhabit a building full of chemical fumes and carbon monoxide, they all seemed to be having such a good time. People were singing, people were laughing, and whatever was behind the two doors at the back of the room, by George they were lining up for that! This looked like such a jolly planet; he did not understand why that place in New Mexico got such bad reviews.

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“People of Earth!” he announced, flinging the door ajar.

The laughing stopped.

The singing stopped.

The drinking… slightly increased.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” the man behind the counter said. “What… what the bloody hell happened to you?”

The Hybrid smiled. “Me? Well, I’ve just arrived. Not much has happened to me yet, if you get my drift!”

“Are you some kind of… cancer patient?” asked a woman with a half empty-glass.

The Hybrid nodded. “I suppose, if that’s what you want to call it. You won’t believe what the last bloke tried to call me!”

“Bloody hell, you need a drink mate!” the first man said. “Come in and sit down; first round is on the house.”

He walked in and took one of the stools at the counter. They were so tall that the others all seemed to have trouble getting their feet on the ground, but the Hybrid was having trouble keeping his head off the ceiling. Sitting was preferable.

The man took a glass and filled it at the tap. “If I had what you have, I think I’d drink every minute of the day.”

“Well, it’s just a disc,” the Hybrid replied. “It’s not making me thirsty or anything.”

He plopped the glass in front of the Hybrid. “Come on, mate. Bottoms up!”

The liquid was amber and foamy. The disc clearly stated that the native lifeforms drank dihydrogen monoxide, which this was not, so the Hybrid suspected that somebody at the association was having a really good joke with him.

“Another error,” the Hybrid said. “I’m going to have a field day with these corrections when I get home. Smells of… is that ethanol? You people use ethanol for this?”

“Don’t… use efanol for nuffin’,” said a man at the other end of the counter. He seemed to be quite poisoned. “Gessinto your engine, an’ wrecks your gas task.”

“Wrecks your… gas tank,” the Hybrid said, taking notes. “Right. Tell me, chaps, who’s the leader here?”

The three of them pointed to the back of the room, where an old man was sleeping slouched over an empty glass.

“That’s Burt,” the drink-pourer said.

“Very well, take me to your leader!”

“Don’t want to meet Burt,” the woman said. “Burt’s a right bastard ever since he was made Mayor. Thinks he’s the bee’s knees!”

“Bee’s… knees,” the Hybrid parroted.

“Where you from, anyway?” the drink-pourer asked.

The Hybrid pointed to the ceiling. “Well… from up I suppose.”

“Up? What… like Queensland, or Europe?” the poisoned-man asked.

“How up is Europe?”

He shrugged. “S’more up ‘n Queensland, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose I’m from Europe then.”

“How long you been in Australia for?” the woman asked.

“About ten minutes now. Tell me: do you currently have any atmospheric or geological calamities?”

“Well,” the drink-pourer said, “I think there’s some Morrissey in the jukebox.”

“Morrissey,” the Hybrid repeated. “And are you looking to expand your zone of control beyond your immediate boundaries?”

“I fought I might start a laundromat,” the poisoned-man said. “When I gots the cash.”

"Laundro-mat. Very good. Last question; do you have any thermonuclear weapons?”

“Just in the toilet,” the drink-pourer laughed.

"Toi-let. Well, that’s ruddy good. I think I’ve got all I came for; you people have a very pleasant evening!”

He got up to leave.

“Wait!” the drink-pourer asked. “Aren’t you gonna have your drink?”

“What, the ethanol?” the Hybrid asked. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know! It was much more of a cloning process. Can you imagine what that would’ve done to my gas tank?”

***

The entirety of the Betelgeuse-7 neighbourhood association swarmed around the Hybrid in bubbles. It was not often that they met for something that wasn’t game night, so the Hybrid felt extra special at being the focus of all their attention.

“What did the Hybrid learn?” the speaky-ball in his hand said, translating for the various species present.

“A lot, your eminences!” he replied. “This is a desolate world; populated only by a small number of mammals who live in a hotel.”

“Continue.”

“Well, it’s quite simple. The population refers to the interstellar community as Europe, and they appear to be almost completely wiped out by ethanol consumption, which has wrecked all of their gas tanks. They are ruled by a man named Burt, who is a bad person because of his delusions about being an arthropod joint. Also, they are beset upon by a calamity called Morrissey, the planet wants to expand into a laundromat, and they keep all their thermonuclear devices in the ceramic bowls that they urinate into.”

There was silence. It was quite hard to tell, but the association was positively reeling with the information. They had not reacted this strongly since the inhabitants of Sierra-5 tried to turn their moons into topiaries.

“What is the Hybrid’s recommendation?” the speaky-ball said.

The Hybrid grinned. He had a very good recommendation that he thought would please everyone; he had written it on a napkin, which he now held in his hand.

He coughed. “Nullify their radio-waves at the heliosphere. Ban all contact or travel to their planet, blacklist them in the rental market and on the liquids commission, but above all do not make contact with, or allow them to make contact with us. In ten or so years their planet will be completely uninhabited by any sentient lifeform. Then, we can swoop down and take their precious toilets!”

The association looked at each other. Those without eyes simply nodded.

The speaky-ball lit up. “A decision has been reached.”