Rocket Rex’s was an incongruous piece of pulp fiction that had somehow dropped straight from a Heinlein novel and landed slap bang in the middle of Montana. A large red rocket held at a canted angle by a pair of struts sat before the entrance, with a plastic plume of exhaust thrust kissing the sidewalk. The front door of the bar itself was painted chrome, and the interior was decorated with retro-futurist kitsch. Bobble-headed astronauts, signed pictures of Buzz Aldrin (not by Aldrin, of course, that’d be far too expensive), and plastic rayguns decorated the wall, where most bars in Montana would have hung up deer heads and wolf pelts.
The only concession to the standard bar format by the aging owner, Paul Rex, was a caged TV that was usually tuned either to the History channel or, if his customers shouted long enough, the local football channel.
The chrome doors swung open and in slouched Coyo. Rex and Coyo had known each other for five years, and Rex had yet to actually ever see Coyo pay for a drink with any money from his own pocket. Coyo had the uncanny ability to sniff out people at the edge between black-out drunk and bad-decision drunk. Wagers, bets, wheedling, schmoozing, and sometimes, light pick pocketing would follow. Rex judged Coyo for this, but as the end result was more money in his cash register, Rex kept his judgment to his own self.
Today, there were two truckers who were on their way to the Rez and Marion Cooly. Marion’s husband had run off with a floozy who got younger and blonder every year, and she spent every dime she had saved every week at Rocket Rex’s. Coyo had never stolen a cent from her.
“Hey, Mary,” he said, grinning toothily at her as he took the stool seat next to her. His finger flicked the bobble-headed astronaut that Marion had been staring at. “Wanna see a magic trick?”
“I’m not going to give you any money, Coyo,” Marion said.
“This is to cheer you up!” Coyo exclaimed, his fingers going to his chest, his narrow, brown face crumpling into an expression of pure sorrow. “Would you think innocent Coyo would try and cheat you?”
“Yes.”
“Come on! Where's the game?”
Coyo and Marion and Rex all looked at the two truckers. The one with the annoyingly red hat was pointing at the TV. Rex turned to check to see if it was on the fritz. But behind the cage that protected it from bottles, rocks, and his own shocking ability to put holes in screens, the TV was showing nothing but concerned looking talking heads behind a desk. A scrolling text bar at the bottom of the screen had words bisected by those cage-bars, turning sensible sentences into an utter cipher. Coyo cocked his head slightly as Marion knocked back her drink, then held her cup out for another.
“Maybe it’s important, turn it up!” the other trucker said.
Rex picked up his remote and turned up the volume.
“...-other world. This world is an artificial construct built inside of the moon of Pluto, Charon. Within is a civilization of displaced humans and non-human beings.”
“You mean aliens, Hank?” the blond half of the duo asked, sounding honestly shocked. She looked to the left, her brow furrowing. Whatever she saw off the side of the screen made her eyes widen. She put her hand over her mouth.
“We have... yes, we have footage coming in, uh-”
The screen flickered and showed a new view – this one was of a large, metal room that looked a bit like a warehouse. Press and military filled it with equal measures. Reporters from every major news network were there, and the cameras couldn’t help but catch view of other cameras. But they all tried to angle for the best shot on the massive, black ring in the center of the room. Standing before it was a broad sweep of people. They were unmistakably aliens. But despite the fact that there were sharp eared people with pastel colored hair, despite the fact there were three foot tall green women, despite the fact that there were walking, talking lizards, the thing that the trucker in the red hat remarked on was:
“Look at the tits on that chick!” He pointed at the woman with the longbow strapped to her back. She was glaring at everyone around her as if people owed her money. Then she glared directly at the camera and scowled harder, as if she had heard the trucker and wanted him to know how offended she was.
Marion lifted her now full glass to her lips, only to find her hand was empty.
Coyo tossed his head back, drank most of the cup, then sprayed it over Rex in a perfectly timed spit-take.
***
Less than a block away from Rocket Rex’s, there was another throwback. A payphone. It had sat there on the corner and someone, somewhere, had decided that keeping it running was slightly cheaper than tearing it down. But it definitely wasn’t getting fixed if it broke. As if the phone had realized this, it had doggedly continued to work, chugging away despite the persistent smell of piss and the graffiti that sprawled along the outside of the glass.
Coyo slammed the door shut behind himself and tapped at the phone’s buttons, his eyes narrowing. He stuck the receiver to his ear, cocking his head slightly as he waited for the dial tone to start. A moment later, a computerized voice spoke in his ear. “Please state the name of-”
Coyo kicked the phone, crooking his leg in the cramps space of the booth to manage to get his foot up against it. The operator hiccuped, seemed to warble slightly, and then the phone started to ring again. Coyo fidgeted from foot to foot, looking left and right as if he expected heavily armed ninjas to bust out of the Montana wilderness that stretched out in every direction. The distant mountains continued to loom. The highway continued to be mostly empty. The phone continued to ring.
At last, there was a click and a groan.
“I am going to fucking kill you.”
“Sun?” Coyo asked.
“No, it’s the fucking Tooth Fairy. In that you’re going to lose all of them when I get over there and kick your fucking ass, Coyo!” Sun’s voice sounded like it had gone through a blender. Coyo scratched at the back of his neck.
“Uh,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” The faint sound of sheets crumpling and a girlish grumbling sound made Coyo’s ears perk. He could almost picture the other man sitting up and turning in the bed. What was he doing in bed? It was one in the afternoon? “It’s...” Pause. “Almost one in the fucking morning!”
Coyo blinked. He looked out the window of the booth, his brow furrowing.
“How can someone so smart be so fucking dumb!?” Sun snapped. “I’m in Mumbai!”
“Why are you in Mumbai?” Coyo asked.
“Coyo.” Coyo could hear Sun’s finger pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who runs China?”
“...communists?” Coyo asked. His brain made the connection a few seconds later. “They still hate you?”
“Yeah, still!” Sun shouted.
A string of Hindi – Hindi that sounded an awful lot like stop yelling at your phone and come over here and fuck me to Coyo – came over the line. Coyo heard Sun respond. Comparing him to the girl Coyo had to admit the accent was pretty good. He leaned against the side of the booth, waiting for Sun to get back to him.
“So, you have fifteen seconds before I hang up and-”
“They’re back.”
“Who's back?” Sun sounded like he was guessing who but didn’t want to come out and say it.
“The Greeks,” Coyo said. “And the Egyptians. And the fucking vikings.”
Sun sighed.
“Well, shit,” he said.
“Yeah, and they’re in America.” Coyo chewed on his knuckle. “Sun, the fuck are we going to do?”
There was a long pause.
“Get your ass to Washington DC,” Sun said. “And Coyo? Bring a gun.”
There was a faint click and Coyo sighed as he slipped the phone against the cradle. The contact caused the phone booth’s change slot to open and start to vomit a spray of quarters, nickels, dimes and pennies onto the ground. Coyo started to scrabble to get as many as he could. With his pockets bulging, he scrambled out of the booth, looked over his shoulders twice, walked over to a car. The owner had left the key in the ignition and had forgotten to lock the door.
The car started to judder down the road, its forward progress interrupted by bangs and grinding of gears.