A man and an alien walked into a milk bar...

“Hey, buddy!”

He’d done this too many times. Faking the requisite bonhomie came naturally to a man like him.

“Your pardon. Are you addressing me?” asked his mark, as politely and innocently as usual.

Bruce did his best to turn an automatic grimace into a smile. Fortunately, NENs – non-Earth natives, the politically correct term some fool had decided we had to call them – had vision evolved for a slightly different spectrum. Between that and their different facial structures, they found it hard to recognise the visual tells that might have made this harder. The mark blinked his single eye at Bruce, expectantly. Like a puppy, he thought.

“Yeah, sure. I’m Bruce.”

“Hello… Bruce. I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

He loved being deliberately informal with them. It messed with their heads so much.

“So, buy you a beer?”

“I’m sorry… Bruce…”

“Oh, gee! Forget I said it. Let me buy you a milkshake.”

Alcohol did nothing for them, besides a slight digestive upset, but milk, that was another story!

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