Good Heart

"You are Shithead? You are Loser?" the alien said (almost gleefully). Randy stared, mind blown, because - duh, alien lifeform. He had pinched himself repeatedly and not started awake (even slapped himself once, hard, which made the spindly space creature clap its hand thingies). "That's what they call me in school," Randy said softly, feeling the sting of it all over again. "So good! Yes!" the alien buzzed, and all Randy could think about was that the bullies had been right all along and even the universe at large thought he was trash. Now he was going to die by dissection or anal probe and no one would care. He shoved his hands into his pockets. It was chilly in the fog on the county road but, since his life was hell, Randy didn't feel it so much. "Misfit SO GOOD," the gray spindle hummed. "So important ... so very important ... ." Randy reacted, surprised. "Wait. What?" "The life separate apart thinking ... the life dreaming trying ... so important to the world. So much work to be done. Misfit lucky lucky find." Randy stood there, dumbfounded, wondering what to do next. "The now is right. Very exactly so much," it whispered, stepping forward, and Randy shut his eyes expecting nothing but pain. "Good heart, Shithead Loser," it continued, and touched him gently on his left shoulder. "Here we go," Randy thought then, a little bit relieved that he wouldn't have to grapple with thoughts of suicide every Friday night anymore. "Good heart," it said, as it gave Randy the cure for cancer.