Pants on Fire: A Collection of Lies by Clayton Smith

Author:Clayton Smith [Smith, Clayton]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Dapper Press
Published: 2013-12-29T00:00:00+00:00

The being that might have been a man put his finger to one of the red squares on his chest. Something inside the suit coughed to life and emitted a buzz like a hive of angry bees trapped in burlap. Then a voice emerged from the same, hidden place. It was as crackly and electric as lightning.

I am a spaceman.

“So y’are a man,” the cowboy said, satisfied.

“A human man?” Simpson asked, chewing his lip nervously. And of course this was a logical question, perhaps the logical question, despite how ridiculous it may have sounded. The last time he had demurred from asking someone whether or not he was a human man, the saloon had ended up half blown to hell, one-quarter burned, and all the way covered in three inches of purple goo that smelled like a dead and rotting possum. Now, any time there was doubt, he just asked if the person was human.

The man who might have been a human pressed the red square on his chest again. Again, the static and the crackling voice: Of course.

“Why you wearin’ that looking glass on yer head? Whyn’t you take it off, if yer a human man?”

The spaceman shook with laughter. At least, they assumed it was laughter. He was either laughing or having a seizure. Without the red square depressed, they couldn’t tell for sure.

Because this ‘looking glass’ on my head is the only thing keeping me alive, he said when he finally did press the square.

“You got a condition?” Simpson asked, trying to look nonchalant. But of course, he wasn’t nonchalant. The last time someone had walked into his bar with “a condition,” the whole place had to go into quarantine for 6 weeks, and Simpson himself got treated to a humiliating public delousing in Gus Cormer’s horse troughs. Now, any time there was doubt, he just asked if the person had a condition.

I have no condition, the voice crackled. He sat quiet for a moment. Well. I might be coming down with a cold. A great nuisance. But no, I do not have a ‘condition.’ Simpson exhaled in relief, then wandered off to spit in some more glasses. The evening rush would be starting soon.

“If ya ain’t got a condition, whyn’t you take off yer shiny hat? What’s the matter with ya?” the cowboy demanded.

It is not what is the matter with me. It is what is the matter with you.

“What is what’s the matter with me?”

The spaceman paused. His bulbous helmet tilted down at the floor, and his finger touched the gleaming surface lightly. Finally, he said, I do not know how to answer that question.

“Why not?”

Its syntax is… confusing.

“Simpson! Leave a bottle.” Extensive vocabularies in others caused a strong want of drink in the cowboy. The bartender reappeared with a murky bottle of whiskey in hand and set it in front of the cowboy. Then he rushed back to his row of glasses at the other end of the bar. He had a very good clod of mucus worked up in his throat, and he didn’t want to waste it.

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