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How in the Sector 666 can she know about Martha? How does everyone know everything? Human beings don’t have these intellectual capabilities. Cat, the serial killer. Joe and Moe and that stupid skull. Andre the clown. Rusty. Are all earthlings this screwy? They have to be: Everyone knows the secrets, but the show still goes on. Leslie and her criminal activities. Why do they get away with it? Is the entire Earth and the people on it evil? ...Goddess. This is worse than Sector 666.
Questions race through my head faster than any shooting star through the brightest of galaxies. It’s hard enough on Earth to make sense of the little things—like gravity—let alone the complicated emotions and motivations of intellectually-challenged human beings. How they can think it’s okay to cage the animals is something I’ll never understand. Animals, aliens. Don’t they get it? We’re all created equally and, frankly, they are the inferior species if anyone is.
I’ve considered changing things myself. I could, of course, let the Big Cats out. I could just walk over, open the cage, and set them free. The only problem with that is that they are blood-thirsty now – thanks to Cat and her extracurricular body disposal activities.
I wish I didn’t know. With a clear conscience, I could set them free and let fate have her way with the ending. But I do know. The Goddess has not spared me the alien—I hate that I think of myself that way now; earthlings are the true aliens—ability to pick up on backstories quickly. With the processing capabilities of ten human men, my brain works differently. It’s something I’ve promised myself I’d try to keep in mind when fitting in with the humans, but it’s hardly working.
Determined to mind my own business for now, I bend to the floor, touching my toes with my elbows. Tonight’s show is something to look forward to. I must admit, like Madame Leslie’s mother in the Mer-shows, there’s something addictive about performing. The wide-eyed expressions on children of all ages are something a girl can get used to quick. It’s the part of humanity that helps keep me patient with them, their fascination with things not of their planet. Humans, it seems, crave magic.
Pulling my hamstring around the back of my neck, I slowly sink to the concrete floor of the biggest tent. Soon, the riggers will be here to tighten the wires I don’t need. They will come in a stumbling, loud-mouthed group more concerned with tonight’s after show poker games and who is dating who than anything. I will roll my eyes and try to ignore them. In truth, I won’t be able to get my ears off them. Their simple ways of moving about the planet are just, well, fascinating. At the same time, it’s not much different than it was back home in the kitchen at the diner near the third moon.
Determined to make more of my time at the carnival than analyzing things, I move my light-speed thinking to the current problem at hand: Madame Leslie has zero intention of letting the Big Cats free and just yesterday announced more animals she plans on purchasing. I see no need for it. Maybe, if I could bring in more sales—be more interesting to the earthlings—she’d decide the animals weren’t worth it. If I could literally make my act show-stopping, it might make all the difference. Yes. That is what I will do. I may not even need to steal the show to change things.