Garbage In, Garbage Out
by Grey Rollins
Illustration by Arthur George
Late afternoon sunshine slanted over the dump as I carefully picked my way across the rotting residue of human society. Vast amounts of food lay around me, interspersed with crumpled aluminum pie pans and lids cut from tin cans; culinary roses nestled among metallic thorns.
I’d already eaten my fill, but I was trying to find the source of an elusive smell, one I didn’t recognize. Since I consider myself an expert on the odor of refuse, this was an insult to my pride. Just as I was on the verge of giving up, I almost literally stumbled on the origin of the smell.
I wished I hadn’t.
My six-inch legs don’t cover ground very quickly, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. My feet thudded against the packed dirt of the road leading between the mounds of trash, small spurts of red dust flying with every footfall.
“Martin!” I yelled as I ran. “Martin!”
No answer.
I sped on. As I passed through the gate, I caught sight of the car. And Martin. He was slumped in his seat, snoring. Asleep at the wheel—the story of Martin’s life.
Breathing hard, I stumbled up to the car door and flailed at it with my hands. Martin’s only response to my frantic assault was to snort once, then resume his deep, rhythmic imitation of a motorboat.
Desperate to get his attention, I unfurled two or three feet of my tongue, reached through the open window, and slapped him across the face several times in quick succession—the sound of a fresh steak hitting the counter at a butcher shop.
“Martin!”
“Wha—?” He jerked bolt upright, slamming his knees against the underside of the dash in the process. “Ow!” he howled. He saw me standing outside his window. “What the hell did you hit me with?” he demanded. Then realization dawned and he blanched.
“Victor! Do you mean to tell me you used your tongue? After you’ve been eating garbage!”
“Will you listen to me, you illegitimate offspring of baboons?”
He stopped in mid-yelp.
“There’s a dead body out there, and all I could get out of you were sound effects for a monster movie! What did you expect me to do, sing you a lullaby?”
“Dead body? What do you mean, dead body?”
“One from which life has departed, you idiot! A stiff! A carcass! A corpus delectable!”
Martin’s face twisted in horror. “Corpus delectable? You didn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”
“Martin,” I said.
“I mean, it’s bad enough—”
“Martin!”
“And if the relatives heard you talking about how their dearly beloved had tasted—”
“Martin!”
“What, dammit!”
“It’s not a person.”
“You wiped your slimy, nasty, greasy tongue on my face just to tell me there’s a dead dog out there?”
“Martin, the corpse is… was an extraterrestrial. It was murdered.”
Pete Sims is an old friend of Martin’s who works for the police department—homicide, coincidentally, and in this case, providentially. Occasionally, he manages to throw us a case, usually when Martin’s career as a private investigator is within mere hours of coming to an ignominious end in bankruptcy court. In short, he is a sterling friend who comes though in a pinch.
“Victor,” he growled, running his hands through the unkempt remains of what had once been a full head of red hair, “this takes the cake, buddy.”
We were standing near the remains of the alien body, where it lay half buried in wilted lettuce and crushed cardboard boxes for cheap stereo speakers. Overhead, the sky was darkening as evening crept stealthily from the east. Bats wheeled and dipped, harvesting the insects that fluttered around the faintly humming halogen lamps set on stands so that the police could do their work.
Pete spoke again, “I mean, it’s bad enough that you’ve got to eat spoiled food. But really now, finding a dead body in the dump was the height of bad taste.”
“Why does everybody assume that I gave this critter a taste test before going for help?” I protested.
Pete grinned maliciously. “It couldn’t possibly be because you eat rotting garbage, could it?”
Like the corpse, I am an extraterrestrial, albeit of a different species. The climate of my home world is two or three notches above what humans call tropical. My species evolved as scavengers on the forest floor, eating the remains of both plant and animal matter even as it decayed. Humans prefer their food somewhat closer to its original, living state. Personally, I think they’re daft.
Martin spoke up. “Pete, how much longer will it take them to examine the body? It’s a nice balmy night and all that, but I can think of places I’d rather be.”
Pete grimaced in response. “I know what you mean.” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Pasky! What’s the word, fella?”
Norm Pasky, a man with a jaw the size of the front fender on Martin’s car, ambled over. “Not so good. The forensics guy says he’s out of his depth. He says this critter was an Erintie, and that he doesn’t know diddly squat about ’em. We’re going to have to call in a specialist to determine time of death and all that.”
“Simple homicide case, if it weren’t for the fact that the victim was an extraterrestrial,” Pete said.
“Looks that way,” Pasky agreed.
Pete turned back to us and said, “Considering that we’ve got this complication with the victim being from off-world, I’ll need a consultant or two. You guys need any money this week?”
“Nah, we’re fine,” Martin said breezily.
“Don t listen to him,” I said. “The rent’s late and the landlord is threatening to have the locks changed.”
Pete tried to keep a straight face. “So, who do I believe?”
“Me,” Martin and I said simultaneously.
Pete squatted and looked me in the eye. I only have one. “Supposing I were to ask you to help me with this little problem.” He looked up, giving Martin the barest ghost of a cruel smile. “The pay would go to Victor, of course, since he’s the expert on these matters.”
Martin gulped. He knew he desperately needed the money, but his ego was at stake. He absolutely could not bring himself to admit that he was broke. Again.
I said, “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can, Pete. Martin may be too busy with his other cases—”
I could almost hear the sound of Martin’s pride being swallowed, all broken glass and rusty razor blades as it went down. “Pete, I, uh… considering the sensitive nature of this case… seeing as how it involves another species and all, I think I should volunteer also.”
The plain, unvarnished truth? I didn’t need the money, any more than a cat needs a bicycle, but it was fun to needle my best friend.
Besides, who else would drive me around?
The next morning Martin heard my feet padding across his bedroom floor and cranked open one eye. The effort clearly exhausted him.
“You getting up this morning?” I asked.
“No!” he said, pulling the covers over his head. The sheet puffed over his mouth as he spoke. “I don’t like spending half the night at the dump It smells bad and I don’t like dead bodies.”
“Corpses are an occupational haz-ard of being a private investigator. You could have been a stockbroker, you know.”
“And wear a suit every day?” the sheet asked plaintively.
“You’re planning on wearing that sheet to work, perhaps?”
“I’m catching my beauty rest,” he said.