TUESDAY MEANS UFOs
WARNINGS: Crossover with Johnny the Homicidal Maniac; future ZADR (that means slash, folks); violence; a whole lotta cussing; unwarranted use of caps; Mormon-death.
DISCLAIMER: Invader Zim belongs to the crankypants himself, Jhonen "Don't Call Me Johnen" Vasquez, whose belly I strive to make ill, despite my love for his work.
NOTES: Mostly I'm taking advantage of the fact that Jhonen's character designs tend to look similar. Future chapters will be longer, but may also be an eternity in coming, especially if I fail to finish before school restarts. Now enjoy.
PROLOGUE
A short Thing slouched along the pavement blocks. Its fuzzy Russian hat and fur-lined brown jacket looked like they had been chew-toys to the little dog squeaking along behind. Between the hat and jacket collar the Thing's face peeked out, pale green and noseless. It scowled.
It stopped in front of the dingiest house on the block. Number 777: windows X'd out with rotting boards, and churned up dirt in place of a lawn, with a sign reading "KEEP OFF – It's impolite to walk on the dead."
"Eyuch." Zim pulled off his fuzzy hat and brushed a hand over his antennae. "The worm-baby has even worse taste than usual. This place STINKS of human filth."
The little dog squealed, "It tastes like shampoo!"
"GIR! Stop licking the pavement."
He tugged the leash. Gir flopped to the ground and slid along on his back for a few paces before bouncing up and piggybacking on his master. Zim gritted his teeth, but didn't push the S.I.R. unit off. Instead he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started for the shack's front door.
He'd just raised his hand to poke the doorbell when the door swung open and flattened him against the house.
"NO!" screamed whatever had shoved the door open. "GET AWAY FROM ME! AAAAUGH NO! I JUST WANTED TO REDEEM YOUR SOU—AAAAARRCK!"
As the door swung away from the alien now lodged in a Zim-shaped dent in the wall, he caught a glimpse of a stocky man in a dress shirt and tie being dragged back toward the house. A tall, noodle-thin man had looped a length of thin bungie cord around the shorter's neck, and now pulled at one end while the metal hook at the other dug into the man's skin.
The thin one paused when he saw Zim smacked up against the house. He glanced at the well-dressed man, kicking and clawing at his own throat, looked back at Zim and shrugged. "Mormons. Always calling at dinnertime, y'know?"
He hauled his prisoner inside and slammed the door.
Zim peeled himself off the wall and dusted off his jacket, giving the house a wary glare. He crept back onto the stoop, holding up his hands in fear of another door-assault – which did come, just as his toe touched the "WHAT?" welcome-mat. He wheeled backwards as the door clipped the space where his nose should have been, and fell on his Irken ass.
The tall, thin man towered over him. Two drooping tufts of hair grew like horns just over his forehead. His black leather jacket and frowny-face t-shirt were splattered with blood; the buckles on his boots clinked when he stepped up to Zim.
"But why is there a Russian stuck to my house?!" He pulled Zim up by the collar. "WHY IS THERE ALWAYS A GODDAMN RUSSIAN STUCK TO MY HOUSE?!"
Zim's eyes bulged. One of his contacts dropped to the ground with a -plink- and his fuzzy hat slid off.
"Russians with antennae?" The thin man cocked his head.
Zim recovered and began to flail in the man's grip. "Ergh! Nnf! UNHAND ME STINKBEAST! I have come for my REVENGE, not to listen to your" he twitched "pathetic Earth-insults."
"'Russians' isn't a—" The man froze. He dropped the alien, who clenched his fists at his sides and growled up at him.
"Wait, I don't talk like that. And how did I know he thought 'Russians' was an insult?" He started to back away, jabbing a finger at Zim. "Shit. What the fuck are you doing to my head, little man? I don't NEED anyone else fucking with my head right now!"
He grabbed the knob, and moved to pull the door closed. By now out of patience, Zim latched onto the wood with a crushing grip and halted the door mid-swing. He glared up at the thin man with one purple and one red eye.
"Enough stalling, DIB," he said. "If you're done talking to yourself, I'd like to get to the part where I DESTROY YOU FOR THWARTING ME."
"'Dib.'" The man slumped against the doorframe. "'Dib' -- no, my name is Johnny C. Go away, little man. You incite strange emotions in me."
At this Zim's glare softened, and his antennae flattened against his head. He loosened his grip enough for Johnny to pull the door closed, then stood on the stoop with a blank expression.
Eventually Gir squeaked up and tugged at his pants. "I found drumsticks in the lawn! I can play drums now, whatchiss!"
The S.I.R. held up the pair of human bones he'd dug up and began to beat them against the concrete. Zim looked down at him, turned, and paced back toward the street, still holding a blank face. Gir tossed the bones into his mouth and ran after his master.
"Weee! I am a god of rock and roll!"