Fathers
Wake me up in the dead of night and ask me what I hate the most, and I’ll say ‘em Alienos. I hate ‘em Alienos. Ain’t rightly know what to do to keep the warehouse from bein’ robbed. Goddamn brownskins. Good stuff, that’s an 1897 Bates. And a good price too; ol’ man Barry sold it to me for only 30 dollars! In the City, it would’ve been 50. It’s expensive, but what can I do? How else can I deal with these scoundrels? It’s a fine gun. 16-gauge. “Slam-fire,” that’s what they call it now. Practical, durable, reliable gun; you can sit all day long, and the little one won’t let you down at the right moment. I’ll definitely tote it with me next time I go huntin’. Yeah. What we gonna do? What do we do ’bout these savages? How do we fight ‘em? The humble Caldwell pistol ain’t no defense ‘gainst a nighttime attack by these hawks. My Pop said that as a teenager, he never left the house without a gun, so often there were skirmishes between Alienos and Abenlanders. Yeah… When did I first hear the word “Alieno”? Uh, probably in my early teens. There was this kid at school called Joseph, not a pure Alieno, but a half-breed, mother from Misceos tribe. We used to get all tense when he showed up at school. Strange kid. He was a reserved person himself, hardly socialized with anyone. Was he a bad guy? I ain’t know. But he certainly wasn’t no good guy. Never got into no fights at school. Never even fought over a girl. Strange type.
I recollect the first time I visited the City, I was plumb surprised that many Alienos were dressed just like us, and some folks even saw ‘em as human. But not my Pop. My Pop always told me, “Look here, these are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Your Pop-pop died ‘cause of bastards like ‘em. Remember, an Alien
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