Short, 4-feet tall, dull gray skin like a dolphin, big black angry featureless eyes.
They think I'm paralyzed as I lie there in bed, eyes wide open in mock terror.
They are close. They're built like walking rootballs - gangly, weak limbs, fragile paper-thin skeletons, bloated midsections like pumpkins. Too much time in the comfort of low gravity.
I lash out and hit one in the head with the bedside stained glass lamp. Shards of leaded glass stick in it's soft oversized noggin like porcupine quills. The heavy wrought iron lamp base, covered in felt, butts it right in the face like a speeding black iron wall.
I kick with both feet from my lying position and connect with the second ones distended abdomen, it stumbles backward and hits it's melon head against the rock-hard plasterboard wall. I pull off one of it's long spindly arms like a turkey leg and reach out to trip the third one who is running like a scared little girl with it's hands in the air. It falls through the open bedroom door face first and slides into the hallway.
Three more for my research colleagues at the UCONN medical center.
I wonder if the visitors are figuring out that the sleep hypnosis device is counteracted by my anti-depressants?
So many now. So stupid. So trusting.
It's almost sad.
