A persistent tapping on the glass roused Prometheus from his intent study. When vocal lessons weren’t paying the bills, every free moment was spent on trying to learn more about his new best friend. To say his life had changed since that fly fishing trip in a remote stream in northern Quebec could not be more of an understatement. A fresh rainbow trout dinner was all he had been after with his collection of woolly buggers and other assorted flies. Upon realizing that what had wrapped around his hip-waders was more than weeds, his curiousity had overcome his fear. Having been judged on his appearance by most of humanity, he was not quick to do the same. Plus, he had swiftly ascertained that he was a physical match of the creature and/or it intended him no harm. A sensation he could not quite describe enveloped him when it made contact with his skin. He still mulled the irony of a man that earned a living thru voice would develop an obsessive attachment to a being that communicated without.
It was his personal experience with scientific authorities and perhaps a mutual agreement with Bob (he had to call it something) that prevented him from sharing his discovery with anyone. He still felt very sure that it was Bob’s wish to accompany him home. So far, he couldn’t say with certainty if Bob even originated on this planet. Without a "host", Bob didn’t fair well when out of a fresh-water environment for very long. An omnivore of aquatic life, keeping Bob fed was as easy as a trip to a pet store or fish market. York had pursued investigative avenues along possible relations to jellyfish, squid, etc. but the differences outweighed the similarities. And of course, there was the intelligence factor to consider.
The tapping was more intense than usual. Even if it hadn’t been, Bob was difficult to resist. The tank afforded some respite, allowing more comfortable sleep and personal maintenance. But the feeling while they were bonded had become an addiction. York shed his shirt as he moved towards the tank. Anxious tentacles rose to greet him and seconds later they merged. Both entities froze for a few moments to bask in the feeling. Then pressure (hurry). Apparently Bob was in a hurry, which was a first. After donning an oversized shirt and cloak, York retrieved two litre bottles of water from the fridge and threw them in a shoulder bag. Staying hydrated was mandatory since Bob would be drawing liquid from his body.
Previously, Bob had only shown an interest in guiding York towards things that provided high levels of stimulation. Bob loved roller coasters. But now there was more of a feeling of desperation. Their evolving guidance system primarily consisted of applied pressure: left, right, etc. but there was an even stronger intangible element to it. York found themselves outside the entrance to a large hotel, part of a major chain. Inside the lobby, a welcome sign read "Swedish Association of Proctologists". Yikes. Satisfying Bob’s whims generally was rewarding but there was a line.
Pressure again, nearly to the point of pain. York was intrigued so using his small stature to advantage, he slipped onto the convention floor. Instantly, his eyes were drawn to a cluster of people gathered around someone on the floor. (THERE!). He sprinted over. He recognized the compelling woman he had literally ran into earlier, lying on the floor, clutching at her throat. One of her sinuous arms was considerably swollen. A man was kneeling beside her, in obvious distress. "Did someone call for an ambulance yet?" his clipped British accent railed. There wouldn’t be time. Examining her arm, York could see the stinger left behind by a bee, it’s tiny poison sack having pulsated its payload of venom with devastating results. "Does she have a handbag that may contain an epi-pen?" he barked at the man. "Uh, uh, I just met her here at the convention, I don’t recall a bag". Fucking idiots! "I suppose she’d have to have been stung up the ass for your skills to be of use". The man went crimson. Gently brushing the hair back, he held her puffy face in his hands. An undetected tentacle slid into her mouth. Within moments, a gurgle sounded and wide desperate eyes slammed open. She grasped York’s thick arms. It’s work done, the tentacle retracted. Feeling that and recognizing York appeared to be a bit of an overload. Her body slumped but her breathing was returning to normal. Even without help, he could easily carry the near waif. Bob’s assistance made it even more manageable. Gathering her up, he strode out through the gaping spectators.
