By Jeff Maxim

A curious statistical oddity, known colloquially as the ‘Alimentary Anomaly,’ plots a direct relationship between a civilization’s culinary aptitude and its propensity to achieve interstellar travel.

‘Chrysalis of Cultures’ by E.M. Hyglix – Galactic Union Archives

The woman at the front desk eyed Therrus, then pointed at his sunglasses. “It might be bright outside, but don’t expect much sunshine from old Bulver. He doesn’t like reporters, Mr. James.”

Therrus, reveling in the ring of his adopted Earth name, replied with a bow. “Fear not, madam. I am only here to help.”

Professor Hyglix’s latest assignment—to study Earth’s finest cuisine—had led Therrus here, to the source of his favorite native food. Smiling, he strode through the office door and halted before an enormous desk. The roly-poly man sitting behind it didn’t bother to rise. “Well,” said the man, waving a pickle-thick forefinger at Therrus, “Luke James, is it? Have a seat and tell me why your magazine is interested in the Enterprize Cereal Company.”

“Certainly,” he said. He pointed at a life-sized cardboard cartoon figure propped against a far wall. “But first, let me compliment you on your décor. Marvin Mixx is a wonderful mascot for your Megga Mixx cereal brand. Such a fascinating combination of wolf, toucan, and rooster!”

“He’s an idiot,” Bulver said, popping an antacid tablet into his mouth. “Which makes him perfect for selling kid’s cereal.”

Therrus shifted in his seat. Little did this fellow know that a creature very much like Marvin graced the war-banners of the Suki-X Paramountcy. Had a denizen of that proud empire been conducting this interview, Bulver’s instant vaporization would have been a statistical probability.

Bulver drummed his fingers on the desk. “Before we go any further, I want you to be straight with me. You’re not one of those nutty nutrition reporters, are you? Trying to make my cereal look bad? Unhealthy for kids and all that?”

Therrus laughed. “No, I adore Megga Mixx. Perhaps too much. I ate a whole box yesterday and suffered legendary intestinal distress.”

Bulver frowned, prompting Therrus to raise his hand. “Take no offense, sir. I am not speaking ill of your product. The fault is mine, as I forgot to take my digestive pills before breaking my fast.”

With a soft sigh, Bulver settled in his chair. “Well, I’m glad you’re a fan. Megga Mixx isn’t our best-selling brand, to be honest. We’ve got loads of promotional Marvin t-shirts we can’t even give away. You see, the cereal’s gotten this reputation—”

“Yes!” said Therrus, shooting up in his chair. “I am acquainted with this lore. Megga Mixx is made by combining your ‘Werewolf Trax,’ ‘Cock-a-Doodle Do’s,’ and ‘Yes, Tou-can!’ product lines. In recent years, an urban legend has blossomed, saying that Megga Mixx boxes are filled with spilled cereal remnants swept off the factory floors.”

Mr. Bulver glowered, his jaw working. “Yes. That’s what they say.”

“This is considered humorous because eating items from the floor is unsanitary in your culture. In mine, however, it is not. You should see the floor in my dwelling. Or not see it, I should say. Because… you know, the clutter—”

“Yeah, I get it. Very funny.” Bulver leaned forward, fists balled. “I’m a busy man. You have any questions for me?”

“Yes, indeed,” Therrus said. “Why do you think your cereal can taste so good, yet be so reviled? I am referring to the crowds that recently gathered at your headquarters, waving signs such as ‘Cock-a-Doodle DON’T,’ and ‘Stop Mixxing Up Our Kids.’”

Bulver harrumphed. “So you are one of those health nut reporters.”

“I am not.”

“Okay, well report this, then. You ever heard the expression, ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away?’”

Therrus gasped. “I was not aware doctors were considered undesirable. Is this true?”

“What? No. What planet are you from? I’m talking about the apples, not the doctors. Here’s a dirty little secret, Mr. James. The seeds of apples—and lots of other ‘healthy’ fruits—contain cyanide.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Cyanide! Everyone squawks about Red Dye 40 being a petroleum product. So what’s worse, petroleum or cyanide?”

“Personally,” Therrus said, “I prefer both over coffee. Ugh!”

“And all the flap about BHT, that’s just as annoying as the dye nonsense. It’ll drive me to an early grave, I swear it.”

Therrus pursed his lips. This poor fellow suffered from a psychological malady so severe it could be fatal. Poor humans. So fascinating, but so frail. How could he help?

Therrus took a deep breath. “Tell me, what is this… BHT?”

“Uh… buttalated… er… hydro-oxy something.”

“Ah. Butylated Hydroxytoluene. This has preservative qualities, but some suspect it causes cancer.”

“Yeah.” Bulver’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, you some kind of chemist?”

“Yes, among other things…”

Then it hit Therrus. Sure, Professor Hyglix had tasked him with merely studying Earthan cuisine, but why not… expand his mission? Just a tiny, tiny bit?

“Mr. Bulver,” Therrus said, “you mentioned that you have excessive quantities of Marvin t-shirts?”

“Yeah. Hundreds. Why?”

“What if I told you I could synthesize a compound that would grant your cereal vibrant colors, preserve it indefinitely, and pose no threat to human consumption? And that all I would ask in return is one extra-large Marvin Mixx t-shirt?”

Bulver guffawed. “Mr. James, if you could deliver on that promise, I’d give you a t-shirt for every day of the year and throw in that Marvin cutout to boot.”

Therrus reached across the desk. “I accept.”

Bulver shook his head, and chuckling, extended his five-fingered hand to clasp the six-fingered grip of Therrus. The alien’s chest swelled. Any race capable of such heavenly cuisine deserved to spread its wings and travel the stars. And they would do it, Therrus believed. Surely they’d succeed, bit by bit, step by step.

And a little nudge here and there never hurt anyone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeff Maxim writes for readers who are imaginative, a little silly, and always ready for adventure. A lifelong book-lover, he believes the best stories are more than words on a page—they’re friends you keep forever. Jeff lives with his wife and family in a southern town his GPS refuses to pronounce correctly, and takes frequent trips to Middle-earth and worlds beyond.

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