By Pamela Love
“We want to purchase explosives for our children.”
Most people, including most fireworks dealers, would wince at that phrasing. Not Louie Blanchard. For one thing, he knew the Pairish extraterrestrials’ translator devices sometimes missed certain subtleties in the English language. For another, anyone who painted “Red, White, and Kablooey-Louie” above his door wasn’t big on subtlety himself.
“Sure! Always happy to do business.” Especially on July 5. “Now, what can I get you?” He wished the aliens had brought their kids along. Human ones could be counted on to ratchet up the quantity of items bought, and Louie believed this to be a universal characteristic. “Rockets? Roman candles? Mortars?” He spread his arms, waving at the piles of merchandise on the splintery shelves of his converted barn. “I’ve got all that and more.”
Turning to each other, the Pairish spoke briefly in their own tongue, their double antennae vibrating above surprisingly human-like—if green—faces, their two sets each of tentacles undulating somewhat like an octopus. As always, they spoke in unison as they responded, “We do not remember the term our children used for this item. We do know it is named for a type of food and an explosive or explosion. Our children thought that was amusing.”
Louie bit his lip and racked his brain. Finally, he snapped his fingers. “Cherry bombs! I’ve got plenty. How many would you like? Buy nine”—he spotted the brand name on the handbag one alien carried and did a rapid reassessment of his customers’ net worth—“teen. Buy nineteen and get the twentieth free.”
A tentacle unzipped the handbag. By the light of the single lightbulb overhead, Louie caught a glint of gold within. Wish I knew the exchange rate, so I’d know how much to overcharge them. Would they notice if I checked my phone?
“Do you sell the flavoring as well?” the aliens asked.
“Flavoring?” Louie tilted his head.
“Our children will be eating them shortly after they explode.”
“Eating?” Louie swallowed hard. While the occasional maiming his merchandise caused was merely the price his customers paid for a good time—after all, new tissue-growth technology meant hands, feet, and even eyes could be replaced good as new by Labor Day—he didn’t want to poison anybody. I’m not that greedy, am I?
On the other hand, what did he know about the Pairish? Maybe dynamite was like deviled eggs to them—a little spicy, but not dangerous. He shrugged. “Maybe. Humans have many different kinds of flavoring. Do you remember what it was called?”
“No.”
“Have they ever eaten cherry bombs before?” At their rather awkward bow—lacking necks, the Pairish couldn’t nod—Louie asked, “Where was this?”
“At the fair after the parade yesterday.”
Can’t be cherry bombs, then. Maybe Jeff McMillan’s chili dogs? Louie shuddered at the memory. Three years before, he’d spent thirty minutes in a porta-potty after eating one. Yeah, I’d call them explosive. On the other hand, the name didn’t fit.
The aliens went on, “These explosives were a few millimeters long, ovoid, and tan. Triggered by heat in a glass tank on a two-wheeled vehicle, they became substantially larger and white. The flavoring was yellow. Our children enjoyed the taste. We think they would like to perform the detonation themselves. We are willing to pay a large amount.”
“Popcorn!” Louie heaved a sigh of relief. “You can get that at… um, here. Of course I have it for my best customers. It’s, uh, in my vault.”
He jogged across the yard to his house. It was all he could do not to skip, and his self-control in that respect broke down ten feet from his back door. Lucky I’ve got a jar. Do I sell it that way or by the kernel? He decided on the latter, then made a mental note to be sure their translator understood the concept of no refunds. Won’t be long before they hear about the real cost, and the dollar store’s just fifteen minutes away. Oh, and there’s the other dollar store just five minutes away from that.
While indoors, he took the opportunity to pull out his phone and look up the price of gold. He squealed with delight before racing back to the barn, clutching a sandwich bag of the precious “explosives.”
As he entered, panting, the aliens announced, “We have good news.” A smaller version of each stepped out from behind the parents.
“Oh, your kids are here. You want to buy more popcorn?” Louie’s grin, already ear to ear, struggled to exceed these customary boundaries.
“Our children have found and purchased a superior explosive already.” A tentacle from each parent wrapped gently around their offspring’s foreheads. “We are so proud of them.”
The children held up their discovery: a vivid orange soda can. “It is sweet. We can detonate it merely by opening its container.” One of them did just that, pulling the can’s tab. “Most importantly, there are far more detonations than popcorn. That may be why it is simply called pop.”
As Louie watched his hopes for a once-in-a-lifetime sale burst like the countless bubbles spraying onto his floor—the can must’ve been shaken—he broke out in a sweat. “That’s wonderful, kids. But your folks want to buy you popcorn—”
“Not anymore,” said the parents. One zipped up the handbag. “When a superior product is found, we abandon the inferior one. That is how progress is made.”
Despite Louie’s many protests and offers of “spectacular savings” on other products, the family climbed into their craft moments later. The famed “rockets’ red glare” in the national anthem was but a pale pink blush compared to the color of Louie’s cheeks as his dream customers blasted out of reach.
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