Chuck stared down at the small, gray creature, its skin oily in appearance yet dry to the touch. Oblong eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. They were larger than any Chuck had seen before, slanted slightly and completely black. He could clearly make out his sleeveless American flag shirt in its reflection. The creature was breathing softly through two flat slits that appeared to be its nose. There was no mouth in sight, yet he was sure it was making a soft humming sound. A small stream of green liquid flowed out from a wound beneath its pointed chin. He was one god damned weird looking Mexican.

He’d had found the man—he assumed it was a man—wandering around outside of his border-watching shack about an hour prior. Chuck had taken the week off work to enjoy a nice, relaxing vacation spent patrolling the U.S./Mexican border for illegal immigrants. He hadn’t yet found any Mexicans prowling the border in search of American jobs to steal, but he refused to go home empty handed.

The oddly proportioned man had stumbled into view as Chuck stood in his tiny kitchen, hands rifling through his freezer in search of a nice hunk of raccoon to barbecue for dinner. He appeared out of the corner of his eye at first, the oddly skinny figure almost levitating across the ground. Chuck dropped the meat as soon as the shape registered as human-ish, immediately turning and grabbing his rifle as he rushed outside and tackled the man to the ground. They tussled for a moment before Chuck was able to knock him unconscious with the butt of his rifle. As was standard procedure for capturing illegals, Chuck tied him up to a chair, dimmed the lights, and turned on the massive interrogation lamp he had just recently installed.

Chuck tilted the light overhead so it shone down on the man’s oily face, eyes unresponsive. He grabbed a hat he had stolen from a Taco Bell back home and placed it on top of the creatures head. A near perfect fit: he was clearly Mexican.

“Wake up,” Chuck said. He pushed the man on his shoulder, the hat sliding off his head onto the floor. Maybe it wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was good enough. “Hey, git up.”

The tied man shifted slightly, his eyes still motionless. Chuck lifted his hand and slapped the being across the cheek, its skin responding with a light blue glow as his palm made contact. The man blinked once.

“You a Mexican? You speak American? You hablos Americanos?”

The man blinked again, his nostril-flaps flaring out. The skin on his cheek was still illuminated, although the blue had grown slightly darker.

“I said,” Chuck said, raising his hand again, “you speak Americano?”

The man nodded, its black eyes locked on Chuck.

“Good,” Chuck said, lowering his hand. “You the weirdest lookin’ Mexican I seen in a long time. You retarded or somethin? Or you just tryna sneak into this here America and thinkin’ we the retards? Tell you what, though, mama din’t raise no retard.” It was true, Chucks mother had assured all of his teachers that he wasn’t “retarded” every year, up until the time he dropped out of school in fourth grade.

The man continued to stare at Chuck, his cheek now pulsating a darker blue.

“You tryna git into America? You think we gonna just hand you the keys to this country along with all our jobs? I’m sick of you Mexicans takin’ the food out of our mouths. Our President might be a black Muslim, but that don’t mean you get to enjoy all our freedom for free.”

The man turned his head slightly and stared just behind Chuck, as if trying to signal something. Chuck noticed, but refused to look and succumb to his silly Mexican games. He’d once made that mistake with a Jew and ended up being Bar Mitzvah’d.

“You know what I’mma do with you, right? We gonna git you back over that border and keep America for the Americans. But I can also git you put in Mexican jail. You wanna go to Mexican jail?”

The man slowly glanced at Chuck, then back behind him again.

“You don’t want to go to no Mexican jail. You don’t want to be tied up in no sombrero and beat into no taco meat, do ya? I don’t gotta send you, all you gots to do is tell me where the rest of y’all is.” Chuck stared at the Mexican. He’d never seen such a weird looking immigrant, but he was absolutely positive that he was Mexican. No God-fearing American would be cursed to look like that, God loved Americans.

If he could just convince the man to turn over his illegal Mexican immigrant amigos, he’d make significantly more in reward money.

The man continued staring behind Chuck, its cheek now slowly turning a shade of red, almost a cherry color.

“This here is America. You can’t just be waltzin in like you own the place, stealin’ up our jerbs and making me learn no Spanish. Now I don’t gotta send you back to Mexico in no Mexican prison, I don’t gotta do that. You can just go on back to the poncho factory or wherever you work without no jail time. All you gots to do is tell me who else you came with and where I can find them. We just send you all back to Mexico together, as a big poor, Mexican family. How’s that sound? Y’all liking that idea?”

The man slowly turned its gaze back toward Chuck, its cheek now pulsating a dark, auburn red. Chuck shook his head. The man clearly didn’t speak enough English to understand what he was saying, no one in their right mind would turn down an offer to avoid Mexican jail. That place was a nightmare, as far as he’d heard – forced mustaches, stale burritos every night, never ending mariachi music, and mandatory viewings of all things involving Salma Hayek. Chuck knew he’d have to accept his fate with capturing just one Mexican.

The man turned his attention back over Chuck’s shoulder, then blinked twice. Chuck shook his head, finally turning toward where the man looked. He knew he was succumbing to his stupid Mexican games, but he needed to go that direction anyway to grab his rifle. Plus, he knew—if the man was actually just a lost, wandering Jew—that he couldn’t have another Bar Mitzvah. The worst was over.

Four other Mexican men stood just outside Chuck’s window, their cheeks pulsating slowly in a similar auburn color. They were staring right at Chuck, their hands placed against the glass as if reaching out for him. A large, silver object hovered several feet in the air just behind them. Chuck took a step toward the window, staring at the object. It reminded him of something he’d seen in some stupid Alien film, in which the Earth’s fate was at risk and several mixed-race people had to find a way to stop the visitors. A small, orange and green object blinked on and off from the side of the silver object. It was clearly a Mexican flag stuck onto some sort of official Mexican mobile.

“Looks like you don’t gots to go to no Mexican jail just yet,” Chuck said, turning back toward the man in the chair. He grabbed his shotgun and walked toward the door, keeping his eyes locked on the Mexicans outside.

“Your planet has now been deemed unnecessary,” said the man from the chair. Chuck turned back toward him. The man’s cheeks were no longer pulsating. Instead, the deep, dark auburn remained as a static glow.

“Now you wanna speak American? Too late, ya’ll goin to jail Mexican jail.” Chuck turned back toward the door, rifle resting on his left shoulder. “But first imam go git your Mexican amigos so I can git me paid.”