Alien Blowfish Duck Lamp Sacrifice

I am a lamp.

I am a common, everyday lamp. One that would sit in a typical American home in the 1970's. I have a tapered ceramic base in some strange orange and burnt umber colors, a 60 watt bulb for my head, and a head covering consisting of a paper lampshade.

An obese man sits in a Lazy Boy recliner in his t-shirt. He takes a drink from a can of Budweiser and sits it down on the table beside me. He is watching a large 70's era console television set.

There is shag carpet on the floor, a sickly yellow and brown color. The room has plain wooden paneling. The lighting is subdued. It is night.

Sitting next to the television, near a window, is a toilet. The bowl of the toilet is filled with flowers, as if someone is using it as a decorative planter.

I hear someone in the hallway next to the living room.

It is an elderly woman. She is plainly dressed, her face wrinkled. She reminds me of a character actor one might see on a 70's British sitcom.

Her face begins to look distorted, almost like a blowfish when it's beginning to expand.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs," she says, apologetically, in a stoic, very British voice, "If the aliens are really here and taking over people, it might be best to just get them out of the way where they won't disturb anyone."

The man in the recliner stares at the television and seems to ignore what she is saying. His chair faces away from the hallway towards the television and he cannot see her.

Her face and head distort even more, growing larger and looking more like a blowfish.

Strange noises start coming from her body.

"Quick! Hurry!" I hear my friend Stuart say, "You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!"

I turn to see legs and arms sprouting from the toilet, like an anthropomorphic character from a tv commercial. It stands up.

"You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!" the toilet says in Stuart's voice, moving it's seat like a mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, somewhat concerned.

Suddenly, I see a log in front of the television with an ax in it. The man rises from the chair and grabs the ax.

I feel funny.

I look down and see that I am now a duck, standing on the table.

The man grabs me by the throat; I flap my wings and feathers fly as he moves me towards the log.

"It's the only way," Stuart the Toilet says, "You must be a sacrifice for the alien!"

The woman's head grows larger and more distorted. Her body begins to shake.

"No!" I scream and squawk, "You be the sacrifice - not me!"

The man firmly places me on the log, his hand around my neck. He holds the ax high above his head.

"No!" I squawk, "There's got to be another way!"

"You must be the sacrifice!" Stuart the Toilet intones.

I see the blade of the ax coming closer towards my head. I struggle and squawk, but can't break free.

Everything goes black.

My head feels strange, as if part of the top center of my brain is empty, missing.

Then, something like a rush of electricity or bolt of lightning surges through the hole in my brain.

I open my eyes.

I am still a duck.

I am standing in a room all by myself. The floor is black tile. All of the walls of the room and the ceiling are covered with mirrors.

"Damn," I squawk, "what the hell happens now?"

Then I woke up.