That bus rocked through the ghetto, swerving around stopped cars, over the bodies that lay sprawled next to them. He was standing by the backdoor when he heard the—well some big hard round part—of a dead person explode under the rear wheel. He thought he would be sick. Tweet wanted to leap from the bus and run free until he dissolved into the landscape. But there was no landscape really, just dreary drooping buildings, stopped and parked cars—one even wrecked against a light pole—and bodies.

‘Oh Lord what am I to do?’

No answer came as usual. The Good Lord never had stooped so low as to speak with Bighead Tweet. In that way he supposed The Good Lord had made mankind in his own image, since most of mankind did likewise, and refused conversation with someone who’s head had been too big until it was all shunted, leaving it’s occupant prone to pausing and generally regarded as ‘weird’. That is where the ‘tweet’ had come from. A boy was embarrassed at the pause, so while he groped for words that sometimes did not come, he just tweeted like a nice bird that was not being eaten by an unfriendly cat.

‘The Lord’s Word, or thereabouts, will help ease your mind.’

Where he stood at his guardian post by the backdoor, making sure the mechanical flaps did not open and let in the nasty flying insect-like wonders from wherever, was an important post. However, the ‘bugs’ had thinned quite a bit, most having seemingly taken up residence in a very nasty way inside of people, particularly important people like police. It was time for him to take a read of a J.T.C. Christian flip comic. He had one of those stuffed in his pocket. Pulling it out for a quick read would not draw the attention of his superiors like unzipping his fanny pack where his copy of My Daily Bread was kept.

‘I will just have a quick inspirational read thank you very much.’

Bighead Tweet reached into his pocket to slide out a J.T.C. flip comic. It was ‘Who Loves You?’ a particularly inspirational issue.

‘That is a sign. Look at the crying eye on the cover, eyes that cry just like those who the bugs crawl into. Indeed the bugs have gone in through the eye on some occasions—took over the eyes of the police that Miss Betty shot. This is no accident thank you very much. What is this? A lump between the pages! Oh you big-headed dummy you left your gum in here and befouled God’s word! There is a biblical quote on that page.’

Embarrassed to have ruined a comic with gum he hunched a little against the pole with his shoulder so that no one would see the fruit of his stupidity and opened the comic to page 5. To his surprise the pages did not stick together.

‘Oh my, this is God’s sign!’

The large print at the top of the page asked, ‘Who knows how lonely and really scared you are? Who really understands you?’

Beneath those two lines, on the face of the crying black man touchingly sketched in light tones by the masterful hand of J.T.C., sat an alien bug; not your everyday kind of alien bug. This alien bug did not have the beetle wings on the back with the x that started white and then filled up red when it drank human blood. This bug had no needle for the drinking of this blood. It also had no nasty eardrum- chomping, eyelid-lifting mandibles. It was a little bit small in fact, being the size of a penny rather than a nickel. The bug was also not black but pale albino white. He did notice two things about the bug that marked it as an alien: a spider body; only six legs; and large—relatively huge—multifaceted eyes, like a fly’s eyes but made of diamonds.

‘Oh silly me, that is three likenesses to your coconspirators, not a mere two.’

The alien creature seemed sluggish though unharmed.

‘Are you okay little fellow? I understand. I must seem a big old monster to you. Hello, my name is—oops, I could get into trouble for telapathing with you. My leaders would not understand. They are violent. You friends are violent too aren’t they? In any case, I expect you are telepathic, being an alien and all. Perhaps one day we will dial in on the same frequency.’

The harsh voice of Black Mercedes came snapping at him from across the aisle, “Yo retard! Put dat bible bullshit away and do your job! If dem alien shits get on this bus ‘cause a yer dumb tweetie-bird ass I’m jackin’ yo up!”

He carefully folded the pages back down so as not to injure his alien friend, unzipped his fanny pack, and slid the Christian flip comic and friendly God-blessed alien to safety, “There you go little buddy.”

As he zipped the pack closed Black Mercedes sneered in disgust, “En dis nigga still talkin’ ta God’s comic books affer he done let all dis shit go down—nigga please!”

All eyes on the bus were now on him. He was all of a sudden feeling quite anxious being the center of attention and began to whistle defensively. Then Jackie Spam, their hero leader came to the back, “You okay Tweet?”

Tweet looked down at the violent little man and kept whistling to calm his anxieties. Jackie then patted him on the shoulder, “You haven’t had a break yet. Sit down next to Hot Stuff there and keep her safe in case anything happens.”

Black Mercedes’ eyes became big and angry when Jackie commanded him to sit next to her pretty little white patty-cake-in-the-sandbox friend. In answer to these violently opened eyes Jackie Spam barked an order like a sergeant in a war movie, “Grown-ass Woman, you got the backdoor!”

Black Mercedes got to her feet in a glaring huff as he took her seat next to the dainty object of their first rescue. He was trying with some difficulty not to smile. As Jackie tramped to the back of the bus to check on the Mexican lady who was back up there curled in a ball, and the crazy little white bee-bee gun kid, now armed with a shotgun and police pistol as well, paced the corridor like a sentry at the gates of hell, Black Mercedes glared down at him.

‘Don’t smile. Don’t grin. Don’t smirk. That will only make her angry.’

He continued to tweet to keep himself calm. Then came a little tug on the sleeve of his coat from Tyler, otherwise known as ‘Hot Stuff’, and thoroughly drunk on some devils brew, “You whistle real nice Tweet. Would you like some vodka.”

Black Mercedes snarled, “Is you crazy girl. You go en get his big retarded ass drunk en it most def da end a da whorl!”

Tyler seemed confused, and doused her doubt with a big drink that acted like a tranquilizer. Her Barbie Doll head sunk into his coat sleeve and the bottle slipped from her hand, snatched like a cobra by the hand of Jackie as he passed by on the way up front to speak with Miss Betty, their pistol-packing boss-lady.

He could feel the blazing eyes of Black Mercedes upon him and lost all care. He cuddled the little redhead against him and looked up at the ghetto girl with a smile as wide as a Big Mac, eyebrows raising in a taunting joy as Black Mercedes, last ghetto lesbianic wannabe-gangbanger on earth paced at her post and snarled viciously beneath her breath.

‘Oh yes, she likes the whistling.’

And so, as The Last Bus on Earth rolled through the deserted ghetto Bighead Tweet tweeted his lullaby to the drunk and drooling Tyler, for all he knew the last good looking lady on a now alien planet.

‘We will be talking Mister Bighead Alien. Thank you very much.’