Brotherhood of Blood and Ketchup.
The dim neon glow of Teddy’s Bar reflected off the matte surface of the Predator’s biomask as he hesitated at the entrance. In one hand, he clutched a suspiciously crinkled gift bag (containing “Bloody Sunrise” nail polish, a plush reindeer with its head sewn on crooked, and a keychain stolen from a tourist while shouting, “This is for important diplomatic mission!”). In the other—a carefully curated list of Human Small Talk Topics:
Weather
Hunting
Skulls
…?
The last item troubled him most. Social interaction was more terrifying than that time he’d accidentally activated his ship’s self-destruct sequence mid-Facehugger mating season.
The bar greeted him with a wave of warmth, the stench of overcooked wings, and the thunder of some song where a man growled about “eternal darkness.” The Predator clicked his mandibles approvingly—finally, decent Earth music.
“Duuuuude!”
The voice hit like a plasma blast. Anthony Diamond was a two-meter-tall entity with a beard that could probably conceal small throwing axes and a “Made in Norway” bicep tattoo (the Predator mentally filed “ideal scalping surface” under compliments).
“Knew you’d be tall, but holy shit!” Anthony bellowed, attempting to hug the invisible alien and instead embracing air. “Are you like… sweaty? Or is that part of the costume?”
The Predator tried to sit. The chair collapsed beneath him with the dignity of a gutted space hunter. The bar fell silent for a heartbeat.
“Hey, no worries!” Anthony slapped his shoulder (missed, hit a fire extinguisher instead). “My college buddy weighed as much as a tank too. Drink?”
They drank. Well, Anthony drank. The Predator pantomimed drinking while secretly vaporizing the alcohol through a hidden mask valve (after the Tequila Incident on Proxima-4, he’d sworn off liquor). The conversation meandered strangely:
“So you collect skulls?”
Affirmative click
“Sick! I had a pickled hedgehog. Well, until Mom found it.”
Puzzled silence
“Uh… think a moose is a worthy opponent?”
Approving growl
The peace shattered when a drunk in a horned helmet (actually plumber Sven post-office-party) poked the Predator’s mask.
“Dat’s no’ a real helmet! Viking ones were cooler—saw it in a museum!”
Time slowed. The Predator felt his dorsal spines erect (a biological response his people reserved for last warnings). He tilted his head exactly 23 degrees—the angle that meant “apologize now or meet your gods” on Yautja Prime.
Sven did not apologize.
What happened next would later be described in police reports as:
“Act of God”
“Drunken hallucination”
“Maybe I need vacation”
The Predator merely tapped him. A tap by the standards of a creature who spine-ripped Xenomorphs for fun. Sven flew backward, sequentially:
Headbutting a dartboard (bullseye—a good omen)
Crashing through the jukebox (now blasting Barbie Girl)
Decapitating a moose mount (its head rolled to Anthony’s feet)
“Damn…” Anthony whispered, picking it up. “Looks like my ex-father-in-law now.”
“I GOT YOU, BRO!” Anthony roared, charging into battle—immediately slipping on a pickle and face-planting into nachos.
The brawl became legend:
The Predator dodged a bottle… into the disco ball. Strobe lights baptized the chaos.
His plasma caster misfired, carbonizing the nachos (the chef later marketed them as “artisan charcoal chips”).
Someone’s toupee fused to his wristblade. “Keep it as a trophy!” Anthony wheezed, wiping ketchup off his face. “Now we’re blood brothers! Well… ketchup brothers!”
By dawn, the Predator carried a snoring Anthony piggyback through Oslo’s streets as his friend slurred Baby Shark in faux Old Norse. His biomask chirped quietly:
Blood alcohol: Critical
Threat level: Null
Status: Best human. Protect at all costs.
P.S.: Remind him about skull polish.
Somewhere, sirens wailed. Teddy’s Bar was missing three chairs, a disco ball, and Plumber Sven (later found cuddling the moose head in a closet, murmuring, “You’re my little Viking”). And the Predator had gained the galaxy’s first interspecies friendship—forged in ketchup, poor decisions, and mutual respect.
If that meant enduring drunken serenades and hugs aimed at empty air?
Worth it.
