Moonlight Misadventure.
The mist clung to the mountainside as the Predator made his descent toward the sleeping town. His makeshift cloak – fashioned from a deer-patterned curtain plundered from an abandoned cabin – fluttered dramatically in the wind, casting eerie shadows across the rocks. Below, the lights of Drammen twinkled, blissfully unaware.
The “Nattnissen” convenience store glowed like a beacon for the deranged. Its automatic doors, sensing movement, creaked open with alarming enthusiasm. Inside smelled of stale coffee and cheap hot dogs.
Martin the cashier (age 22, blue hair, aspiring DJ) glanced up from his phone. His eyes slid over the three-meter-tall figure in a cloak and bio-mask before returning to his screen.
“Another cosplayer,” he muttered, brushing crumbs off the counter.
The Predator approached the energy drink display. His claw punctured a can of Monster with a crisp crunch. Golden liquid sprayed across the linoleum.
“Hey, man!” Martin jumped up, knocking over his stool. “This ain’t a free buffet!”
The response was a bone-rattling growl that made the shelves tremble. But Martin was properly angry now – the double shift, the unpaid overtime, and now this jackass in a mask…
The mop handle whistled through the air. The wooden shaft connected with the bio-mask with a resounding:
“BONG!”
The sound echoed through the store, startling the sleeping cat in the corner. The Predator stumbled back into a chip display. Bags crinkled as they scattered across the floor.
“Get out!” Martin swung again.
Then he saw them – Grandma’s old pitchfork hanging above the seasonal items. The steel tines gleamed under fluorescent lights.
The last thing the Predator saw before searing pain shot through his thigh was the determined face of a blue-haired Norwegian gripping the pitchfork with both hands.
The silence was broken only by the sound of a pickled herring jar shattering on the floor.
The Predator yanked the pitchfork free with a wet schlop. His bio-mask flickered between “humiliation” and “retreat immediately.”
Thor Junior greeted him at the cave. The reindeer took in:
The shredded cloak
The gaping thigh wound
The expression on the bio-mask
…and collapsed onto his back, legs kicking in silent laughter.
Down in town, Martin was on the phone with police: “Yes, tall… No, not drunk… Yes, an alien mask… No, I’m keeping the pitchfork!”
And in the mountain cave, to the rhythmic drip of energy drink, the interstellar hunter contemplated for the first time that perhaps his ancestors had good reason for making Earth a no-hunting zone.
