24 hours after the first alert the body-snatchers had already taken over West Hollywood. 99% of the star-system had been replaced by dehumanized replicas grown in extraterrestrial pods.
At noon, Ellen Page, Peter O’Toole, Nicolas Cage and myself left the motel and trekked towards Mount Olympus. A street-wide herd of those alien clones flowed down Vine Street in Arctic silence.
“Everything will be alright,” O’Toole whispered while we elbowed our way through the flock. “They won’t be able to tell us apart from their own as long as we show no emotions.”
“NO EMOTIONS?!” shrieked Nicolas Cage, falling down on his knees and pulling out what little was left of his hair. “God, this is so alienating! We’re doomed, I tell you! DOOMED!”
The next minute the clone swarm had jumped on him as if to help him tear away his garments, while the rest of us took avail of the diversion to run away and sneak into Bill Murray’s house. Adam Sandler had taken refuge there too.
“You will be safe here,” said Bill. “I know how to spot those creatures—big body-snatcher giveaway: they are completely unable to understand or express any form of humor.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” said Adam Sandler. “And, uh, that’s it. You know. Yeah.”
There was an awkward pause. We all heard a pin dropping in Nebraska.
Then Ellen Page pulled out a Magnum 45 and blew Adam’s head off.
“Holy mother of Fuck!” I cried. “Since when do you carry a weapon?”
“Since as far as I can remember,” she replied calmly. The she aimed her gun at Bill Murray. “You don’t look particularly moved.”
“I’m in shock,” said Bill Murray.
[Originally published in Spanish as Gotik #18 in El Jueves magazine.]