Not only have I been abducted, but my alien captor is a salesman that has sold me accidental pratfall-insurance with an exclusion clause stating that my coverage ceases the moment his ship exits Alpha Centauri.
This salesman, the size of a compact car, was rather aggressive, had the head of a Pit Bull, four arms, five eyes, and through a translator plug stuck in my ear, spoke eloquently on the dangers of being left on an asteroid if I didn’t agree to sign and help fill his quota. He assures that my policy can be downloaded for viewing when its transmission arrives at Earth about 500 years from now.
I complain about the obvious fact that I’ll have long since suffered catastrophic entropy.
He tells me to stop complaining or he’ll crush me like a bug.
His small ship looks like the inside of a hollowed out pomegranate. In the centre is what looks like a round wood globe the size of soccer ball, sitting on top of a wood pedestal. One of his four hands is always in contact with this wood globe that appears polished smooth from constant rubbing. The floor is like standing on soggy bed of cardboard.
Suddenly the whole ship shudders, followed by a whizzing sound not unlike my grandfather falling asleep after exhausting himself watching sports.
Then this salesman starts bragging that the Mother Ship we have docked with has the latest space warp dimension drive. In other words, despite travelling at lightspeed, no matter what spacetime I presently exist in upon boarding the Mothership, I can always be returned to the same spacetime upon disembarking.
Also, I will be the only human with coverage for slips-and-falls on the planet, Doofus, an ice planet of no redeeming qualities.
Now, there is the small matter of how I’m to pay for this policy, since all I have on me is a twenty. I’m told I had better come up with something more valuable than a colourful piece of plastic, or I’ll be sold as a terrarium pet whose only purpose will be to provide nutrients for the larger pet already in there.
Oh I forgot to mention that these Pit Bull-headed alien insurance salesmen call themselves some inexplicable word that sounds like Calamine Lotion, but in fact conceptually translates into English as The Brady Bunch. Under the circumstances, this is of no comfort to me.
Ironically my lot in life has improved somewhat because a couple of days ago I was still on Earth worrying about the consequences of testifying against an esteemed member of the Mafia, who had circumvented my assured police protection by convincing me that taking a ride in a nice limousine was preferable to discharging a 45 Magnum up my nose.