Published: 2025-10-27

The alarm clock had been ringing for over two minutes. Fernando hid his head under the pillow, refusing to accept reality. He tried to blindly turn off the infernal device, but his hand kept missing it. There was no other way; he had to get up. Emerging from under the pillow with bleary eyes, he sat on the bed and turned his head towards the alarm clock. To Fernando, it was a bomb about to explode, and he had to cut the right wire. He dabbed the top of the clock three times, and the ringing was no more, but that didn’t make him feel like getting up; noticing the time, however, made him change his mind. It was 7:10 AM.

His reluctance turned to urgency as he got out of bed. Standing up hurt; maybe staying up late celebrating the Silver Weekend was a mistake: his throat felt sore because of all the karaoke, his head spun because of all the drinking, and his body ached because of all the dancing. Nothing that a hot shower and the looming threat of not being able to pay his bills couldn’t fix. “Another day, another peso.” He said. He still had to go to work.

He dragged his feet to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. The water was cold — it always was, but a man can hope for change.

The beauty of being 25 years old is that after abusing your body with alcohol and lack of sleep, a simple shower can indeed make you feel better.

Fernando looked through the closet, trying to decide what to wear for work. He kid himself, of course it was going to be the same pair of slacks and the white dress shirt with sweat stains under the armpits; he couldn’t care less about looking professional.

Dressing was always followed by the same ritual: sitting on the couch, turning on the TV, and wasting time until he was late for work.

The TV ended up, somehow, on the news channel. The host, a blond woman incapable of showing human emotion, babbled about stuff Fernando didn’t understand: “…the invasion is reported to have started approximately at 3:00 AM and 200 kilometers from the capital. Felix González is live from…” Fernando changed the channel; his favorite cartoon was on at that time.

Fernando felt dehydrated, “Maybe there’s some orange juice left in the fridge.” He thought as he got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen.

The fridge was bare; only three eggs, an onion, and a pitcher of water remained. “Water it is.” He said as he chugged water directly from the pitcher.

He stood in front of the kitchen window and contemplated the view. “Same as usual,” he thought, “the gray sky, ugly buildings, flying sausages. Gosh, I hate this place.”

He put the pitcher inside the fridge and started to walk towards the living room. He stopped suddenly, turned around, and took a second look through the window. He blinked aggressively and squeezed his eyes, “Holy mother of fuck, those are some ugly buildings!” He said, “And there are flying sausages too! What the fuck is going on?”

He ran to the living room and sat in front of the TV. He laughed as an anthropomorphized mammal was hit in the head by an anvil. “That was funny.” He thought, “Wait, there’s no time for this.” He put on the news channel, the blond woman from before still gave her robotic performance: “…Some have criticized the celebrity for flying her pet dog half across the world to have a taste of the famous South Tibetan cookies as a treat for its birthday…”

“Come on, really?”

“To which she replied: ‘I just want world peace.’ Her new album is out now.”

Fernando tapped his foot as images of a tall brunette with disproportionate anatomy flashed through his television.

“In other news, flying saucers have been seen across the country since the early morning.”

“They’re sausages!”

“That about sums it up.”

“Wait, for real?”

“Don’t change the channel, we will tell you which one of these four types of cheese has been giving you erectile dysfunction, right after commercials.”

The telephone next to the sofa rang, and Fernando got startled. He picked it up.

“Hello?” He said, his voice shaking.
“Fernando, thank goodness I got hold of you. It’s Roberto. Are you OK?”

Roberto was his supervisor at work.

“I’m OK, things are crazy right now.”
“You mean because of the flying saucers?”
“They’re sausages.”
“Right, sausages. Listen, it’s already 8:12 and you haven’t left for work, we will have to deduct the hours not worked from your payment, plus that’s one strike.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What time do you think you’ll be able to arrive?”
“What do you mean? I’m not going to— there’s flying sausages out there!”
“I know, terrible stuff, but you know, those spreadsheets are not going to fill themselves.”
“Well, I don’t care, I’m not going to work.”
“Well, that’s a breach of contract; we will have to let you go, and since the contract has been breached, you are not entitled to a severance payment anymore.”

Fernando bit his lips but said nothing; he could still hear Roberto’s breathing on the phone.

“I’ll see you at 9:00. Don’t be late, or that will be another strike.”

Roberto hung up. Fernando’s brow twitched, his ears had turned red and felt as if they burned. He had to commute 45 minutes to work during an alien invasion because somehow filling spreadsheets with numbers and arithmetic formulas was of vital importance.

His double-checking routine began: the windows were locked, the lights were off, he had his wallet and keys; it was time to go.

He walked to the door and, after opening it, saw how the sky was filled with sausages, floating over the city as if they were blimps. He locked the door, took a sigh, and, drawing a big, fake smile, said: “Another day, another peso.”

THE END.