Alien held out its claw and shook the empty glass gently but with obvious insistence. Predator rolled its eyes and looked at the clock. Not even 9:30. At this rate, Alien would have drunk half a case of champagne before midnight, and he was out of his alien mind if he thought Predator was going to clean up his highly toxic puke. Its corrosive qualities could burn through steel, and Predator had just gotten the brasswood floors refinished. Not to mention the danger of a repeat of last year???s egg spawning fiasco. Predator was still getting deFriendstered by people as late as August over that horrorshow.
A beeping sounded from the kitchen, and Predator rushed in to remove the stuffed mushroom caps from the oven. The tray was burning hot, but of course Predator was insensitive to the heat. He used his 18-inch long wrist blades to spear the mushroom caps onto a dish left to him by his nanna. A screeching from the living room was followed by an abrupt shift from the new Ghostface album to Daft Punk???s concert stuff. Predator hated it when Alien messed with his iPod, but it was New Years Eve, and he was the host. He had to keep reminding himself of that, and of all the duties that a host must perform in order to ensure his guests enjoy themselves. With that, he returned to the living room with the plate of mushroom caps.
The scene from Times Square playing on the TV showed a crush of humanity. Predator had tried going one year, but he hated waiting in line for the porta-potties. And it was boring. The only thing that kept him occupied the whole night was imaging a half-naked Dick Clark, running through the Peruvian jungle, as Predator hunted him, toying with the horrified aging entertainer before in a flash of reflective invisibility, he threw his spear from seemingly out of nowhere, impaling Dick Clark to the soft loam of the forest floor, right where he stood. Alien belched, and a thin haze of acid green saliva melted speckled holes in a lampshade. Predator shot him a laser-sighted glance, but Alien???s head was lolling back on his tree trunk of a neck, and Predator looked at the door wondering not just when but if his other guests would ever arrive.
By about 11:30, as predicted, Alien had gone back into the bedroom and passed out on top of all the coats, like a little baby alien. Predator got caught in a conversation with the Terminator going on and on about Sarah Conner and thought he was going to nuclear self-destruct until one of the creatures from Pitch Black came and saved him. ???Oh my God,??? said the creature from Pitch Black, ???if I were you, I would have nuclear self-destructed, talking to that guy is like talking to a robot.??? Then the creature from Pitch Black threw its head back and laughed, spitting little flecks of deviled egg. Quickly, Predator stabbed the creature from Pitch Black in the abdomen and watched him die, then ran a hand through his dreadlocks, flicking away bits of egg with disgust. Looking down at the black blood curdling up under the creature from Pitch Black???s head, the Predator knew that getting the weatherproofing on the brasswood floors had been the right choice. ???Weathproofing? indoors???? people had said. Now who was laughing? Not Predator, Predator never laughed. Someone began counting down from 10 as Predator wiped his curved blade and stowed it in a harness around his thigh.
The last guest had left by 1:30, most of them off to other parties, but Predator did not mind. He preferred to end the night as early as possible. He passed by Alien, still asleep in the guest room, little piston puffs of harsh steam blowing out of his alien nose as he moaned lightly in his alien dreams. The next day, it would be war. But for tonight, Predator pulled the door shut on his mortal enemy, went to the bathroom to brush his tusks, and set loose the Roomba to take care of the mess.