Blonk looked into his mind at the great crystal of his ancestors. There he saw it. The light of Great Uncle Jim. Jim had been a great man. Yes, a little bit greasy. Yes, a little bit too fond of Stella Artois. But he had been a legendary figure. An icon of masculinity. Blonk needed him.
And so, he called him forth, made him real, materialised him in that volatile way that Blonk's kind were able. Ribbons of light unspooled from Blonk's forehead, and, like the gracious twirl of a rhytmic gymnast, the light curled into the form of a man.
Jim lifting Blonk up in large, muscly, glowing arms, and they began to glide through the air, the sky rushing past them faster and faster. Soon, the sand dunes receded, and the familiar city appeared, its streets great smears of colour as they sped past. Soon, Jim slowed slightly, and Blonk saw his house fast approaching. Jim flew with one quick motion through the upstairs window, and placed Blonk delicately into his own bed. Still as comfortable as ever.
start again