Wikus was always such a good boy. I can't imagine how he could have gotten mixed up in something like this.


I, on the contrary, saw this coming from miles away. Mind you, I couldn't have foreseen the particulars. I didn't realize, for instance, that his final comeuppance would be at the hands (or at the antennae) of a burgeoning community of apparently justifiably aggrieved aliens, but I definitely knew that some sort of major fiasco was in the cards, generally speaking, and that it was just a matter of time before he made a complete ass of himself in front of the entire world.


He was the pride of my life.


He was my one big disappointment.


So thoughtful...


So indecisive...


So good...


So wishy-washy...


As the parents reflect on the Wikus that they knew and loved, Johannesburg thinks back to that day 20 years ago when a huge Lego-Like spacecraft with a ridiculous number of unnecessarily exposed integral parts descended over the city, making an irritatingly loud humming noise that made small appliances dance about on kitchen countertops as far away as Kopanong. Kopanong housewife Dora Hartley was at home that day.


Oh, it was awful! Me fryin' pan was just a-doin' the watusi with me can-opener.


It scared you, then?


Oh, yes: I had just 20 minutes to heat up me shepherd's pie for Ronald, and he gets right ugly when he has to wait for his grub, does Ronald.


But what did you think when you heard that the loud humming noise was caused by an alien spaceship?


Well, frankly, Ronald and I thought it was kind of neat at first...


Neat?


Yes. I mean, we always assumed that a giant space ship like that would land in New York City, like they always do in the movies, so we felt a kind of civic pride at first, realizing that the aliens had chosen South Africa's own Johannesburg over the Big Apple.


But?


But then when we realized that the aliens had apparently landed here by accident...


Yes?


and that the survivors of the wreck were generally of the plebeian class, if you please, and looked for all the world like (there's really no other word for it...) PRAWNS!


Me and Dora are as tolerant as the next blokes but just because we're on the love train vis-a-vis the human race these days doesn't mean that we're on speaking terms with alien shrimp! (Bah!)


I should think not! (Would you like another Guinness, dear?)


What about those who say that you shouldn't refer to the creatures as "shrimp" or "prawns"?


Okay, fine. They're cockroaches then. That's what I thought when I first saw them on telly. I was like, "Right, Dora, I'm off to Price Club to pick up 20 gallons of Raid!"


You tell 'em, Ronald. Now, then, if Ken Burns and company have finished with us, who wants some more shepherd's pie?!


It all started on that fateful day when Wikus was put in charge of the alien resettlement program of the BGU, Bad Guys United.


Quiet, people: I have an announcement to make. Now, you all know Wikus here as a good-natured (if somewhat high-strung and accident-prone) public servant. Well, I have a surprise for you all today, because I am promoting him to head the repatriation program at District 8, which begins tomorrow morning at 8 A.M. sharp! That's right, we're giving the prawns -- ahem, I mean the 'non-human creatures,' of course, bless them -- their long-overdue marching orders from the greater Johannesburg area!



Naturally, the fact that Wikus here has recently married my daughter against my will played no role in my decision to give him a job like this that almost certainly will result in his death or disfigurement at the hands of millions of gnarly-looking aliens.




Oh, my father-in-law is such a kidder. Smile when you say that, pops! Hee hee! Oh, are the cameras still on? Here, let me show you a picture of my pride and joy. (Tee-hee!) It's right over here in my desk drawer.



See? There's my Pride (detergent, that is) and there's my Joy (dishwashing liquid)! (Teehee! Oh, teehee!)



Get it? My 'Pride and Joy'???


The next day, BGU descended on the prawn's shanty town in heavily armed droves.


Cut! They're non-humans, Nigel, not prawns!


Oh, right, sorry. The next day, BGU descended on District 8 in droves: Their goal: to get all the adult prawns -- the adult aliens, I mean -- to sign an official-looking form, ostensibly for the purpose of purchasing boat owner's insurance from the South African government, but which, in reality, entitled Bad Guys United to move the squatters en masse to District 8b, a new supposedly 'state-of-the-art' shanty town facility in the Kalahari Desert, complete with LEED-certified, sustainably raised plywood scraps for the building of so-called "green" hovels.

At first, the operation went smoothly, as we see here in this footage showing Wikus himself going door to door with his gun-toting sidekick Les, selling (ahem) "boat owner's insurance" to the apparently at least semi-illiterate residents of District 8.




Yoo-hoo! Is anybody home? What's the name of this homeowner, Les?


Ah, let me see, boss. Ah, here we are: 2616 Rue de la Festering Eyesore... His name is Christopher Jones, sahib.


Christopher Jones? You're kidding me.


Well, sir, that's just a rough translation, of course. His actual alien name (reading it phonetically, that is) is something like 'Klick Klick ponanga bing-dock'.




Klick Klick bindu flick!


What did that filthy prawn just say to me, Les?!


He says, as it were... "Welcome to my humble abode. What can I do for you?"


Oh. Really? Are you sure about that? (Ahem.) Well, tell him the feeling is mutual.



And that we've got some boat-owner's insurance here that we'd like to talk to him about -- speaking of which, can we come in?




Klick Klick poo-enda bing! Klick Klick Poo-enda bing buck!


How DARE he say that to me! (Um, what precisely did he say, Les? And don't spare me the gory details.)


He say, "Please, come in, my good sir. You'll have to excuse the mess. I'm putting in central air-conditioning."


Aha! That's highly suspicious, Les! Who ever heard of a slum dweller putting in central air-conditioning?


Klick Klick a-nonda pook!


Oh, yeah, mister? You and what army?!


Relax, boss, he is just saying, "After you, please, sir."


Oh. Right.


Well, at least he's honest, sahib: the place truly IS a mess, just like he said.


You're telling me. Look at all these newspaper sections scattered at random on the kitchen table here. There's board games all over the floor and there's a half-dozen books piled up on the obviously second-hand sofa. It's outrageous.


Klick Klick pohanka snub top! Klick Klick pohanka bing!


What? Who is this, Les, and why is she calling me such awful names!? (It is a female, I presume, given the dirty yellow dish-cloth that she's wrapped around her thorax like a makeshift bikini.)


Uh, this is apparently Mrs. Jones, sahib, and she is saying, in effect: "Please, have a seat at the kitchen table, kind sir, and excuse me while I clear off these old newspapers."


Well, that's more like it. Les, ask Christopher to sit across the table from me over there -- at the only chair that doesn't have somebody's socks on it, I mean! Ewww!



Jeepers, it's so dark in here: Don't you guys have any windows?


Klick Klick potemba glag-a-nook. Klick Klick potemba bam.


Christopher says that the BGU does not allow glass for windows in District 8 because they consider it to be a potential weapon.


What? Who's the moronic government flunky that came up with THAT painfully short-sighted policy?!



You're kidding me: I came up with that rule myself? Well, it must have been when I was still a new-hire and wasn't yet familiar with the "facts on the ground," as they say.


Klick Klick pig-in-a poke.


He says, "Besides, our alien eyesight works best in this glare-free environment."


Well, you'll pardon me if we simple humans use a torch.


Klick Klick lickity TORCH?


Chris say, "What is a torch?!"


Well, if you had landed in New York City as expected, they would have called it a flashlight, I suppose. See? One of these thingies here that gives us what our scientists like to call light.

Now then, Christopher, you have a growing family, I see (judging by the heaps of toys, laundry, and crayons that are shamelessly scattered about the kitchen here).


Klick Klick pohanka Dorothy, sipsip 8; Klick Klick pohanka Ralph, sipsip 10 --


Yes, there is Dorothy, age 8; Ralph, age 10 --


Whatever. The point is, you need insurance so that your family will be provided for in case you get killed.


Klick Klick danga podunk.


Les say, "But how would I get killed, honored sir?"


(Oh, a SMART prawn, eh?) Well, I don't know, Chris: Suppose there were a mass-relocation program for aliens living here in District 8.


Klick Klick podanga huh?


Chris say, "Huh?" (or, to translate literally, "Do what?")


Well, Chris, suppose you took exception to that relocation and took up arms (feelers, antennae, etc.) against the BGU: we would have no choice but to kill you on the spot, no questions asked.


Klick Klick dork konga glub glub.


Chris say, "But this form appears to be for boat owner's insurance rather than life insurance."


Um, yes, well, ahem...


"Why would I need boat owner's insurance out here in this semi-arid grassland, kind sir, miles from the nearest river?"


Famous last words, Chris. Mrs. O'Leary didn't think she needed to insure her dairy cow, either, and look what happened to Chicago.


Klick Klick powanga bang top.


"Moreover, I do not even own a boat."


Look, would you just sign the form so that we can leave?




They're not buying it, boss: They think that you are up to something.


Right, Wikus to Troop Leaders: Time to play hardball, folks: Get those signatures at any cost (short of actually killing the prawns themselves, of course. Did I say 'prawns'? I mean, non-human alien-type thingies what look like cockroaches! Wikus out!)

Now, Christopher, please. Just sign on the dotted line. You're in good hands with All-State, you know.



Good enough: That 'thwack' of his counts as a signature. Now, let's beat it, Les. We've got 20 more hovels to visit on this street alone -- and don't forget that the BGU employee who gets the most signatures by 5:00 today gets a $50 gift certificate to the Johannesburg Gap!

By the way, if I were you, Chris, I'd take a harder line with your kids. Just look at this mess.


Klick Klick --


Klick me no klicks, Chris: If they're done with a game, they should put the game away -- it's as simple as that!

Anyway, thank you for your time. You should be receiving your boat insurance membership card within the next two to four weeks.

Come on, Les. On to the next prawn -- er, I mean the next non-human!


By 5:00 that afternoon, every resident of the shanty town (often unbeknownst to themselves) had signed a bogus boat owner's insurance form, thereby giving BGU the right to relocate them to District 8b in the new state-of-the-art (and apparently eco-friendly) Kalahari location.

Unfortunately, as Wikus was exiting with his troops, he decided to pay a follow-up visit to Christopher, lest the unusually brainy alien should be "getting any bright ideas" about opting out of the government's generous offer of reasonably priced boat-owner's insurance.


Hello, Christopher? Sorry for barging in like this, but I just wanted to -- what on earth is THIS?!



Aha! It's good that we came back here, Les! It looks like Christopher is plotting against the state, as it were, in his spare time.


Les, absent-mindedly poking about keyboards: Well, everyone needs a hobby, boss.


to Chris entering room: So, Christopher! I suppose that this complicated get-up here is the nerve center of your new central air-conditioning unit, eh?


Klick Klick pohanka bing!


Chris say he doesn't know where all that high-end stuff came from.


Oh, he doesn't, does he? I bet his receipts reference the Planet X location of Radio Shack.


Klick Klick pohanka potluck!


Chris say he have right to lawyer.


Oh, yeah? Well, Wikus say he doesn't. Oooh, what's this stuff in this transparent canister here? It looks like some thick, oily glop.


Klick Klick watcha watcha!


Chris say 'Be careful,' boss!


Tell him to relax: I'm just trying to figure out what's inside this thing. Oops!




Boss, are you okay?!


Yeah, I'm fine. But it looks like this canister has cracked and...



Ooh, yuck! That tastes terrible!


Klick Klick fiddle faddle.


Chris is demanding that you give him the canister at once.


Oh, yeah? And Wikus is demanding that Chris put a sock in it while Les and I take this canister down to the BGU lab to find out what no-doubt illegal substance is inside it!


Klick Klick exasoma tunghook!


Uh-oh. That didn't sound good. What did he say now, Les?


Chris says...


Why, Chris, you should be ashamed of yourself! I bet your wife doesn't know that you use language like that. Speaking of which, where has she gotten to now? Tell her the entire household had better stay put because we'll probably be arresting you all tomorrow morning -- pending the outcome of that lab test that I mentioned. (Say, Les, you don't suppose this is some sort of rocket fuel, do ya?)


Last Call for Shuttle Flight 9 to BGU headquarters. Please have all tickets ready. Human beings only, please. As a security measure, unattended aliens and their baggage will be blown up.


That's us, boss. We'd better go.


I'm coming.


Er, but, boss...


What is it?


Your nose!


I know, I know: it's a trifle crooked: I broke it when I was 9 years old, okay. Get over it!


No, I mean there is an ugly black substance emanating from your olfactory organ.


What, you mean that?


Yes, sahib. I am afraid you have been poisoned by that black junk in the canister.


Nonsense. If I were poisoned, I'd probably be...



vomiting...



right now!!!


Wikus was always such a good boy. I can't imagine how he could have gotten mixed up in something like this.


Cut!!! No, no, we've already run that clip! Cue Nigel!


And so, the otherwise successful insurance sign-up scheme ended on a sour note, with Wikus, the mission's leader, being rushed to the nurse's office at BGU headquarters complaining of, quote, 'the mother of all belly aches.' Nurse Ditkas was on the scene that night:


I had never seen the like! There was a kind of lumpy black creosote issuing from the corners of his blood-shot eyes and a strange-looking lump near the center of his face -- and, no, I'm not talking about the gentleman's notoriously funny-looking nose either. I don't know why everybody around here keeps teasing him about that: It's very unprofessional, in my opinion. Even the well-paid doctors do it!


Doctor Haggis was on duty that day in the E.R.


I had never seen anything like it. It scared even me at first. But we doctors see a lot of terrible things during our career. But when we had finally made our peace with the patient's horrific nose (hee hee hee! Oooh, it was hideous! Ahem!) we had, if possible, an even greater shock in store for us: for lo: The patient's quote-unquote hand was now taking the form of a giant...

PRAWN CLAW!!!!





Oh, sorry.


Now pick it up at "taking the form of..."


Oh, okay. Ahem. Taking the form of a giant...

ALIEN CLAW!!!!


That's more like it.


Cue Nigel!


What happened next is not entirely clear. BGU says that Wikus went crazy and began attacking staff members with his alien claw. According to a major NGO that was on the scene that night, however (the London-based Doctors Without Jobs) Wikus resorted to violence only after the company's doctors revealed their plans to test his new appendage for military applications, namely, its potential ability to fire confiscated alien weaponry that had so far proved powerless in the apparently all-too-human hands of the BGU.

What is clear is that at 8 A.M. the next morning, at the precise moment when the newly insured aliens were originally scheduled to board 200 waiting Greyhound Buses for transportation to their new LEED-certified hovels in the Kalahari Desert, a passer-by outside of the 20-story BGU headquarters in Johannesburg called police to report, quote, "an hysterical man in a hospital gown running into the nearby woods, waving a huge gnarly claw in the air" and shouting, "Vive le Non-Humans" and (confusingly enough) "a bas, le BGU!" A massive search of the area ensued, but neither helicopter nor hound dog could track down the mutant runaway.

Wikus' wife appeared on national news that night at 6:00, pleading with her husband to give himself up, assuring him that she had met with authorities (in the person of her own father, in fact, Dr. Livingstone, I presume) and had been assured that the hospital just wanted to see that he was all right and get the customary insurance information before releasing him like any other patient in the customary outpatient wheelchair. Wikus wasn't buying it, however, although he did call the station later that night from a theoretically untraceable cell phone to hold a long, heartbreaking chat with his wife (the audio of which was featured on live national television) insisting that he was the victim of a BGU conspiracy, masterminded by his wife's own, quote-unquote, "Janus-faced" father.


Darling, I love you so much!


Oh, darling, just come home!


Oh, I want to, darling: you know that! You know how much I love you!


Well, sure, I do, Wikus, honey -- but the audience knows nothing about our life. They're just going to have to take that statement of yours on spec, I'm afraid, as a sort of bald-faced assertion on your part. (We're on live television, you know, darling.)


Oh. Well, we could tell them about the time that we went to America and stayed at Niagara Falls, in the summer of 1998, I believe it was. That should bring them "into the loop" regarding our storybook love life.


Oh, yeah, folks: He asked me to marry him in room 313 of the Holiday Inn on Buffalo Avenue! Hee hee!


That's right. Oh, and what about that weekend we spent in Paris the next spring, protesting globalization?


Well, darling...


You know, during our brief infatuation with the ideology of anarchy? I can hear us now: 'A bas le Globo! A bas le Globo!' Ha ha! Remember? I myself made up that chant! Remember? 'A bas le Globo! A bas le Globo!'


I'm not sure that that particular incident is going to earn us a great deal of empathy from what, after all, must be a general, non-political audience that is listening to us right now, dear.


Oh.


Besides, the director in the studio here keeps slashing his throat and telling me via cue-card that we need to, quote, "go to commercial."


Rats.


But not to worry: I'm sure that my father has traced this phone call by now, so --


What?


I mean, um...


So this whole thing was a trap, then. Oh, darling, how could you do this to me!?


Oh, just turn yourself in, dear: You know how my father is a stickler for details: He just won't be happy until the BGU hospital has all of your relevant insurance information!


Hah! Insurance information, indeed. He won't be happy until he's chopped off my alien claw and used it in countless top-secret experiments with BGU's secret arsenal of confiscated weapons.


Say that again, dear: You're breaking up.


Yes, I'm afraid we're both breaking up, Sarah, on national television, no less.


What?


That's right, Sarah, it's over between you and me.


But, dear --


Imagine, turning me in to your Janus-faced father like this.


But, dear! Hello? Hello?


If you want to make a call, please hang up and dial the runaway again.


Wikus managed to elude the BGU dragnet for the next 24 hours, but sources inside the Prawn -- I mean, the non-human -- community say that he was spotted at Christopher Jones's hovel later that night, apparently staying overnight in the guest bedroom (which was reportedly little more than a glorified dog house) with just one small bed and barely enough room to open the door.


Klick Klick bonunga ding...


I live next-door and I overheard everything. You remember that junk in the canister that Wikus was licking? Apparently, that was alien rocket fuel that Christopher had been meticulously amassing over the last 20 years in the hopes of leaving earth in an intact but thus far successfully hidden space pod, located, of all places, right under his very hovel!


Do you mean that you have lived next-door to Christopher for 20 years and you never knew that he was plotting against the state like this?


Scout's honor: I didn't have a clue. Besides, he always referred to me as 'comrade,' which I took to be a sort of weary nod on his part to the stoic conformity that his station in life demanded, at least while he was marooned here on planet Earth. (Obviously, I was wrong in that regard, but that was the construction that I placed upon his behavior at the time.)


Indeed?


If I had known he was a rebel, I would have dialed 1-800-RAT-FINK at once, just like they tell us to do on those hourly 5-minute-long television commercials starring Charlize Theron. Speaking of which: I would have turned him over to BGU so quickly, it would have made his antennae spin!


But what about your other neighbor, the human one from Ethiopia who was a self-professed arms dealer? You know: that strong-arm leader with the weak legs who goes by the name of Mungo?


Klick Klick ponanga kopp???


Ex-squeeze me?


Our alien source insisted that he knew nothing about his human neighbor's alleged arms-dealing, much less Wikus's meeting with that man on the very night of his escape from hospital, but FLAX News eventually tracked down an image-conscious ex-associate of the handicapped bully and the retired crony was all too happy to talk.


Yeah, I remember Wikus. He comes in real bold like, saying he wants to buy some weapons, see? And the boss tells him, "I've got a better idea, you funny-looking white man, you: How about if I just chop your arm off and eat it here and now so that I will henceforth be able to fire the many biology-activated alien weapons that I've been expensively amassing over the last two decades, so far for no apparent reason whatsoever?"


The crony says that a gun battle then ensued.


A gun battle then ensued -- but then a gun battle always ensues, doesn't it? That's been my experience.


The crony goes on to say that when the shooting was finally over, only peripheral characters appear to have been killed. Both Mumbo and Wikus emerged unscathed. Indeed, the fighting at first appeared to have been completely pointless, just another sad testimony to the failed gun policies of the South African government. Later developments, however, proved that Wikus had somehow managed to come away from the dust-up with enough alien gunpowder to start a revolution.


Johnny bought the farm, unfortunately.


Johnny?


He's the guy that cut Mumbo's hair. A likable fellow though they say he cheated at cards.


Anyone else?


Ethan.


Who was he?


He was a so-called commis chef who was learning the ropes from Mumbo's main chef, Tanga. No great loss there, however: He ruined almost everything he touched with too much oregano. Oh, and Crawley bought it, too.


Crawley?


He was Mumbo's scheduler par excellence and took responsibility for the arm's dealers social calendar, such as it was.


What happened next remains wrapped in mystery, but Christopher's big-eared next-door neighbor has his own theories.


Klick Klick monaga bing...


Well, we know that, One...

The poisoned Wikus took the vial full of black stuff with him back to BGU headquarters, originally hoping to analyze its contents himself after first having his claw-like arm seen to in the infirmary;

Two...

Wikus probably left the vial at BGU headquarters by accident, given the fact that he had to leave in such an unplanned hurry from the premises, and..

Three...

I heard the following conspiratorial conversation last night with my own three ears:


Klick Klick potanga bean sauce...


Father says that you guys need to go back to the hospital and get the black vial of rocket fuel that you left there.


What good will that do?


Klick Klick butter beans...


Father says, so to speak, um... "Watch and learn."


That night, another major gun battle ensued...


off-camera: See? What did I tell you guys? A gun battle ALWAYS ensues.


This time at BGU headquarters. At first, the world couldn't tell who was firing what at whom -- but as the smoke finally began to clear over the bullet-riddled ruins of the once-imposing edifice, Wikus could be seen pumping a triumphant claw in the air as an alien watched his back with an enormous and apparently biology-operated machine-gun-like device that didn't so much shoot you as it made you pop like a water balloon filled with blood.

The living remnants of the BGU security force made a show of following the fugitives as they fled back to District 8. Alfred Matusi was in that ragtag band of cautious pursuers.


We did our best -- as I'm sure that the holding company that owns BGU recognizes -- but we realized too late that the fugitives had a rocket-ship underneath their hovel and now had the fuel to power it. Incidentally, if the Japanese holding company is watching this, I've been asked to point out, on behalf of my five surviving colleagues, that none of us received our standard payroll deposit via EFT last night. We're sure it was just an oversight, but, as the boys say, we do have families to feed, so...


What happened next remains shrouded in mystery, but, according to the banner headlines in the next day's front pages of both the London and the New York Times, the previously hidden, reasonably sized spacepod (in contradistinction to the ginormous and eternally hovering mothership itself, which still casts its 5-mile-long shadow on the suburban shanty-town to this very day, 3 years later) now lifted off on national and even international television, carrying Chris Johnson and his son into outer space, presumably en route to the planet from which the hapless voyagers set out over 20 years ago before unluckily crash-landing on planet Earth.

Some speculate that Chris will be back someday, both to rescue his fellow prawns -- shrimps -- er, non-humans -- and to restore Wikus's claw to its original hand-like appearance.

As for Wikus, himself, however, no human being has seen him since he last raised that appendage into the air in front of the ruins of BGU headquarters shouting trimphantly, as later reported in the London Daily Telegraph: "Oh, yeah, baby: That's what I'm talkin' about now! Whoo-hoo!" Still, Wikus' wife has her theories.


There was a timid knock on the front door yesterday and when I opened up, there was no one there -- but I found these cute little pictures of Pride laundry detergent and Joy dish-washing liquid squeezed between the slats in our decorative shutters. I know it's probably just a weird coincidence, but the whole world knows by now how fond Wikus was of that ice-breaking gag in which he shows us his pictures of his, quote, "pride and joy" -- so sometimes, when I'm feeling blue, I like to think that Wikus himself came back and left those wallet-sized photographs here, just to let me know that he's still alive -- and that he himself will return someday, if only that tardy alien would come back and perform the promised hocus-pocus on his claw-like arm: a deal is a deal after all.


Who's that, honey?


Oh, I'm just giving one of those faux-interviews for yet another documentary about Wikus and the aliens. Wikus, if you're watching this, I'm sorry, but I was getting lonely on my own, okay.


Come inside, honey.


Don't worry, though: We have an understanding, Marcus and I.


Please, dear.


I'm trying him out, so to speak, on a sort of rent-to-own plan.


Would you guys turn the camera off now, please?


We've agreed that if there's a sequel to District 8, you will still have 'first option' to play my husband.


And...cut! And that's a wrap! All right, roll the credit reel, folks.


Wikus was always such a good boy. I can't imagine how he could have gotten mixed up in something like this.


Not the opening clip again, you idiots: The credit reel!!! The credit reel!!!