Jon was an accomplished man. He had two doctorates. He had been one of the state's top neurosurgeons. And then, its youngest senator. If anyone had told him that the next big step in his meteoric ascent would involve mixing cocktails, he would have laughed hysterically.

But that was before the Invasion.

Now, nothing else mattered. The Exam was the last thing that stood between him and his Cocktail Master Certification. Between horror and freedom. Death and life. Time was of the essence. His wife and son were still waiting at the supermarket. But for how much longer?

No time to wallow in doubt. The Kaititi was speaking.

Jon listened intently. Tires squealing on a road made out of chalkboard … a baby wailing on tape with the VCR's fast-forward button jammed … a whale crashing into a glass house. The Kaititi's cacophonic order lasted thirty seconds, carried to everyone's ears by a breeze that smelled of death, and then an expectant silence fell.

Of the ten students who had started the practical exam twenty minutes ago, there were only three left: Jon, Claire, and Heather. Their instructor, Geraldo, stood right next to the exit. Just in case.

Jon tried to focus while the Kaititi stared into his soul with hundreds of eyes that gleamed and smoked like cigarette embers. The test was pass or fail, which was a euphemism for life or death. What did It order? he pondered as his heart thrashed in his chest. Claire had already started to work with mechanical precision, but she had a special talent: a doctorate in phonetics. Jon replayed in his head the screeching notes, the harmonics of broken glass. Suddenly he had it: A Bloody Mary.

To a human that meant vodka, tomato juice, lemon, salt, and spices. Kaititis, however … they took it a bit more literally. Jon fumbled the refrigerated suitcase open and took out a vial of red liquid labelled “Mary.” Better not think about it.

Bartending was one of the only jobs left in the economy. The position that was in the highest demand was that of food item, and for that most anyone was qualified, but there was also a great need for people with fine motor skills, which Kaititis were almost entirely devoid of (as you would expect if all of your limbs were blades). Fine cuisine and cocktails were entirely new to them. They could not get enough of it. Jon, Heather, and Claire were vying for these elusive spots outside of the aliens’ predatory madness. Nothing else mattered.

Jon took out a highball glass and measured a teaspoon of powdered Carolina Reaper, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, three ounces of vodka and of Mary's blood, and some hydrofluoric acid, notorious for dissolving glass (Kaititis liked it when their drinks melted in the mouth). Then it was a race against the clock to mix the contraption before it fell apart. Jon rolled it between two glasses, and while he did so he noticed Heather hadn't moved an inch. Pity washed over him.

“Psst!” he whispered, “Heather! Bloody Mary!”

Her deer-in-the-headlights look quickly shifted to one of understanding, and she ran away as fast as her legs could take her. The Kaititi looked at her lazily, pondered the chase, but then Claire handed It a Screwdriver. Jon's heart sank. She was the smartest of them … couldn't possibly have misunderstood Its order … it had to be he who made a mistake. He watched as It took the cocktail with Its bladed fingers and held it precariously still while the tool fizzled and leaked nutritious iron. Then It snarled and engulfed Claire into Its dragonfish mouth. Her toolbox crashed down, spilling out rusty nails. The Kaititi peered at Jon: Where's my drink?

Jon had known Claire for three months, which was basically a lifetime these days. He felt himself waver as oblivion stared him down, but then he remembered why he was doing this: his wife. His son. The supermarket. They might go on special soon. He had to earn enough money to buy them before it was too late.

“The finger!” hissed Geraldo, terrified by the prospect of losing an entire class to a single practical exam. Yes, of course, the finger. Jon grabbed a pinky from the freezer. It was bent so that it could hang on the rim of the glass, as if Mary herself was trying to escape the drink. It looked great—well, as great as a drink of human blood garnished with human flesh could look—but even as Geraldo desperately beckoned him to hand it over to the thirsty monster, something in Its demeanor told him that It was quite disappointed that It would only be getting one drink instead of three. It would accept nothing short of perfection, but Jon's creation was imperfect. It was missing a je ne sais quoi.

The acid was making short work of the glassware. Jon looked around frantically for ideas, and that's when he saw it, escaped from Claire's toolbox, coarse sandpaper (a key ingredient for Black Velvets). Texture. Jon hastily wrapped it around the glass just as the contents started sweating out. The Kaititi took it with Its oversized pincers, looked questioningly … and down the hatch it went.

Agonizing seconds elapsed. It looked absorbed in Its tasting endeavor. “Prime time to run,” Geraldo advised. As if on cue, the Kaititi leapt forward and picked Jon up effortlessly, lifting him seven feet so that they were face to face. A sinuous blade came out of Its mouth and cut up his left cheek, then his right. It dropped him on the ground and Jon panted excitedly.

It liked it. A lot.

“Great work!” Geraldo said. “You’re almost done! Only one order left!”

Jon's veins filled up with well-deserved endorphins and, as the Kaititi droned Its next order, he fancied himself the best of his trade, one of the very few rich humans on the planet, perhaps even rich enough to buy all of his friends away from the fresh meat aisle. It didn't matter what perverted contraptions the aliens demanded. He had Moscow Mules, Horse’s Necks, Monkey Glands, anything they could desire.

Wait, what's that?

Sex on the Beach.

Ah. That one's trickier.