Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I don’t even think I can fill in the details. Just that they said, “don’t be nervous, we’re just going to run some tests. We’re trying to understand your physiognomy.” And then the little gray bastard says, “Pull my finger.”

Figuring it’s a grip test, I do what he says. The earth rotated behind him in the picture window, and what came from his little body, an incredible extraterrestrial reeking filth, brought bile from my stomach. In the loose gravity it came out like a fastball.

Laughing, somehow perfectly unsmudged, the fellow said, “very good. Now we will give you noodgies.”

I saw dozens of tiny gray men descending, their extra finger knuckled out, all staring right at my scalp, I began to cry out, and beg for mercy. But I was alone with my voice, as their massive eyes stared into mine, their arms holding down my big shoulders, their fingers grinding into my blistering head.