Love and Hugs

In the dark room, the only light came from the soft glow from the laptop. It illuminated the surfaces of the desk upon which the computer sat, and the dozens of books and magazines which lay open and scattered across the room haphazardly. A figure sat in front of the computer screen, typing a message slowly, methodically. So far, it read:

PREPARE TO BE ASSIMILATED:

DEAR "ROCK CLUB",

WE CANNOT ATTE

The dark figure had paused to flip through a book - Perfect Grammar for the Modern Writer. He put it down and consulted another one, which, through the dim lighting, proclaimed itself to be Proper Etiquette - Not Just for Old Ladies! After spending fifteen minutes immersing himself in the proper way to conduct himself (and consulting Social Norms for the REST OF US), the mysterious figure typed out this email:

DEAR "ROCK CLUB",

WE CANNOT ATTEND THE "ROCK CLUB MEETING" DURING THE EVENING HOURS ON "TUESDAY." EVENING. OUR HUMAN IMPERFECTIONS HAVE CAUSED US TO BECOME "ILL" AND REQUIRE TIME TO "HEAL," WHICH CONFLICTS WITH OUR PREVIOUS INTENTION OF ATTENDING "ROCK CLUB." OUR APOLOGIES WHICH ARE MOST HIGHLY SINCERE ARE EXTENDED TOWARD YOU AT THIS TIME.

HAVE "FUN" - LOVE AND HUGS,

COGNOSCENTE

He hit send, satisfied with the quality of such a perfect message.

In the corner of the room, his captive stirred with a moan. The figure stood soundlessly and walked through the shadows over to him.

"It is time for you to assimilate. It is time for you to become part of the perfection that is the Collective," he intoned expressionlessly, nudging the man on the floor with his boot.

"You may have taken the others, but you can't get me!" he cried, a feeble attempt at bravado. The man struggled against the cords at his hands and feet.

The drone stepped even closer, face utterly impassive. "You are wrong, Cognoscente. We will take you, and we will take the others. Our race is perfect. You will see."

"Aw, shut up, I heard enough of that today and I'm sick of it already."

The corner of the drone's mouth nearly twitched. "'Sick of it?' We shall see, Cognoscente. We shall see..."