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The floor of the Tanner living room is littered with orange paper streamers, half-eaten popcorn balls, and the buzzing hum of mid-tier suburban social anxiety. Halloween tastes like canned Tab, cheap synthetic cobwebs, and the distinct tang of dust burning on a warm TV tube. Outside, the San Fernando Valley heat hangs thick in the autumn dark, but inside, the party is strictly corporate-casual. ALF stands near the punch bowl, his fur matted down under a crude, hastily applied zipper glued straight to the middle of his chest. He leans back on his heels, adjusting a pair of oversized plastic sunglasses.
"Name's Gordo," ALF announces to Willie’s visiting neighbor, lowering his voice into a raspy, lounge-lizard growl. "Gordo Melmacian. It’s a custom latex suit, lady. Breathable. Italian design. You like the zipper? It’s structural."
Willie Tanner, standing three feet away with a lukewarm mug of spiced cider, winces as the neighbor slowly backs toward the front door. He steps in, taking ALF firmly by the furry elbow and tugging him into the shadowy alcove near the hallway closet.
"Where did you get that zipper?" Willie whispers, his voice strained through clenched teeth as he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses.
ALF squints up at him, entirely unbothered, tapping a claw against the metal teeth stuck to his snout. "Well, remember that old coat you threw out last winter? The brown tweed one with the missing buttons?"
Willie sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yes. I remember."
"You better hold on to it," ALF says smoothly, patting Willie on the shoulder. "I ripped this off your new one. The gray trench coat hanging in the hall. Great teeth on that zipper, Willie. Smooth slide."
Willie opens his mouth to yell, but a sharp, agonizing groan cuts through the muffled synth-pop playing from the stereo. Over by the sliding glass doors, Walter, Willie’s stiff-necked boss, is currently doubled over at a thirty-degree angle. He is stuck midway through an ill-advised attempt at the limbo beneath a broom handle held by two increasingly uncomfortable social workers. Walter’s face is the color of a canned beet.
"My lumbar," Walter wheezes, clutching his lower back, his voice crackling with genuine panic. "It locked. Oh, God, it’s seizing."
Willie sees his pending promotion to assistant regional supervisor flashing before his eyes, dissolving into a cloud of liability lawsuits. But before Willie can even step forward, ALF pushes past him, rolling up his furry sleeves with terrifying enthusiasm.
"Step aside, amateurs! I’m a certified Melmacian spine-adjuster," ALF chirps.
He shoves Walter into an armchair, forcing the groaning man face-down against the cushions. ALF digs his short, heavy paws into Walter’s upper back. Walter lets out a muffled howl, but within seconds, a series of loud, squishy pops echo through the living room. ALF leans his entire body weight into the man's shoulder blades, digging deep into the muscles while chatting away at a mile a minute.
"You know, Walt, you’re tighter than Willie’s expense account," ALF grunts, pummelling the man’s lower back. "Speaking of which, the guy’s working in a dump. Have you seen his desk? It’s a hazard! It’s cold, it’s cramped, the lighting makes him look like a cadaver, and frankly, he deserves a little love. A big corner office. Soft lighting. Maybe a plush swivel chair. You wanna keep a prime specimen like Willie around, you gotta make the environment *inviting*. You gotta make a guy feel wanted."
Walter’s face is pressed flat into a throw pillow. To Walter’s oxygen-deprived, pain-addled brain, the husky, breathless voice hovering above him—combined with the long, surprisingly soft, velvety fur kneading his shoulders—doesn't sound like an alien guest at all. It sounds like a smoky, dark-haired starlet delivering a sultry, low-key proposition. Walter misinterprets every word about Willie's "needs" as a deeply veiled, heavy-handed attempt at workplace flirting directed right at him. He thinks the woman inside this elaborate, plush alien costume is throwing herself at his feet to secure her husband’s promotion.
"You... you really care about Willie’s work environment, don't you?" Walter pants, his back suddenly feeling remarkably fluid. "You're... you're very vocal. Very passionate."
"Oh, you have no idea, Walt," ALF says, leaning right down so his damp nose brushes Walter’s ear, his voice dropping an octave into a low rasps. "I can go all night. I won't stop until Willie gets what's coming to him."
Walter shivers. He manages to twist around in the chair, his eyes wide, glazed, and filled with misguided romance. He looks up at the snout, the fur, and the fake zipper, seeing only the mysterious, passionate woman he imagines lies beneath the fuzzy exterior.
"You don't have to play coy with me, you magnificent creature," Walter whispers huskily. "What are you hiding beneath that fuzzy cretin?"
Before ALF can react, Walter reaches up, grabs a large handful of the fur on top of ALF’s head, and pulls the snout down, closing his eyes and leaning in for a full, passionate kiss on the lips.
ALF lets out a muffled, high-pitched screech of absolute horror. "Hey! Mind the hair! Watch the upholstery!"
Willie, who has been watching the entire exchange in paralyzed terror from across the coffee table, suddenly breaks out of his trance. He dives forward, grabbing ALF by the waist and wrenching him backward out of Walter’s desperate grip.
"Okay! That’s it! Party’s over! Time to go!" Willie barks, his face burning bright red as he hauls ALF toward the front door by his armpits.
"Willie, wait! She's incredible!" Walter calls out, struggling to stand up, his hands outstretched toward the hallway. "Who is she?!"
"She's... she's an aunt from Out of Town!" Willie yells over his shoulder, kicking the front door open and shoving ALF out onto the porch before slamming it shut behind them.
The cool Valley night air hits them both like a bucket of water. Streetlights glow through the light smog, casting long, orange shadows down Hemdale Street. Small groups of neighborhood kids in cheap plastic He-Man and Transformers masks drift along the sidewalks, their plastic pillowcases dragging on the concrete. Willie takes a deep, ragged breath, resting his hands on his knees. He adjusts his glasses, staring at the pavement. Beside him, ALF adjusts his zipper, rubbing his scalp.
"Unbelievable," ALF mutters. "The guy has zero boundaries. And his breath? Smelled like deviled eggs and bad intentions."
Willie looks at ALF, then down the quiet street, then back at the house where his corporate future just crashed and burned. He lets out a long, weary sigh, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders, replaced by a quiet, resigned amusement.
"Come on," Willie says softly, nodding down the sidewalk. "Let's go trick-or-treating."
"Really? Just like that? No lecture about corporate ladder-climbing?" ALF asks, his ears perking up.
"No lecture," Willie says, stepping down off the porch. "Just keep your hands off my clothes."
They walk side-by-side down Hemdale Street. ALF trots to keep up with Willie’s longer strides, his fur rustling in the night breeze. They turn up the paved walkway of a small, dimly lit bungalow at the end of the cul-de-sac. An old, yellowed porch light flickers overhead. Willie presses the doorbell. A faint chime echoes inside, followed by the slow, shuffling sound of slippers. The heavy wooden door creaks open to reveal an elderly woman in a faded floral housecoat. She squints through the screen door at Willie, then lowers her gaze to ALF, taking in the fur, the snout, and the zipper.
"Oh, dear," she says, her voice thin and crackly. "I’m so sorry, little boy. I’m all out of candy. The big kids took the last of the Snickers an hour ago."
"No candy?" ALF asks, leaning his snout right up against the rusted screen.
Through the narrow gap in the doorway, ALF’s sharp eyes spot three plump, sleepy domestic shorthairs lounging on a plaid sofa in the living room. One is a tortoiseshell; two are calicos. They look well-fed, glossy, and entirely unsuspecting.
ALF’s eyes widen. He licks his broad, black nose. "Hey, lady," ALF says, pointing a claw toward the living room. "Forget the candy. How much for the tortoiseshell on the couch? I’ll settle for a side-order of the calico if she’s tender. We can take one to go. I've got a pillowcase."
The old lady’s eyes turn into saucer-sized dinner plates. Her mouth forms a tiny, horrified 'O'. BANG! She slams the heavy wooden door so hard the brass knocker rattles against the frame, leaving the porch in sudden, stunned silence. ALF blinks, staring at the shut door. He turns his head slowly to look up at Willie.
"What?" ALF asks, totally innocent. "I offered to take the old ones off her hands! It’s called neighborhood service, Willie!"
Willie just shakes his head, a small, tired smile finally breaking through his exasperation as he catches ALF by the back of his furry neck and turns him around toward the street. "Let's go home, Gordo."