K

Typical conspiracy theorists believe there are two types of alien: the reptilian shape-shifters and the visiting greys. The better informed conspiracy theorists will mention the third type: the hybrid. When sceptic Paul Manne finds himself at the centre of this world, where shape-shifters enslave humans and the greys use them for experimentation, he has an opportunity to save mankind from cruel tormentors. But it's not a battle that will be easily fought. From the novel:
"I'd like to speak to the manager, please." She spoke in a deathly quiet voice. Each syllable was undercut with the promise of severe retribution if her request wasn't addressed immediately, and to her absolute satisfaction. Her eyes had narrowed to menacing slits and her lips were lizard-thin lines around an artificial smile. "I'd like to speak to the manager, NOW."
"The manager will tell you exactly the same thing I've just told you," said Paul Manne.
Supermarket muzak played unheard in the background: a light meld of sounds that could have been classical jazz clones or maybe 80's tribute tunes. The rest of the store was a chatter of droning voices, each discussing potential purchases and talking about the minutiae of daily lives. All of those sounds were transformed into a growl of indecipherable background static.
And Paul could hear none of it save for the woman's shrill, demanding tone.
"I'd like to speak to the manager, now," she insisted.
He was trying to be polite, professional, and respectful, but the woman that had come to him with the complaint - a woman who looked like a boss-level Karen, he thought bitterly - was making it difficult for him to maintain his composure. "It's the company procedure-"
She waggled a finger to stop him from continuing and then spoke over him with shrill, irrefutable insistence. "If the manager is going to tell me exactly the same thing, please bring him down here now so I can hear it from his lips, rather than from one of his floor-workers." She used the word 'floor-worker' in the same tone she would probably use for talking about a vagrant with hygiene issues and a Tourette's vocabulary.
Paul didn't like to think of every woman with a complaint as a 'Karen', but this tightly wound bitch was ticking all the boxes for the stereotype. Her blonde hair was set in an inverted bob: much longer at the front than the short, shorn scrub at the back of her neck. The platinum highlights and harsh angles leant an austere look to her features. All of these details were accentuated by the angry rouge on her cheeks. Her age was indeterminate beneath a mask of foundation, meaning she could have been anywhere between late-thirties and early sixties. And she was dressed in the pastel-coloured shorts and T-shirt that came from last season's M&S fashions. Her head had started to shake from side-to-side as though she was physically manifesting her disagreeable mood and internally trembling with the ferocity of her mounting fury.