The Consumption of Cone Station

The Cone-1 Orbital Hub hung silently above Earth, a sleek, conical ship crewed by the Coneheads—those pointy-skulled, monotone aliens from Remulak who’d been posing as Earthlings since the ‘90s. Their mission: observe humanity, consume mass quantities of nachos, and report back on whether Earth’s cable TV was worth invading for. Beldar, the station commander, adjusted his velour robe, his massive cranium gleaming under the ship’s fluorescent lights. Beside him, Prymaat shoveled tortilla chips into her maw, while their daughter Connie monitored the humans below, muttering, “Their primitive mating rituals involve something called ‘TikTok.’ Fascinating.”


Unbeknownst to them, a derelict vessel had drifted into their orbit—a jagged, biomechanical nightmare leaking green ooze. A xenomorph hive ship. Its sole survivor, a sleek, drooling queen, had been adrift for eons, her eggs itching for hosts. When the Cone-1’s docking bay tractor-beamed the wreck aboard for study, the queen saw opportunity. And conical skulls.


The Infestation Begins


“Intruder alert,” droned the ship’s computer as the first egg hatched in the cargo bay. A facehugger skittered out, its legs clicking like tap shoes on linoleum. Beldar, investigating with a golf club (his preferred Earth weapon), spotted it. “A parasitic lifeform! I shall neutralize it with my superior Remulakian intellect.” He swung—and missed spectacularly, the facehugger latching onto his towering forehead with a wet slap. Prymaat shrieked, dropping her nacho tray. “Beldar, you fool! You’ve compromised our cone integrity!”


Within hours, the chestburster erupted—not from Beldar’s chest, but his skull, splitting the cone like a piñata. What emerged was no ordinary xenomorph. Its head was elongated into a glistening, ebony cone, its jaws packed with double rows of teeth and a tongue that drooled guacamole-green acid. It hissed, then spoke in a flat, nasal monotone: “We… are… Coneomorph. Prepare… to be… consumed… in mass quantities.”


The queen, watching from the shadows, chittered approval. These hosts were perfect—smart, durable, and gluttonous. Soon, the ship crawled with Coneomorphs, each birthed from a hapless crewmember. Their intelligence shone through: one rigged a nacho dispenser to spew acid-laced cheese, melting a bulkhead; another calculated Earth’s orbit to optimize escape vectors, all while scarfing down emergency rations.


Comedy in the Chaos


Connie, barricaded in the comms room with a fire extinguisher, watched the horror unfold on monitors. A Coneomorph cornered Technician Garthok, who screamed, “Maintain the perimeter!” as it devoured his popcorn stash—then him. The creature burped, its conical head wobbling, and muttered, “Popcorn… inferior to… nachos. Human snacks… disappoint.” Connie gagged, then laughed hysterically. “They’re critiquing our food while eating us? Oh, Remulak, we’re doomed!”


Prymaat, now a towering Coneomorph queen (her transformation inevitable after a facehugger got her in the galley), stormed the bridge, her tail spearing a console. “Beldar, you narfblatt! Your leadership has led to our consumption!” Beldar, the original Coneomorph, hissed back, “Negative, Prymaat! My intellect has elevated this species. Observe!” He punched coordinates into the nav system with a claw, spilling salsa everywhere. “We shall flee this planet of advanced beings!”


The Great Misunderstanding


The Coneomorphs, with their newfound Conehead smarts, analyzed Earth’s broadcasts—MTV, infomercials, and reality TV—and concluded this was the homeworld of a superior race. “These humans,” Beldar droned, gnawing a steel girder like a drumstick, “possess technology to broadcast ‘Jersey Shore’ across their globe. Their cranial capacity must rival ours!” Prymaat nodded, her cone gleaming. “Agreed. Their ability to consume mass quantities of garbage programming indicates dominance. We must retreat!”


Connie, still human (barely), tried to radio Earth: “Mayday! Xenomorphs think you’re geniuses! They’re stealing our ship!” But a Coneomorph smashed the transmitter, slurping the wires like spaghetti. “Silence, offspring. We depart this hellscape of intellect!”


The Escape


With a lurch, the Cone-1 blasted out of orbit, Coneomorphs at the helm. They gorged on the ship’s stores—freeze-dried ice cream, bulk pretzels, even the upholstery—leaving a trail of crumbs and acid burns. The queen, nestled in the engine room, laid eggs atop a pile of nacho dust, purring, “A new empire… of consumption.” Beldar, steering with one claw while eating a chair, declared, “To the stars! Away from these terrifying Earthlings!”


Below, Earth spun on, oblivious. A NASA tech scratched his head at the vanishing blip. “Huh. Probably just a satellite glitch.” Meanwhile, the Coneomorphs sped toward the void, convinced they’d narrowly escaped a planet of godlike beings—never suspecting they’d been the biggest brains aboard.