What might've happened next

I went to L'hopital with my bleeding finger. The doctors looked at each other knowingly and then at me: "Desolees, Madame...we 'ave no choice but to amputate."
So I went home, my left hand in a bandage and my left index finger already reduced to ashes by the hospital incinerator, to find two Martians sitting at my kitchen table eating their way through a mixed platter of Swiss cheese.
"Hi! Malcolm." said the first one, extending me a purple, three-fingered hand. The other Martian just raised his in welcome, a slither of Appenzeller clutched clumsily in it. It's the main reason we've never successfully conquered the universe, Malcolm joked. No opposable thumbs! His laugh was metallic and staccato.
"Is your friend OK?" I said, as the other Martian groaned and clutched his belly, dropping the Appenzeller as he did so.
He'll be alright, explained Malcolm, it was just Earth food making him feel sick. Not many of their guys came here for that reason. It was also why earthlings insisted erroneously on referring to their kind as "little green men, when actually it's more magenta, really," Malcolm went on, surveying with admiration his own skin colour.
His manner was a bit pompous, which annoyed me. "Why are you here?" I said, more brusquely than I intended.
"Oh, we're here to get Fritz out...talking of whom, Fritz? Fritz!!"
The bathroom door swung open, and there appeared a sweating pig in brown leather aviation goggles, dragging behind him a small microlite aircraft, with one wing missing, apparently ripped off.
"Sorry, Malc! It was quite a job freeing her from that blasted window, what! Excuse us, madame, enchantay" The pig took my hand and kissed it, keeping his tiny eyes on mine. "Must dash! Thanks for the lift, chaps."
I looked at Malcolm, who was helping his friend get to his feet. He explained he was sorry to rush but their spacecraft was parked in a resident's bay and they couldn't hang around. Fritz dragged the damaged microlite onto the landing and Malcolm followed, pausing only to let his friend vomit quietly into the umbrella stand.
"Sorry about that," he mumbled. "Should've stuck to the Gruyere."