Abducting Aliens
A SubGenius Pastime Examined
by Rev. John Shirley
Church of the SubGenius
From The Excluded Middle #6
P.O.B. 1077, Los Angeles, CA 90048
"Shouldn't we be videotaping this?" I whispered.
"Fuzzes out on videotape. I did manage to get a few seconds of one
of these little visits to come out," he said, barely audible, as he
moved out the hole of the bunker. "Tried to sell it to Santilli. He
got scared. Said the real stuff gave him the willies. Schnabel might
report him to the Company. Asked me if I couldn't fake up one for
him instead..."
There was no sense of being watched; WE were, I thought with a jolt
of exhilaration, the watchers. WE were the researchers; WE were the
experimenters; WE had turned the tables, like Lab Rats escaped from
their cages to gnaw the faces of their white-coated tormentors.
Reverend Deathmonkey, he weighs about 300 lbs, he's got a big black
beard matted with hamburger juice and twined with razor wire; when
he's really partying he calls on Blackbeard, his ancient piratical
ancestor, calls him for guidance the way an Injun calls on the Bear
Spirit, and he puts thirteen little birthday cake candles in his
beard and lights em up and his black eyes burn right through his
shades. He's got most of his teeth but a lot of them got the crowns
busted off when he did that "I can eat a whole damn Harley Davidson
piece by piece" act that landed him in the hospital.
Today he's wearing overalls festooned with the butts torn from
Barbie dolls, hung from safety pins. He's wearing snakeskin cowboy
boots; he's wearing lipstick under his black mustache. He's missing
three fingers, I should mention, from his left hand, something to do
with "me and Survival Research getting too ambitious with them
explosives one Saturday."
He smells like ... I veered my senses away from it. Some things man
was not meant to know. Hell, he's Deathmonkey, and even "Bob" is in
awe of the size of his willie.
Reverend Deathmonkey spotted the fire road through the Nitrous haze
at the last moment and wrenched the vehicle hard to the right...
The Fugs first album -- thirty some years old -- was raving offkey
in the tapedeck; he switched it off. And he cut the lights, rumbled
the Buick through starlight and shadow between the mighty firs and
acres of stumps, till we got to "Area Zero" -- a cow pasture.
He stopped the car, killed the engine, we clambered out and stood
shivering in the October mountain air. I was shivering anyway --
Deathmonkey didn't seem to feel it. I mentioned three hundred
pounds, did I mention that they're stacked up to six foot five? And
when, like now, he puts on his high crown ten gallon hat, brought
from back home in Dallas Texas, he's a living edifice close to seven
feet vertical. Towering over me, he led the way through the brush
along the edge of the cow pasture, outside the fence, muttering to
himself as he went. Only thing I could make out was, "I'll make
their succotash suffer..."
Then he vanished; three hundred pounds -- gone. Or he seemed to. I'd
looked away, at the cattle milling in a sleeping group in this high
mountain pasture (gov land provided free to a cattle outfit of
course.) The animals should've been in a barn, at this hour, I'd
have thought, but some were awake, and even grazing, and I started
to ask Deathmonkey about it and ... he was gone.
Then I heard his voice coming from the ground. "Getcher ass in here.
You want 'em to seeya, Harry Dickinbutt?" I've tried to persuade him
for years not to call me Harry Dickinbutt, but he won't quit, damn
his eyes.
I looked around and saw the hole in the hummock of earth to the
right; glimpsed a bearsized figure moving around in there.
"DM?"
"I said getcher ass IN HERE." This is not an expression a bear would
use, so I deduced it was Deathmonkey. I entered the bunker as he
called it. It was actually a sort of duck blind of mud and sticks
and shrubbery cuttings, something he'd erected a week before. The
smell...
[...]
That's when the saucers came.
They were just bright stars at first, like satellites skating the
ionosphere; then they got brighter, and closer, and took on shape.
Two of them ... they were classic ET frisbees, maybe fifty feet in
diameter, metallic, rims throbbing with a dull, inner light.
"Oh shit..."
"Quiet, Dickinbutt, Complete quiet."
The saucers danced like fireflies, for no damn reason I can imagine,
then ... merged. They sucked into one another, like two blobs of
mercury becoming one; yet the process looked as mechanical as it was
fluid. And when they were combined they'd become a silvery
hockey-puck shaped object, not glowing but somehow quite visible ...
hovering about sixty feet over the cattle.
The cattle had stopped moving -- completely. They were like statues
frozen into the field.
I watched. Not a tail twitched.
Rev. Deathmonkey was puttering with some of the equipment I couldn't
clearly make out, cursing under his breath when he clanked a piece
of metal.
The Greys...
What an alien might look like
They rode a shaft of light down like humanoid snowflakes, drifting
to the edge of the clutch of cattle...
There were shiny instruments in their hands...
"Shouldn't we be videotaping this?" I whispered.
"Fuzzes out on videotape. I did manage to get a few seconds of one
of these little visits to come out," he said, barely audible, as he
moved out the hole of the bunker. "Tried to sell it to Santilli. He
got scared. Said the real stuff gave him the willies. Schnabel might
report him to the Company. Asked me if I couldn't fake up one for
him instead..."
The night air outside the bunker was poignantly sweet, pregnant with
electricity. We crept along through the brush, on hands and knees,
to a place where a ditch ran under the wire. Icy water trickled
through the ditch; I know it was icy because I followed Deathmonkey
into it, crawling like a couple of scared GIs on our bellies, elbows
and knees, fingers sluicing through the creek slime as we slipped
under the wire into the field, the smell of cowpies, and another
smell, burnt ozone, and that acrid, otherly scent of ... greys?
One of them was just up ahead, I could see his outsized head and
scrawny shoulders just above the edge of the ditch. I though of that
movie I'd seen as a kid, teenagers killed by cat-eyed, big-headed
little men from outer space, the little men with alcohol-injecting
claws... The Greys weren't cat-eyed. They were the Roswell aliens;
they were Strieber's aliens. They were the very creatures whose
likeness giddy saucerettes wear around their necks at Psychic Fairs
-- creatures now using an impossibly prehensile dull grey metal
instrument to ream out the ass of a paralyzed bovine.
Deathmonkey could move with astonishing quietude for a dude his size
and stonedness. He slipped a little closer, a little closer to the
nearest Grey ... who stood at a good distance from the others... As
DM went he took a net out of his duffel, and his own metallic
instrument: handcuffs. He handed me a ballgag.
I looked up at the slowly rotating hockey puck overhead; surely it
must be aware of me? But perhaps it discounted me, I was just one
more "cow," on an interstellar scale, and not to be taken seriously.
Or perhaps our being in the ditch, below the level of the surface
dirt, with the distracting vibes of the cattle around us, confused
it's surveillance. There was no sense of being watched; WE were, I
thought with a jolt of exhiliration, the watchers. WE were the
researchers; WE were the experimenters; WE had turned the tables,
like Lab Rats escaped from their cages to gnaw the faces of their
white-coated tormentors.
And as this thought rippled through me The Reverend DM positioned
his net, whipped a hand out like a bear slapping a fish from a
river, and jerked the Grey by the ankles -- both of 'em -- off his
feet, and backwards into the ditch ... and into the net. It made ONE
squeaking sound before I jammed the ballgag into the little fucker's
mouth. The alien cattle-mutilating instrument fell into the creek
and spat a few sparks and then lay still; Deathmonkey shoved the
instrument into the duffel, slung that over one shoulder, the
struggling Grey over the other, and ran, hunched over, back along
the ditch to the wire. He handed me the gear, slipped through the
wire; I passed him the squirming alien, and followed, back to the
bunker.
We kept it tied up good ... until the saucer left. "They'll be back
for it," I said.
"Not for awhile. They're strange, socially. The ones we abducted in
Arizona -"
"You did this before, in Arizona?"
"Oh sure, me and Stang and Sterno and Philo and Dr. Howl ... We did
some of that toad squeezin' stuff, and went'n hung out at cattle
mutilation sites ... took us three or four tries but we caught some
of the little bastards ... took the saucers a while to come lookin'
for em... We let 'em go. But not before. It's better'n cowtipping.
Better'n putting gerbils up a Bobbie's ass. It's BIG fun, son. Watch
this... Peel off that tacky silver suit it's got on there..."
"What if it sends a telepathic message?"
"It can't -- cause you got me here. America takes drugs in psychic
defense. The stuff I took creates a sort of psychic backwash -- it's
like white noise to them. They can't get their signals through for a
good five yards around me.
"Do they bite?"
"No, they're wimps once you take away their damn gizmos... Lordy,
this one's got some fine piece of rump there... You see that? They
put on their interstellar ruling class airs, but they got butt-holes
just like the rest of us... Mostly atrophied though because they
don't eat solid food no more..."
The gag popped out of the creature's mouth while I was stripping it.
It spoke ... with MY VOICE. Then with DM's. "You please can tell:
what you do with me is?"
"Got my voice but not my diction," I muttered.
I jammed the ball back in and duct taped it in place.
It's skin was so slick, almost like balloon stuff ... under the
silver suit I found no navel, and something that might be atrophied
female genitals, and might not have been. It's four fingers had
little pads on the end, sort of like tiny little blisters. It's eye
coverings pulled off easy; it's eyes rolled with fear. I almost felt
pity, but then I remembered all those cored out animals, all those
hybrid human babies, all those abductees, poor Whitley getting
things shoved up his butt...
Remembering that, I found the nearest appropriate instrument, which
happened to be a crescent wrench, and shoved that up the creature's
butt. It squeaked through the gag and writhed. But it seemed
intrigued somehow.
Well, we did what SubG's do when they abduct aliens. We shoved
things up their butts, we took samples of skin and Deathmonkey, who
had experience with this, used a syringe to suck some kind of fluid
from the little fold at the creature's crotch. He squirted this into
a rubber-plugged test tube. We pretended to do all kinds of things
to the critter, with Dustbusters, electric toothbrushes, blowdryers
and rubber bands, but we didn't actually hurt the Grey physically.
I figure it got the point.
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