They are out there. I know people dismiss it—the idea that there is life other than us—but they exist. They know that we are here. They are more advanced than us, which is why most people haven’t seen them.
I too was a skeptic like you at one point. I thought the tales of cattle mutilations and anal probes were horseshit. Hell, I didn’t even believe it once they began trying to contact me. I immediately dismissed it as coincidence, then later as hallucinations brought on by stress.
It all started a couple days ago. I came out to my car one winter morning and found a note on my car window, a flyer. At the time I didn’t know what it was. It said we’ll rendezvous with you at the annual Zabadoo Parade, Thanksgiving weekend. There was some gibberish below it that I couldn’t understand. I thought it might be some sort of guerilla marketing--either that, or kids in my apartment building screwing around. The message left there at the time didn’t make sense to me.
I dismissed the note and went to work like normal. Work had been pretty crappy. My boss was a grade-A prick that had his head so far up his ass he couldn’t tell night from day. He runs the Information Security Department. Well, on this day, he was chewing me up and down about an email I had sent the following day regarding the imperative use of secure passwords. Apparently during morning meeting, a manager from another department had asked him about the protocol and he had no idea about the email, or what a secure password is—this guy has used his first name as a password as long as I can remember. Anyway, he wound up looking like an ass in the meeting and decided to take it out on me for not briefing him on the email I sent out. Apparently reading the email was out of the question since it contained too much technical information.
So the boss is in the middle of dressing me down and I get this phone call. I pick up the phone—just to piss my boss off really, he hates having to wait—and I get this message on the phone line that is similar to the one left on my car that morning, something about a rendezvous at the Zabadoo Parade. After that, the phone starts playing this tone--some sort of encrypted code. I listen to it for a few minutes (It is after all better than listening to my boss, plus its fu watching his face turn purple.) The line soon goes dead. I sit there with the receiver to my ear for another minute or two—why won’t the boss just lose patience and walk away—and then hang up.
As the boss continues to lecture me, I start to wonder who’s playing a joke on me. I rule out the neighborhood kids as they wouldn’t know my work number. It had to be a friend from work, but none of them seem that creative.
Once the boss finishes, I figure its time to go get lunch. I grab my buddy Chris and drag him out to Chili’s. While there, I ask him if he’s behind the joke. He had no clue though. He was actually kind of intrigued by the whole thing. Genuinely intrigued-- not intrigued by his own ingenuity.
“How can you be sure it’s a prank?” he asked.
“I just assumed it was.” I told him. “I mean, who would contact me with some strange message like this out of the blue if it weren’t a prank? I’m not Muslim.”
“Good point,” he said, “but this seems a bit elaborate for a joke.
“You might be right, who knows.”
After lunch, work was the same grind. I sat playing solitaire for the last three hours. I wanted to avoid getting in any trouble.
While waiting for 4:45 to come so I could slip out 15 minutes early, I went over to the vending machine to grab a Snicker’s bar. Chris met me there.
I took my bar out of the machine. I peeled back the label to see if I’d won the million dollar prize. Inside though, there was another note. ‘We’re watching you. You have great potential for our cause.’ I showed Chris.
“This is really starting to feaking freak me out.” I told him.
“You and me both. You don’t have any idea who is doing this?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I haven’t a clue. Whoever it is has gone to great lengths though. This looks like it was printed in the factory.”
“Heavy stuff man, you should report it.”
“To who?” I asked. “I’ve got no idea who is doing it and no idea what it means. Who would I call? The cops? The FBI?”
“Good point.” He said.
“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sitting around here trying to lay low.”
“Wanna o fishing with me? Let’s call in sick and get out of the office for the day. It’d do you good anyway.”
I figure it wounds like a good idea. At least it would guarantee me a day where I wouldn’t have to deal with the boss.
“Sure, let’s do it.”
So the next morning, we load up in his SUV and head up to the lake. We spend about 8 hours up there and a case of beer and hadn’t caught a thing.
Just as we’re about to pack it up to go home, I get a bite on my line. I reel it in and it’s a nice rainbow trout. I pull the hook out of its mouth and show Chris. As I’m doing that, the damn fish starts to talk to me.
Saturday, Beckinstown, behind the Wal-Mart before the Zabadoo parade. They’ll meet you.” It said.
Needless to say I was shocked. I’d never heard a fish talk before and nether was Chris. Looking back, it seems even stranger that it’d be able to enunciate so well without real lips.
Anyhow, so back to the story. I’m so shocked, I nearly crap my pants. I drop the fish on the ground, pull out my knife and chop its head off. In retrospect that was probably a dumb thing to do—a talking fish could bring millions. Look what that talent did for that big mouth bass.
“Are you going to go?” Chris asked.
“Where?”
“To meet them in Beckinstown?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“You know, it’s not too polite to kill the messenger” Chris said.
I flipped him off.
****
When we get to Chris’ truck, I’m still pretty freaked out by the incident. I decide I’m going to report this to someone, even if they do think I’m crazy for listening to talking trout. I pull out my laptop and start writing an email. Once we get back home, I can pop on the internet and find a place to send it. I figure the local cops are definitely out.
Chris pulls off at a coffee shop so we can grab something to drink while I hop on the wireless LAN. The only problem is as soon as I get connected, the laptop blows up. I’m not kidding either. The thing seriously caught on fire—ruined the whole thing. Damn aliens.
I toss the laptop on the ground and stomp out the flames. Chris and I then run out of the coffee shop. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves and we don’t want to stay there like sitting ducks. Somebody was obviously watching us.
“I don’t know who the hell is doing this,” I tell him, “but I’m going to find out. We’re going to Beckinstown.”
***
So Saturday Chris and I decide to go to Beckinstown to meet up with these people, whoever they are. Beckinstown is about a two hour drive from where Chris and I live. We get there early and head to the Wal-Mart.
Not long after that, three people come up in what look like costumes-- I later find out they aren't. They’ve got blue skin, blue frizzy hair and it looked like they they were carrying accordions. Their faces looked like skulls. They didn't look a thing like the usual alien pictures you see. One of them must have been handicapped because they were pushing him in a shopping cart.
“We need to speak with you.” One of them tells me ( I later find out he's +not).
It turns out they weren’t holding accordions at all. It was some sort of strange appendage and they used it to communicate. They were speaking some strange language. Chris couldn’t understand what they were saying, but for some reason, I could. It isn’t to surprising though, he failed high school Spanish and I got all A’s. He never had a knack for language.
“What is it you want?” I ask them.
“We need something from you.”
“What?”
“Your boss’ computer password.”
This didn’t make sense. Why would they want that? Why would they need to talk to me to get it. It was the easiest thing in the world to figure out, not to mention any kid with a script could figure it out in seconds.
It was a long and drawn out conversation, so I’ll sum it all up for you. They tell me that they are from the Planet Zenon. Their names were Q, +not (the handicap one) and U2. They want his password so that they can access the medical databases we protect. They need new candidates for anal probes, but are tired of using trial and error. They know the traits they are looking for and they tell me there will be a lot less damage to human life if I cooperate with them.
I gave it some thought, and even asked Chris for his advice. Chris thought it’d be good payback to the boss for the grief he gave me about the password email should it ever be tracked back to him. I agreed and gave them the info. They thanked me and left. That’s when I reported the incident to the local authorities.
Have I seen them again? I haven’t seen them.
did leave a message for me this morning though--on my car again. I assume it was one of them who left a message in the frost on my back window of my car ‘Q, +not and U were here, heart.
I’m not crazy, am I, Doc?
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
