Aug 1, 1994
A ‘Non-Existent’ Crash
Muggings, birthdays, beatings, famines, pollution, graduations, marriages, murders, births, deaths, profits, loses, sun tanning, rapes, parties, elections, lies, terrorist attacks, advertisements, research, music videos, trials, auto accidents, justice, hypocrisy, phone calls, funerals, holidays, prayers, condemnations, extraterrestrial spaceships, lotteries, games, eruptions, floods, exercises, movies, trips, takeovers, victories, inequalities, blowjobs, diseases, conversations, and confrontations; except for justice and an extraterrestrial spaceship, a pretty much normal day for humanity.
Justice, the more exceptional of the two, was taking place in a small penthouse belonging to the Toronto skyline. Tom McClaren, a lucky bugger who had managed to lose his sanity, had just forced his way into the penthouse and was now forcing the owner, Joel Height (a well known local politician), to listen to his own political speeches.
The next morning the Toronto police would receive an anonymous tip to check out the penthouse of Mr. Height. Once there, the police would find a deranged, drooling, Joel Height strapped into his own easy chair while his own voice boomed from the headphones embracing his ears.
The police quickly had Joel taken to an insane asylum were he spent the remaining three years before his suicide (he literally gagged himself to death on paper he had written some of his old speeches upon).
Tom McClaren was never caught, regained his sanity, and went on to develop a very successful political career.
The only other significant thing to come out of this whole incident was a short lived television commercial advertising an audio tape which promised "our clarity will drive you wild, just ask Joel."
But, I must not forget about our extra-terrestrial spaceship which was being shot out of our planet's upper atmosphere at the same time Joel Height and Tom McClaren were coming face to face in Joel's apartment.
It seems a U.S. military satellite which does not exist interpreted our spaceship as a hostile target which had to be terminated through the use of non-existent missiles which were “not” fired. As a result, our spaceship never made it to its intended rendezvous, but began an early descent towards Earth. The non-existent satellite continued in its orbit after having shot down what it thought was a non-existent enemy target which kept the Earth's atmosphere amazingly free for existing space junk.
Our spaceship was, unluckily, very real and as a result had to pay attention to gravity which tugged it down towards a rather wet landing.
* * *
The town of White Rock was its usual self for a Saturday night. The nightclubs and pubs along Beachside Drive were filled with all sorts of people attempting to convince themselves they were having a good time getting falling down drunk. The police of White Rock were trying to convince themselves they too were having a good time babysitting all the more successful drunks. A young amorous couple was down at the beach pretending that sex on cold, wet sand in the middle of September was a romantic, enjoyable experience. In the end the only person on the waterfront really having a goodtime was Trevor Spoke, who was sitting farther down the beach away from the entangled couple and closer to the pier.
Trevor had just dropped two hits of d-lysergic acid diethylamide, otherwise known as LSD. If you look up LSD in an encyclopaedia it will probably tell you something like this, "LSD, or d-lysergic acid diethylamide, is a dangerous drug which causes illusions and hallucinations. Complications an individual may experience when taking the drug include mood shifts, time and space distortions, and impulsive behaviour." So Trevor, having just taken two hits of acid, sat back on an old log while he waited for illusions, hallucinations, mood shifts, time and space distortions, and impulsive behaviour, to wash over him. He didn't have to wait long.
Overhead, a high pitched whistle called Trevor’s attention to what seemed to be, and was, a spaceship in the process of crashing just off shore. The ship resembled the head of a javelin which had lost a fight. While the silver top and sides of the ship threw the night's light back towards Trevor's eyes, the underside of the ship seemed to be covered with long black snakes and bright orange flames.
Trevor watched as the ship seemed to slow slightly and then throw itself into the water just on the other side of the pier breakers. A huge cloud of steam was let loose; waves were pushed towards the breakers, and then nothing.
"Holy shit," Trevor whispered; "holy shit,” he said yelling this time. He wished someone else had been there so he should say "Holy shit" for their benefit and not just his. He wanted to say something else he was so amazed; acid didn't usually hit him so fast.
He would have been even more amazed if he had known that the acid still hadn't hit him, and wouldn't hit him for another twenty minutes. Once the acid had hit him he would decide that the spaceship he had just seen crash had been part of an alien invasion to take over the planet Earth. Automobiles were simply spaceships in disguise, but thanks to d-lysergic acid diethylamide Trevor could see the alien pilots inside their ships. The alien’s disguises had fooled everyone else except for Trevor so it was up to him to save the planet from destruction with his molecular disruptor.
Trevor would be scraped off the pavement of Beachside Drive soon afterwards. It seems he threw himself in the path of an oncoming spaceship but was unable to get his molecular disruptor off his foot quickly enough. Such is the life of a space hero.
In the meantime, Trevor was still alive and amazed as he saw something move and sputter out on the breakers.
The light at the end of the pier framed a small area in dim light and silence leaving Trevor to continue swearing under his breath as he waited to see what would enter the picture but he never did see the wet sack, water streaming from it, that seemed to have been tossed from below into the picture.
You see, Trevor had lost interest in the scene unfolding out on the pier as the LSD had hit him just as he realized he had to save Earth from an alien invasion and therefore had no time to waste: Trevor headed toward the road.
Back on the beach the young couple that had been pretending sex was enjoyable on cold wet sand had given up when they realized half their clothes had been dragged off the beach by the incoming tide. They had only a blanket, a pair of sandals, a bra, a pair of car keys, and a t-shirt to cover themselves with so they headed back to the car before anyone had a chance to trip on them in the night thus leaving no one to notice the rather ordinary fellow to crawl up from the pier’s ladder to stand soaking wet beside the equally water logged sack.
* * *
Desi looked around the pier fully expecting at least a dozen people to be swarming towards him. No one. It seemed anyone that might have been coming out to meet him was preoccupied with watching some guy throw himself in front of a nude couple’s car screaming something about the benefits of Velcro over laces.
So, the only person who had actually seen Desi crash into the water was dead. If it weren't for the author, me, you would never even get to hear about Desi's cross continent journey. As a matter of fact the only thing you'd ever hear about Desi would be printed in the New York Times, and then only if you happened to read a small three sentence article buried way in the back. But, I'm getting ahead of myself which can only create problems for me and wreck any sort of mystery for the reader so I'll get back to Desi on the pier.
Desi pulled himself up onto his feet and none too happily grabbed hold of his rather wet bag. He sat down on a small wooden bench placed beneath the pier's light and tried to take inventory of his situation: his spaceship had just been destroyed; he was no were near the rendezvous point, he wasn't really sure were he was; and all he had managed to salvage from his ship was in his small wet bag.
The contents of that bag were fairly sparse considering he was visiting another planet and all. He had a notebook, a pen, a wallet, fake I.D. and credit cards, some counterfeit money, and a small pack of wert.
The notebook and pen were standard pieces of equipment for any anthropological expeditions bound for Earth. The wallet, fake I.D., credit cards, and money were luxuries the first anthropological expeditions did not have, but through those first expeditions they were able to supply later anthropologists, like Desi, with valuable information. Unfortunately Desi left his home planet just as the first reports from Earth were coming to his planet; as a result the information was not properly analyzed before he had adopted the name Desi Arnez. The wert was, and is, an odd plant derivative from Desi's home planet which humans find completely tasteless, but Desi's people find it very nice to suck on.
Before he had left his ship he had time to set the self destruction sequence on a timer, which meant he had about another Earth half hour before his ship would destroy itself. The explosion form his ship would be muffled by the water but it would still kick up enough waves to attract some attention. The last thing Desi needed to make his expedition a complete failure was to attract attention and scrutiny. So Desi took one last look at his spongy possessions, pushed them back in his bag, and headed towards the street and the flashing red and blue lights.
As Desi walked towards the pier's end he could not stop himself from cursing Fritth Graffoon for sending him to Earth. You see it was Fritth Graffoon, the great astronomer and scientist from Desi's planet’s not too distant past, that had made the two discoveries which would prompt the need for anthropology missions to Earth.
Fritth Graffoon, being the excellent scientist he was, was up late every night for at least a week trying to come up with a new idea to get him some sort of government grant. Just like many Earth scientists, although much less advanced and more ignorant than the great scientists of Desi's home planet, Fritth Graffoon relied on charity to make his great scientific work possible. So anyway, there he was: up late, bored, and out of fresh wert. In his boredom he decided a good random viewing of the heavens might bring him an idea he could work on so he sat down at his telescope to see what he could see.
Fritth was looking through his telescope at the solar system known on his planet as K90 when he noticed what looked like heat waves moving in a cluster across his line of vision. Fritth cleaned his telescope lens thinking that the waves must be the result of some old food but when the waves where still there he began to wonder if he had not discovered the justification for a grant that he had been looking for. In fact, Fritth had discovered a variable vortex, what some humans call the Killer Comet.
Fritth did get his grant and he discovered mush more about the variable vortex. He found out that the variable vortex was much like a comet as humans imagined, but unlike a comet, which consisted of frozen water and dust, the variable vortex was not formed of matter but of disruptive energy. Fritth also found out that the variable vortex while acting like a comet in its orbit did not orbit a sun but the centre of the galaxy. It was in Fritth's calculation and plotting of the vortex's path that he made his second big discovery K97, or Earth as we call it.
So as you have probably figured out Earth is in the path of this variable vortex which, when it passes through our solar system will destroy all life on the planet as we know it. Of course we could object to this since the vortex seems to be, by our scientists calculations, 12 million years early, but in the overall scheme of the universe, time, and infinity 12 million years is not really early, it's punctual.
Fritth's discoveries prompted a mission to K97 so that a real live (for the time being) pre-warp species could be studied before it would be lost forever. While Desi's people had of course discovered other pre-warp species and cultures they had been pre-industrial as well, this was not the case with K97.
A preliminary scouting mission was sent to K97 to get a survey of some of its major cultures and characteristics. Following close behind were the first ethnologists, of which Desi was one.
So, indirectly Fritth Graffoon had brought Desi to where he was now, which was overlooking what many aliens would consider a strange scene, but because Desi was trained to disregard his own personal prejudices he accepted the scene as an acceptable part of an alien culture. This is what he saw: a tall dark haired man with a moustache and some sort of blue uniform was asking a younger male and female, seemingly clad only blankets, questions about another man and a shoe. In the background Desi could see some other people in blue uniforms taking measurements and photographs. The scene was framed by a slowly dispersing ring of anonymous people who seemed to all be talking about something which Desi had missed. It, by all its evidence must have been a play of some sort. This realization greatly disappointed Desi for his forced landing would have seemed almost bearable if he had had the chance to observe a piece of this cultures entertainment, but fate seemed against him again.
Nevertheless Desi had to get to New York to meet his contacts which meant he had to first find out where he was.
"Excuse me," asked Desi, "but can you tell me where I am."
The police officer Desi had been addressing from the side turned fully around to look at Desi.
Like Desi had been trained to see new cultures in a specific way, the police officer had been trained to see his fellow humans in a specific way. For instance the police officer Desi had just talked to, Constable Smith, had first seen his wife as a large busted Caucasian female of about twenty-two years of age weighing about 140 pounds and measuring approximately five feet and four inches in height with no visible scars.
So when Officer Smith turned to look at Desi this is what he saw: a soggy Caucasian male of about thirty years old; six feet and one inch tall; no visible scars; weighing about 195 pounds dry, and 220 pounds wet. Through this quick and professional analysis of Desi Officer Smith was able to come to determine two conclusions concerning Desi.
One: Desi was obviously a bit off his rocker for having taken a dip in the middle of an autumn night. Probably a former inmate of one of the local insane asylums forced to let some of the more stable patients out due to a short fall in funding.
Two: even though Desi was wet he had obviously not bathed in the last months, that or he had just stepped in a rather large pile of dog dung.
Actually Officer Smith was right about both Desi having not bathed in the last month (having been in suspended animation he had little time for bathing) and he had in fact just stepped in a fresh pile of dog dung. Those two things combined with the sewage that was being pumped into the ocean close to where Desi had crashed gave him a delightfully fresh smell.
"White Rock," said officer Smith as took a step or two back from Desi.
The town had been named White Rock because years before modern navigational equipment sailors had painted a large boulder on its shores white; at least that's what the official story is. But, more likely, the little town like every other city, town, village, or hamlet, wanted to be unique if only in one way. Some towns picked colourful names like Orgasm, Newfoundland, while others held annual events like a cow pie throwing completion. In White Rock it was the large boulder on their beach that was constantly being white washed to keep its proper colour intact.
"Thank-you," said Desi as he began to withdraw his map from his bag, "but could you point it out on the map for me?" Desi opened his map on the pavement of the road.
Officer Smith figured the best way to put some distance between this nut and himself was to play along with him. "Right there," pointed Smith, getting only as close as he had to.
Desi watched as the police officer pointed to a small spot that was about three thousand of what humans call kilometres from the spot on the map marked New York. He was farther from his contact point than he had realized, in fact, as far as he could tell he wasn't even in the right country. And on top of that he had just realized that there was an awful smell in the air which the preliminary scouting reports had not mentioned.
Well Desi had no time to waste. "Which way is the quickest route to the United States?" he asked.
Smith pointed up the road, "just follow this street until you hit the four lane highway and then take a right. It'll take ya right to the border," where they will no doubt turn you back thought Smith.
Desi hopped off the pavement as he folded up his map. The human had been very helpful and almost seemed to share Desi's urgency to get him on his way so Desi thought that it would be an excellent time for him to practice a cultural custom the preliminary anthropological reports had talked about.
"Thank-you for your help," said Desi as he embraced Officer Smith faster than Smith could pull away.
Desi smiled, turned up the road Smith had pointed to, squeaked quietly as he walked away form the play he had just missed. Smith tried to brush himself off and mumbled something about government mismanagement of funds and their need to get their priorities straight. Around him the accident scene seemed to have changed little as the blue uniformed humans continued to take pictures and measurements of the road.
'Non-existent' Period
Leaving Desi behind for the moment I shouldn’t forget about the non-existent military satellite which had not only caused Desi’s ship to plummet into the atmosphere but had also caused a young Lieutenant Crenshaw to wake a General Danielson somewhere close to 3’o clock in the morning. Lieutenant Crenshaw didn’t really want to make that phone call, catching the General at the front end of a hangover didn’t excite him. Still, the non-existent underground installation which monitored the non-existent star wars satellites had recorded contact with an unknown.
“This had better be good Crenshaw, I had to attend one of those political dinners tonight and I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”
The political dinner that the General was talking about had become an annual event attended by Generals, Colonels, politicians, wives, husbands, media personalities, call-girls, and one Russian agent who had given up on the Cold War even before his former country had fallen into disrepair. Some small special interest groups were pushing the government to take money out of the military and spend it on pet projects like education and Medicare. So the party was started by the Pentagon as a way to convince people more weapons were needed even though the U.S. military could already blow up the entire planet ten times over. And even without a need for more weapons, the pentagon took the approach that it was never a bad idea for the military to boost its image with the media and the politicians. It was a way to say that even though the military was mainly concerned with killing people they could still be really nice folk. The idea didn’t quite work the way the General and his colleagues had hoped, but it wasn’t a complete failure either.
For three years in a row the party would be a miserable failure, few politicians would attend and almost no media would show up. Then, every four years, along with the arrival of the next election campaign, every politician that had any interest in appearing tough or aggressive in the media shows up to hob-knob with the military brass. Following the politicians would be a gaggle of reporters and media types who acted more like advertising agents for said politicians.
Lieutenant Crenshaw had been to one a couple of years earlier when he was serving as an aide to General McKenzie. With the way relationships seem to go in this day and age though the General and the Lieutenant didn’t last. Maybe they could have made a go of it if they didn’t have to be so secretive about their feelings. They had decided to work things out and then Crenshshaw was sent to the Gulf War where he was injured by friendly fire. The general had him transferred after that, he didn’t even have the balls to tell Crenshaw to his face that it was over for good. Crenshaw could only assume the General had found himself a young Captain or some other such type to take up with. He didn’t know and didn’t really want to, at heart Crenshaw was a true military man, he believed information should only be given out on a need to know basis - star wars, gays in the military, extraterrestrial ships.
“Well what the hell is it then Crenshaw?”
“General, at about 10pm pacific one of our...", Crenshaw began.
General Danielson stopped paying attention to Lieutenant Crenshaw almost as soon as he began talking. All the General could think about was the dish they had been serving at the party, what was that called? Maihi Maihi? Yeah, that sounded right…man those Greeks could sure cook like nobody's business.
As you probably noticed, General Danielson wasn't the quickest guy in the world. In fact, General Danielson was an eighth grade drop out that had, on the advice of his father, joined the army at the tender age of 17. He had managed to rise through the ranks of the army by dedicating himself to advice his father had given him the day he had left the farm, "Son, remember, it's always better to stay silent and leave them wondering if you're a fool than it is to open your mouth and remove all doubt." That advice was particularly relevant for the General, he was after all a fool. He had simply had the good fortune to never be in the wrong spot at the wrong time and, since he said very little, he never made any great blunders. Sure, he had never made any great, inspirational decisions, you know, the kind that retired military wrote about in their memoirs. Of course, his lack of leadership hadn't hurt his military career in the least as his rank testified to. Most of the time he would simply let his subordinates decide how to best handle a situation and, as luck would have it, this sort of approach to decision making had recently become a trendy way to manage people. It was, in this case, a good way for the manager to avoid any major blunders while at the same time making one's subordinates believe you were a fair and enlightened leader that welcomed their input.
"So how would you like us to handle this then sir?" The General came out of his Maihi Maihi pondering to Lieutenant Crenshaw's questioning face.
Having no idea what the Lieutenant was asking the General saw only one course of action, "Lieutenant, I would like to know what course of action you think best at this time?"
Clive: Part-time Journalist, Full-time Ass
“Watch where you’re going you moron, you blind or what?”
Clive Macdonald screamed out the window as he launched the dregs of his coffee out the window at the pedestrian who he had judged to have jumped out in front of his car. His window slid quietly up as he mumbled to himself about how annoying pedestrians were. They didn’t pay taxes, no licence and half of them were out to take you for a trumped up insurance claim, all a bunch of morons. That asshole he almost hit would no doubt have sued his ass off, not to mention the accident reports he’d have to fill out would no doubt make him late for his ‘meeting’ in Seattle with the twins.
Clive didn’t know it but the phone call that he was about to receive on his cell would stop him from making that stock holders meeting anyway. A funny thing about cell phones, they are apparently great things because they allow people to stay in touch with you when you’d otherwise be unavailable, but the person calling at the other end of the phone rarely had good news back then.
“Yeah?”
“Clive? It’s Maury, I’ve got a lead on a new story coming over the wire and I need you to go check it out,” said the voice at the end of the phone.
You see Clive MacDonald was The Clive MacDonald of tabloid paper and television fame. He was the one time investigative journalist that had sold his ethics, or so some had claimed, to become a tabloid journalist for The Magnifier. Now instead of covering political campaigns and the back room dealings of corporations he covered stories which read like Ed Wood’s script rejects: “Woman Gives Birth to Record Breaking Cucumber and Eats It With Salt”, “Hermaphrodites Unite In Secret Plot To Rule The World”. But hey, you do what you’ve got to do to pay the bills.
His last story, the one he was just coming back from, was a serious and in-depth look at a small cult in the interior of British Columbia that worshipped and claimed to have sex with the fabled Sasquatch of the Pacific North West. It probably would have been a good story if the idiots that had set the hoax up hadn’t lost pieces of their costume as Clive’s camera crew started rolling. After all, not even he could over look an obvious hoax, hey if they could have pulled it off without a hitch while he was there he was willing to take the whole damn thing at face value, ratings would have been awesome.
“It had better be more fruitful than this last goose chase you sent me on, what a fucking joke that was. A bunch of backward ass hillbillies dressed up in a monkey suit doesn’t exactly cut it for quality,” Clive spat into the phone.
“Don’t worry compadre, this one’s going to be big; it’s a hard news story with a couple of conspiracy theory twists making it a perfect story for The Magnifier.”
“That’s what you said about the monkey suit too Maury,” Clive replied.
“Yeah but this one’s the real stuff - a water ban in White Rock, a small town by the border, has been said to be a cover up by a environmental group and ufo organization of some sort. Both groups sent out press releases claiming the American and Canadian governments are covering up the real reasons for the ban. The environmental group claims a local sewage treatment centre is leaking deadly poisons into the water. Another group of whackos calling themselves the North American Extra-terrestrial Observatory released their own statement claiming the cover-up is not of chemicals but of an extra-terrestrial spaceship that has crashed in the bay. I’ve arranged…” Maury was interrupted as Clive let out an audible moan which seemed to be somewhere between frustration and boredom.
“That’s just fuck’in great Maury, you want me to miss my stockholders meeting to go cover another story on ET and his damn magic finger - it was only a movie when will the morons out there figure that out?”
Maury paused for a moment: one of his personal empowerment seminars had taught him that a slight pause before speaking added power and strength to what was said.
“Morons or not, extra-terrestrials sell papers like nothing else going. I’ve got a camera crew flying up to meet you at 9:00 tomorrow morning in the lobby of the Ocean Beach Hotel in White Rock. I expect you to be ready”
Clive held the phone at arms length in disbelief, apparently he thought, those self empowerment seminars Maury was taking were actually doing something for him. A couple of months ago Maury never would have used a threatening tone with Clive or anyone else. What Clive didn’t know though was that the self-empowerment seminars weren’t really doing much for Maury except draining some fair chunks of money from his savings. No, Maury suspected his wife was cheating on him but he didn’t want to confront her, in truth, the stress was getting to him and it was coming out in his management decisions. What neither Clive, Maury, or Maury wife knew was that the change the stress had made on Maury’s management style would be what got him a promotion a month down the road. He would have more money, more power and, even though his wife was cheating, he’d have a more satisfying sex life. So although Maury never realized it, his wife’s affair was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his adult life. In the end he never confronted his wife about her affair, instead he hid a small video camera in their bedroom and jacked-off while watching his wife fuck another man.
Nicely Aged Hippie
While Lieutenant Crenshaw was wrapping up with General Danielson Desi was about to befriended a fellow many people would call a hold over from the sixties, some would even go as far to say hippie.
Most of the readers are probably well aware of what I mean when I use the hippie but as a writer I can’t make too many assumptions as to what you and I share in common. Surely there are some younger readers that were born well after the sixties, that don’t know Jimmy Hendrix was a real person and they have never seen an Oliver Stone film. So, for readers that aren’t familiar with the term hippie I will try to give you a short description.
In the mid to late 1960’s there were a number of young, idealistic people in the United States of America that started a movement to end what was, as a precursor to the star wars era, termed a political intervention in Vietnam. This peace movement grew and evolved into a social movement based on the belief that money and power was not the end all be all of life, liberty and the American way. Rather, the people who were part of this movement thought that the world should live in harmony and love, that people should live peacefully with one another and nature in general. The movement grew and spread to the young people of other countries and then one day, everyone decided they were wrong and became yuppie’s, changed their OJ and acid for Perrier, Tums and started getting the recommended daily allowance of bran, but that’s another story altogether. The point is, before they decided they had better walk a mile in their adversaries loafers they were called hippies. Dodge was one of those few hippies that didn’t like Perrier, had never really found a pair of loafers that fit properly and had no idea what the recommended daily allowance of bran was.
Just as Dodge’s evolution had stalled so had his van on the outskirts of White Rock. He was holding the hood up with one hand while juggling a flash light and a screwdriver in the other when he heard someone shuffling and squeaking their way down the road toward him.
“Hey man!” Desi was interrupted in his thoughts by a voice from across the road. Desi looked across the road to see a rather hairy male human that seemed to be crawling inside a vehicle stopped to the side of the roadway.
“Hey,” the voice started again, “could you give me a hand here?” Desi glanced up and down the walkway to be sure the human was talking to him and was happy to see no one else around. This could be his first opportunity to gain some insight into the minds of these primitive creatures.
Desi stepped off the sidewalk and onto the road before jumping back to avoid an oncoming car he hadn’t noticed. You see Desi didn’t know what every North American born baby does at a deep genetic level: that drivers see any pedestrian that surprises them or even gets within ten feet of their vehicle is a mortal enemy and should be showered with verbal insults, threatened with physical pain and suffering, and generally treated as if they were attempting to them by throwing their body through the vehicle’s windshield. Thus, the often referred to steering wheel is more properly described as a targeting device for gasoline powered pedestrian seeking missiles.
“Watch were you’re going you moron…,” the voice trailed off into the night as a Styrofoam cup launched from the passing car dropped its load of lukewarm coffee down Desi’s chest.
“ASSHOLE!”
The hairy looking fellow yelled after the speeding car before he came half across the road to guide Desi toward the broken down vehicle on the side of the road as he simultaneously smeared the coffee stains into Desi’s clothing in a pointless attempt to wipe it away.
“ I saw that man! You alright?” He continued before Desi had a chance to answer, “Uptight asshole, probably in a big rush to get to his next stock holders meeting.” The hairy human turned away from Desi and stepped back to the front of his vehicle where he pulled the lid that covered the engine up once more.
“Hey man would help me out and grab a hold of that for me?” he asked.
Desi was still in a bit of shock as he dropped his bag carelessly on the pavement and walked over to grab hold of the vehicles lid as the hairy human had asked.
“My names Dodge by the way,” the human said from half inside the vehicles engine.
“Desi,” Desi replied.
Dodge continued to tinker as he talked to Desi, “Thanks for helping me out man, I had to use the hood prop as an antenna. The radio reception’s great now but every time Moonbeam here needs some tinkering I end up with the hood resting on my head.” Dodge tapped the lid Desi was holding and then trailed off into silence as he concentrated on fighting with a screwdriver and some unseen part of the van‘s engine.
Dodge’s preoccupation allowed Desi to look over the vehicle Dodge had called Moonbeam. Desi didn’t know he was looking at a van but even in though he had never seen such a vehicle before the dim light of the street lights couldn’t hide its disrepair: the colouring of the vehicle was a faded yellow speckled by the various chips and scratches that adorned its body. What must have been the missing prop for the hood was taped into a hole by what must be the driver’s window. Inside the front window Desi could see what he guessed must be religious or ceremonial decorations hanging all along the top of the window, little did Desi know that for some reason someone, somewhere decided that hanging the fringe from curtains along the inside of a vehicles windshield was a neat idea. The wheels of the vehicle seemed amazingly slick; all round the van looked to be rather unsafe and run-down.
“Hey man, can you hold that there for a second?” Dodge shoved a small flashlight toward Desi. Desi grabbed hold of the light that was shoved toward him as Dodge continued talking into what must have been Moonbeam’s tangled and mismanaged engine. “Headed over to the Anniversary celebration, course it won’t be anything like the first one, ” Dodge shook his head and seemed to laugh at something Desi didn’t understand. What Desi didn’t understand was that Dodge was under the assumption that everyone over the age of twenty would know that the 25th Anniversary of Woodstock was going to be celebrated in just over ten days. You see Woodstock was the title given to an all weekend rock concert back in 1969 that was attended by thousands of those young idealistic hippies that wanted to change the world.
Woodstock was the peak of the movement as young people revolted against the system by smoking pot, having sex, and listening to rock music, kind of like a big orgy. Afterward, much like an orgy, the world hadn’t changed the following morning, no one could recall how things had gotten so out of hand and no one really wanted to talk about it. Dodge was going to a little town in New York to celebrate the 25th Anniversary of that peak with thousands of other people that weren’t old enough to remember the first one.
“Damn flashlight, dropped it on the road a while back and it just hasn’t been the same since.” Dodge stuck his head out from under Moonbeam as the flashlight Desi was holding flickered off. Dodge grabbed hold of the flashlight and started shaking it from side to side, “there ya go, just have to encourage it. They make everything cheap so you can’t help but buy more, that’s what it’s all about nowa days…” Dodge paused just as he was beginning his anti-consumer speech, he had just caught a whiff of a disgusting smell. He sniffed at the air again and then went into his anti-pollution tirade as he plunged back under Moonbeam’s hood. “You see, what should be a beautiful evening, sweet and fragrant has been fouled by the,” Dodge kept working and talking as Desi faded off into thought about how he was going to get to his rendezvous point . “Hey man, ya got to keep shaking that thing, can’t see the shit in this engine without it,” Dodge’s voiced broke Desi’s train of thought.
“Uh, sorry,” Desi shook the light from side to side.
Dodge had finished his anti-pollution tirade and had moved on to other things. “So how about you D, where are you headed?”
“New York,” Desi paused, “I think.”
“No shit,” Dodge pulled his head out from Moonbeam and smiled at Desi, “why didn’t ya say so?” Not waiting for an answer Dodge continued as he lovingly closed Moonbeam’s hood, “I would never turn my back on a fellow explorer of the world.”
Desi wasn’t sure what Dodge was talking about but he was sure, pretty sure anyway, that he now had a ride to New York; perhaps things would turn out for the best after all.
Aliens & Borders
Just like the constable Desi had encountered earlier, Daniel MacGregor had been highly trained to evaluate people on first sight. As a customs officer he had to stop would be smugglers, illegal aliens, and families from taking foreign presents to relatives living in the United States. Unlike the constable, Daniel MacGregor was neither very good at his job nor did he particularly like it. You see, what Daniel MacGregor had always wanted to become was a police officer but try as he may he never made it; his attitude, prospective employers had told him, was less than professional. Truth was, David MacGregor's attitude sucked: he hated minorities, teenagers were all hoodlums waiting to happen, seniors were a drain on the economy, and women were just plain screwed up. All round Daniel didn't like most people or any people depending on which day you caught him.
"Citizenship?" Daniel addressed his question to a white, middle-aged man behind the wheel of a Volvo station wagon.
"American," the driver replied truthfully.
"How long were you out of the country?"
"About eight hours - just went to Vancouver on business," the driver again answered truthfully.
"Value of any products being brought back?" Daniel asked.
"Just a pack of gum," the driver, John Till, lied. The truth was John Till had purchased ten kilograms of pure heroine while in Vancouver. The heroine had been hidden inside the tires of the Volvo station wagon and had cost him $1.5 million wholesale. If all went as planned the heroine, once delivered to a garage in the Seattle suburbs, would be sold on the street for over $10 million.
"Okay," Daniel waved John Till through.
There goes the kind of guy America needs more of thought Daniel; to Daniel there was no doubt the man was a family man with a strong work ethic and good conservative politics which as it happens is a pretty good description of John Till.
John Till's white Volvo was replaced by Dodge's rusted and beaten tribute to bad taste, Moon beam.
Just as he had with John Till, Daniel MacGregor performed a quick survey of the vehicle and the people waiting to enter the United States. An old model van that had once been a bright yellow, but had long ago forgotten that, wore patches of rust and dirt. A rather thick antenna was bent half toward the sky and half toward the back of the van. Inside the van Officer Daniels could see bobbles framing the windshield which would in themselves be enough for him to hassle the van's occupants. But of all the oddities to this van there was no doubt that the most glaring oddities were the passengers.
Some anonymous artist's satirical picture of a hippie was sitting in the driver's seat; he wore a red bandana in his long unkempt hair, his jean jacket looked older than him, he was wearing purple tint Lennon glasses, and, to top the picture off, the hand Officer Daniels could see had a rag wrapped around it as a makeshift bandage.
The passenger was no less interesting in his appearance: he was dirty and wet, he had a large stain on the front of his shirt and seemed to be shaking uncontrollably, while mumbling to himself and, as a topper, he looked surprisingly like some has been reporter Officer Daniels had seen on one of his wife’s programs.
"Citizenship?"
"American," Dodge smiled back at Officer Daniels.
"Both of you?"
Dodge turned to look at Desi and then back at Officer Daniels as if to say he wasn’t sure, which he wasn’t. Desi smiled blankly back at Officer Daniels as he was unaware that he had been asked a question, he was deep in thought considering the dismal course of his mission thus far. The Officer cleared his throat as Dodge elbowed Desi and answered for him, “Yup! He’s American too.” Desi had come out of is funk and backed Dodge up with a half hearted, almost cautious nod as he drew his fake id from his wet bag to confirm his citizenship in his own mind.
Officer Daniels watched this scene with disgust, these two were just the kind of people that were destroying America. They didn’t care about anything or anyone and that made Officer Daniels want to wretch; they went through life milking the system, never having to take responsibility for their actions. They were a pox on the society, lazy scum that passed their responsibilities off on others. With that judgement Officer Daniels stood up from his stool and stepped out of his booth to proceed with a search of their vehicle but as he approached the open driver’s window he caught a whiff of air from, a sickly sweet combination of raw sewage, marijuana, and car grease. With his nostrils still in shock Officer Daniels skipped his lecture and any search he was going to undertake, he’d decided these two leeches had better step into the customs office so someone else could search them.
“Just pull the van over to the side and step into the office.”
Clive The Charmer
The drunken pedestrian threw himself against a lamp post and came to a rather wet landing in a small puddle of water, oil, and unidentified bacteria. The car he was diving to avoid came to a sudden stop in front of the light post the drunk had bounced off. The driver hopped out and came around to the curb swearing and yelling at the fallen man for his stupidity and obvious lack of both intelligence and consideration for the property of others.
"You moron, what the hell do you think you're doing? Do you have any idea how much this car costs?" Clive was so enraged spittle was flying from his mouth and down onto the drunk who was still sitting in the puddle with a glazed look on his face. "Well?" Clive asked.
The drunk, finally realizing what had happened and how close he had come to death felt anger build in him until he looked up to see who was spitting on him. "Clive MacDonald! You're Clive MacDonald!"
The drunk stumbled awkwardly to his feet while mumbling something about watching Clive every week and how sorry he was he'd gotten in his way.
"It's all right, don't worry about it", never one to remain frigid to ass kissing Clive calmed a little and took a step back from the drunk.
"Ato graph: cann," the drunk hiccupped, " can I gett ta ya otagraf ?"
Clive borrowed a pen from the drunk and autographed the back of some old receipt the drunk had in his wallet.
"There you go," Clive handed the receipt back to the drunk but kept the pen.
The drunk attempted to hug Clive before stumbling down the street babbling something about celebrities and class before he doubled over and threw up in the back of a convertible parked along the street.
Clive, laughing at the poor bastard that owned the convertible, straightened his jacket and headed up the stairs that led into the Ocean Side Motel. The lobby of the Ocean Side Motel greet Clive with a decor that was on the cutting edge of style - twenty years ago. The colours looked like they had been taken from the bargain bin at a wool shop, yellow, brown, and orange; all the colours that grandmothers the world over used when knitting sweaters for their grandchildren. The lighting was a pale gold colour that came from wood and brass chandeliers hanging from the smoke stained ceiling. Furniture with chrome pipes and framed brown leather sofas, their stuffing popping through tears. The entire lobby smelt as if it had been a public washroom somewhere in its distant past, a purpose it had served more than once through the years. Coming from unseen speakers a static filled instrumental version of Neil Diamond's Love On The Rocks lent its own special flavour to the lobby. The place, other than the music, was a place many people would refer to as 'a shit hole': Clive liked it.
Clive sauntered up to the front desk and threw his garment bag onto the counter before ringing the bell with a short impatient slam.
The sound of the bell reached Stewart Small, a young man with pop bottle glasses, one of the worst cases of acne anyone had ever had, a gambling addiction, and the delusional belief that he was a modern day Robin Hood. He would steal what he could from his various jobs to support his gambling habit while also giving half of what ever he stole to the less fortunate of society as a way of easing his conscience. Stewart was just in the process of helping the needy through the theft of hotel guests' credit card information when Clive rang the bell. Stewart looked up from his work to watch the video image of Clive hovering over the front desk, slamming his hand down on the bell once again. Stewart smiled, he always felt especially pleased when he could rip off an asshole.
Stewart emerged from the office to greet Clive at the front desk, " Good evening sir."
"It must be if you've got time to screwed around and waste other peoples' time," Clive snapped back, the effect of the drunks ass kissing had already worn off.
"My sincerest apologies sir, I surely won't let it happen again," Stewart said while performing a little bow.
"See that it doesn't then. Now, can I get a room or do I need to wait for that too?"
Stewart bit his tongue and kept his comments about Clive to himself, happy knowing that he would ring this bastards credit card up through the roof.
"No, of course not sir. A suite for you then sir?"
"If this dump has such a thing - sure." Clive looked away from the pimple faced reception clerk and began to survey the lobby once more.
"Excuse me sir, I'll just need your signature and a major credit card then."
Clive didn't turn to look at the clerk but instead absently handed him his credit card, Clive's attention had been caught by a small door to one side of the lobby that he hadn't noticed when he first entered the motel. A small sign beside the door announced that nightly entertainment was took place in the motel bar and all motel guests were guaranteed a front row seat. Entertainment in a place like this usually meant one thing: strippers. Clive was beginning to think that this little detour he had be sent on could at least be entertaining, after all he...
"Excuse me sir," Clive turned to the clerk who was holding out a pen for Clive to sign the guest registry.
"Yeah, yeah," Clive grabbed the pen impatiently, as if he had been waiting for the clerk to figure out what was going on. Besides that fact that Clive was an asshole he often acted impatient as a way of covering up his own blunders or slips of concentration he made far too often. What Clive's acting did most of the time was draw attention to his lack of concentration or his own blunders.
"So how's that bar over there?" Clive asked the clerk.
"Well it's a little rough around the edges, not exactly a family establishment," the Clerk replied as he slipped Clive's credit card under the guest registry.
"Strippers?"
"Yes sir, there are strippers," the Clerk coughed as if embarrassed, " I wouldn't venture in there," he added.
"Well," Clive snorted and jacked up his pants, "those sound like two excellent reasons for me to go check the place out."
Clive started toward the entrance to the bar before barking over his shoulder at the clerk, "See that my bags make it to my suite; oh yeah, what's my suite number?"
"It's suite 5b, one of the penthouse suites," Stewart said knowing the title would bring a sarcastic rebuke from Clive.
"One of the penthouses? All the way up on the fifth floor, overlooking the glorious town of Hicksville," Clive made a sweeping gesture with his arm as he walked from the lobby into the bar.
Stewart shook his head in disgust as he gathered up Clive's bags and placed Clive's credit card in his shirt pocket, another victory for the under privileged.
Nothing Says “Come In” Like Strip Search
Desi sat fidgeting in the corner, his damp socks squeaked on the floor as he moved them back and forth nervously. Desi had fully expected to be surprised and a little amazed at some of the customs of humanity but he couldn't help being uncomfortable with the situation he now found himself in: Desi sat in the corner of a small brightly lit room, with little in the way of furnishing, and even less in the way of clothing. There was the chair that Desi sat on, a rather uncomfortable vinyl chair that conspired with the heat to keep him stuck in place. There was a small cabinet which the customs officer had retrieved a pair of gloves from in a back corner while there was a small stainless steel table with a pile of clothes on it in the other.
"Okay Mr. Cleaver," a tall, stern looking customs officer snapped off a pair of latex gloves, "I'll leave you to get back into your clothes."
"Uh...," Desi stuttered, "once I'm changed I'm free to go?"
"No Mr. Cleaver," a tall, stern looking customs officer paused, a small smirk creeping across his face before he replied, "We're still checking your information on the computers - got a few problems though, don't seem to be work'in right. We'll let ya know."
With that the officer turned, the smirk still in place, and stepped out the door which closed with a subdued but definite thud to be echoed by Desi’s large sigh. He couldn't figure out why he was some how extremely uncomfortable with the large customs officer in the room. Sure, he was naked and the officer had conducted an all too thorough search of Desi's various orifices in ways that even the most intimate of Desi's lovers never had but like so many other humans and the few other aliens the officer had searched Desi had assumed that the officer was just doing his job. Much like a doctor, a nurse, or any professional that regularly poked about naked bodies the guard wouldn't even notice the persons nakedness only the presence or absence of illegal contraband - just business. Too bad such assumptions are almost always wrong, with Desi's customs officer the truth was even worse in that strip searches were in many ways the reason the man had become a customs officer. He took every opportunity he could get to strip down another person, latex gloves close at hand, and proceed with a search of their most intimate parts. Detachment was not something this officer had ever felt and perhaps it was that Desi in the back of his mind had picked up on. Nevertheless he was alone now as he pulled his cheeks off the vinyl chair, both chair and cheeks protesting their separation.
Desi stood up and made his way to the table that held his small pile of clothes and began to get dressed. He picked up his still damp if not wet shirt, smelling of coffee, sewage, a slight hint of the pungently sweet air that filled Dodge's van and lost a little of his zeal to cover his nakedness. So far he'd been on the planet for a little less than three hours and it had already been much more eventful than he thought the entire trip would be. Not that he didn't think he would be fascinated by the planet but it had certainly exceeded his expectations which he wasn't so sure he was happy with. The bright spot was that at least no one had discovered he was an alien, the one thing that was going right.
He had just finished pulling on his underwear and was contemplating what he was to do next, if indeed he was allowed to go, when he heard a quiet knock and muffled whisper at the door. He paused, his pants around his ankles as there was another slightly louder knock at the door followed the appearance of Dodge's scruffy face.
Dodge had a large smile across his face although he spoke in a very serious tone. Dodge loved this sort of thing, Dodge lived to be a rebel, it was what he lived for which was a bit sad since he hadn't ever really done anything that rebellious. Sure not saving for retirement while letting his hair grow was rebellious 50 years ago but the truth was he had not so long ago been part of that same establishment that he wished to rebel against, but that is best left for later . For the moment Dodge was thoroughly enjoying himself yet at the same time he didn’t really want to let anyone else know he was enjoying himself. Thus, the conflicting smile and the serious tone.
“Come on man, we’ve only got a sec before they’ll be back.”
By now Desi could only muster a sputtered question like grunt in reply.
“ Gotta amskray – now! While they’re where ever the they hell they are - while they’re gone! Follow me”, Dodge stood in the door way and pointed down the hallway as two thoughts went through his mind:
1) “I wonder where the exit really is?”, and
2) “This would be really cool if Led Zeppelin was playing in the background.”.
Those two thoughts covered Dodge’s entire escape plan; he was pretty much flying by the seat of his pants while Desi was soon to find himself without his on.
“Just let me get my pants…” Desi didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before Dodge grabbed him and yanked him out the door, pants still in hand, feet still bare.
The door shut behind him, Desi’s shoes still dripping from the table.
With no idea where the exit was Dodge saw nothing to do but wait for a sign; some way of deciding which way they should go.
“What are we doing?” asked Desi, hopping on one foot as he tried to lasso the other one with his rebellious pants.
“Shh…wait”, Dodge still had no idea which way they should go
Randy, A Sani-Dump & A Shotgun
While Desi and Dodge were sneaking around the hallways of customs partially clad, the white Volvo that had been ahead of them at customs was just pulling into a nearly deserted highway rest stop.
At one end of the rest stop an old couple had just pulled their RV up to the sani-dump. At the other end of the lot a drunk was passed out under a flickering fluorescent lamp; how he managed to be under the lamp is a story we need not delve into. Suffice it to say one should never hitchhike drunk and, when someone is kind enough to give you a ride, begin by insulting the colour of their car followed closely by insulting their religion.
Our white Volvo pulled into a space in the middle of the parking lot, right in front of the washrooms and just to the side of some bushes that concealed Randy, the last person in the rest stop.
Randy had been sitting huddled over in the shrubs for the last half hour which wouldn't have been too bad if he didn't have the business end of a branch in a rather uncomfortable spot. Seeing the white Volvo drive up gave Randy great relief, it was the import car he had been waiting for. Not any particular import, just an import left unattended long enough that Randy could slip into the driver's seat and not a moment too soon as he felt the first drops of a coming rainstorm.
The Volvo driver was taking his time in his car as he rummaged through the glove compartment, a briefcase, and the glove compartment once more. The rain began to fall in sheets as Randy wondered why he was doing this. Truth was, Randy was doing what he knew. Sure he hadn't always been a car thief, before stealing cars he had been a petty thief stealing money from vending machines, parking metres, and charity donation boxes. It wasn't honourable work but it paid the bills, barely, and besides, as much as Randy wasn't enjoying the branch up his ass or the rain, things could be worse, he could be flipping burgers for minimum.
Randy shifted uncomfortably, slipped and fell right back on the branch, stifling a yell as the Volvo's driver finally emerged from the car, long overdue for a nap and overflowing with caffeine. Even out of the car the driver didn't move very fast as he shuffled and jittered his way to the washrooms, a magazine under one arm.
Randy had trouble standing his legs had cramped and the branch that had attacked him had left a large chunk of itself in his right cheek. As he paused to let his muscles awaken the rain reminded him he had more than just sore muscles to deal with. Leaning to the side with the sliver, Randy tripped from the bushes over to the driver's door.
Apparently the driver of the Volvo wasn't a drug courier because of his smarts as Randy found the door unlocked and the keys still in the ignition.
"My lucky day after all," he said to no one.
Randy took a quick look around: an old couple with their RV and a drunk by a lamp post, all clear. He lifted his leg and began to slide slowly, mindful of the sliver, into the passenger seat when his luck began to run out. The driver who had gone to the washroom only minutes before was returning to the car as he had realized he'd left the keys in the ignition. Seeing Randy, one leg in the car, the driver dropped the Playboy he'd been carrying under his arm, " What the hell do ya think you're doin asshole?"
Randy looked up to see the driver standing 50 feet away under a lamp post, a pistol in his hands. Their eyes met and they froze, and they seemed ready to stay frozen in place until the sani station pump broke the silence with a gurgle. Randy threw himself into the car banging his head on the way in, crying loudly once with the crack of is skull, a second time as the sliver was pushed painfully deeper into his cheek. The driver fired off a shot that hit a tire. Stepping forward for another shot, Randy ducked down behind the wheel as he fought with the emergency brake, the driver stepped on Miss July causing his feet to slip from under him as his second shot hit the light above him in a shower of sparks and glass.
By now the old couple at the RV had moved into action, Mrs. Winston clambering to start the RV as Mr. Winston, an avid hunter, grabbed his shotgun and aimed it from the open door at the drug courier, who was now trying to get up from the hail of glass he had brought down on himself.
Meanwhile Randy had managed to get the emergency brake off and jammed the Volvo into reverse. The transmission complained loudly though as it was jammed into first just as its former driver got off one more shot which was echoed by a shotgun blast and a peppering of obscenities from the RV.
Randy felt a tire go flat as he gunned the engine sending the Volvo, a trail of sparks trailing behind it, around the RV, to slam its way over a cement island and unceremoniously onto the highway.
"For God's sake ma - floor it!", Mr. Winston bellowed as he got off another shot, sending the one time Volvo driver for cover as another light blew apart.
Mrs. Winston, without her glasses, floored the RV ripping the hose from the sani-station, the tank continuing to empty a trail of brown sludge behind the RV as Mrs. Winston guided it RV over top of the highway entry sign and back on to the road.
Silence returned to the rest stop for a second or two before the driver stepped from behind a tree, yelling obscenities, "Shit!" He walked over to his magazine blood coming from the many cuts he had received from the exploding glass, picked it and brushed the glass from it before plodding toward the washrooms still swearing as he kicked the door open before leaving the rest stop in silence yet again.
Over on the far side of the parking lot the drunk beneath the lamp post finally showed signs of life, stood slowly and stretched before he got up and shuffled over to one of the lamp posts that had been a casualty and planted himself beneath it in the new found darkness.