The story of one, simple-minded man, from a simple place, who got tired of takin' it up the ass from life (both literally and figuratively), and decided that he wasn't the ONLY one who could get SCREWED...
So, in the back of my truck, I've got this salad-tong-faced thing, and as I look back, he's waking up.
I was a fourteen year old boy, on a windy night in Southern Alabama. I had just finished up with my daily paper route to all of the good, simple folk along North Sycamore Street. I locked my bike up in the shed beside our house, and I walked through our back yard, onto our porch. My red hair seemed to bustle under my cap, as I took it off and got a bath. My mom said that I should always say my prayers, so I did, like they taught me in Sunday School. I was having this dream about a young bosomy, blonde-haired girl with big brown eyes, when all of a sudden my room on the upper floor of my house was awash in a mad light!
And since the year was nineteen ninety-four, The Sign, by Ace Of Base, was playing on my radio. I saw the sign, and when I opened up my eyes they have been probing me now, for the last 20 years. Over and over I have been kidnapped. For two decades, I have been a slave. Whenever they have wanted me, they have come through my window, destroyed my sleep, and left me, in the end, legs-spread-wide inside my room, on my bed. Not only have they probed me, but they've shown me things, fantastic things, otherworldly things. They did it just to see how I would react, I Guess.
I woke up on the first day in 2014. I could taste the beer on my breath. I farted. I'd had enough. For 20 years, they had tormented me, by probing me, and for God-Knows-What reason! And showing me videos of terrible things like a snake woman, I guessed, who ate her snake-child on a stage, just to live... hearing it scream like that. I could never forget! And other things, like a nest of black-hole creatures who ingested the space around them for sustenance and spoke a strange language, filled with obscene absences. It was enough to drive me mad, I tell you! I just couldn't be a shitty carpenter and be used-up at that rate. It's like something had to give. Am I right!?
I got ready for my current job. We were working on a house outside of town, where a neighbor's overhanging tree fell onto the barn of an old farmer, who stowed his archaic tractors in there. We had a crew that were designed to make his problems disappear. The only question's who was going to pay for such a destructive display? But, the old farmer seemed like the forgiving type, so it shouldn't have been too tough.
I readied my tools on the back gate of my red pick-up truck. Wrapping my red bandanna around my head, I took in the soft air, as I place my tools now in a grey colored wheel-barrow, and I slowly made my way into the entrance of the barn.
The damage was mostly structural, and to the integrity of one side of the barn and to the roof, in general. My client, the old man, gave me a beer as I left for the night, after a long day of assuaging his worries and fixing his roof-top. It was my first but not my last, as I sat and I drank, and I begin to think about my life.
How many years had they come and got me? Testing me, molesting me. Upsetting me. It's like how could a small-town-no-good-drunken-fellow, like me, live? I didn't have a girl-friend, or even a wife. It's just me and the damn ESPN-news, and beers, and bottle caps, and old shoes. A worn out and untested existence, with nothing to show for it, and what did they expect me to do for the next twenty years, just straggle along, and resign to be pronged, forever? This was MY life!
Essentially, I was waiting for an excuse for this to be over. Quite blatantly, mind-numbingly. I drugged myself up with beers, obsessively. I dragged myself through my days, like an old dog counting fleas, with my tail between my knees...plotting my vengeance on them, at first, became like a fairy-tale. Then a novel. Then a PLAN. I waited for my time to strike, with only my vendetta in my hand. And days drug on like out-of-sequenced episodes of a soap opera, seen from another room, on mute.
Press the pause button on.
...I came to my senses on a table in front of one of the grey little-ones with the salad-tong-faces. He was adjusting his elbow, as he greased up a dildo, in the guise of a device, that would tell them something that I could only guess at. What the fuck could they be learning from my rectum? I don't know, but they always went IN THERE! Never failed! Why, I don't know. Did we, as a human race, have all of our information registered up there like some form of bar-code, maybe?...Maybe that was why. I don't know. My anus was splitting, not strictly for shitting. It was NOT pretty. I was so tired of all of that.
I came to my senses on the table, and I guess they didn't anesthetize me enough, because I remembered some of the things that they were saying, and I used them in my plan. So, I stored them away for another day.
When they were finished with me, I lay there, looking up. They could see that I was distracted, and that my mind was unquestionably active, so I wondered if they even cared a bit. I was formulating. When they left me at my house, I woke up in my bed, but this time, there was something new working, inside of the grand network of my head....
.....as I lay there stretched out, all legs-akimbo, looking like a young bimbo. I heard them talking in their grey's, salad-tong-faced dialect. I've learned over 40 different languages from them. I had no choice, they needed me to learn for their experiments. At first it was all small talk. Like how to say No or Yes. But now I could recite, intergalactic bible passages. It all took time. I overheard them talking about where they were at, where their ships were parked and cloaked, and all of that. Shop talk. It was nothing special. It was an extremely banal conversation, for a group of extraterrestrials....and that got me to massive thinking.
So now I'm drinking.
And I'm driving, Alabama behind me. Headlights are blinding, and I've got no plan.
I hardly ever do think ahead. I just knew what I wanted and that was it, and now I'm dead.
Or for the very first time, I feel alive. I've got a cigarette in my mouth, and a strong urge to drive.
I turn the radio down and remember...
See, I was clever...I heard what they said as I lay there on that table, when they talked about the locations of their ships, one of their otherworldly verbal slips, was that on a farm where they had landed and were now stranded, they had struck a person's tree before it crashed down on a barn. And it occurred to me as I lay there, as they inserted the metal rod, that the location of their ships was perhaps given to me by God.
For my vengeance most Divine, I was even drinking wine, Bartles and Jaymes to be exact, as I pondered on this fact. It seems that where I was financially contracted to, was actually exactly where they had crash-landed at, and where they were still. So, I loaded up my truck with a ladder, and I put on some of the best Nirvana, singing Come As You Are, as I tied up my red bandanna around my head. I plotted out a course that would burn off all my assorted emotional warts, so to speak.
As I drank and shook my head, and turned my anger towards the skies, well maybe just below them, as they weren't so very high, using my aluminum ladder that I propped against the bottom of the ship. It was invisible so it weren't so hard to think that I would slip. And as I opened up the hatch, I was just able to snatch, with my carpentering hands, one of them little grey men, that had always been the ones who had done experiments on me, time and again, and had done all of those so terrible things, to my rear end.
And so now I'm in my truck, knowing I don't give a FUCK, as I drive beyond the Alabama line, drinking fake wine, moonshine, and tasteless, cheap American beer. With a little alien turd, who I can see through my rear-view mirror. And as things are getting clearer I can just process the fear, or as it were I've forgotten if it ever really mattered much at all, cause I'm hammered and I'm hungry for the first time in my life, for a little thing called dignity and the prospect of revenge. And as things move ever closer to my purpose as abductor, to that final act that's coming round the bend, when I pull up to a rest-stop, park my truck there for the night, and I'll stick so many things up that nasty little creep's rear end.
