Chapter 1:- What's going on here?
"... you ponder circles of government conspiracies, half truths. Twisted biblical prophecies swirl around inside your spider web filled skull. So, yeah, what if it is real? Then what? You gonna... launch your own black ops strike force? Right. That'll be the day. It comes down to your tech versus theirs right? Well the government, the aliens, fuck. Us passives we are just on the side of the road just like that, that, what is that little migrating crab you know the little Christmas one?"
"The red Carapace." said Cleo.
"Right... The red what?"
Doogie kept spilling out his Youtube education channeling it through his highness like a stream of pee.
A sudden, blinding flash of white light, lit up our front room - we had that oh shit look into each other's eyes - and a second later.
Our windows and floor shook, we all went down... the power dipped, two computer screens shut off.
"Jesus that was close." said Cleo.
"Lets check for the shroom." said Doogie.
We shuffled quickly out the front door and down the steps into the ever present overcast day which was, of course, sixty three years of geo-engineering gone wrong. Other people were already doing what we were doing. A teenage girl walked by us muttering a string of curse words. Three Whistlers buzzed like a stricken hornet's nest flying down to us from the nearby airspace. These looked like toy RC quadricopters but were super fast and no bigger than humming birds. All were equipped with powerful, digital facial recognition software that interfaced with some massive unknown data mine. At any given time of day you would expect to see one or two of these damn things hovering around in continuous surveillance.
To everyone's delight, a small murder of crows were able to attack one device. The other two Whistlers zipped away in a vertical climb that the crows could not match. On the ground it's tiny parts were pulled and flung away by jet black beaks, it's propellors slowed, stopped, and it's tiny LED lights faded out. The crows cawed in triumph then waited for it. A stranger nearby tossed a half eaten burrito to them and they hopped away from the mauled machine and huddled around the slab of burrito feasting.
The crows had become our accidental allies. It became an unwritten rule to always reward them when they took down a Whistler. Cleo pulled shades from his pocket and put them on.
"Shit - almost forgot. That was like, three blocks away - no more."
"I wonder who bought it." I said.
"You know who. Anyone pushing the wrong buttons is who." said Doogie.
"And at least a few innocents." I added.
"There. I see it."
Cleo pointed over a tree line where the mushroom cloud rolled up slowly. A fire burned within the cloud lighting up the gray and blue smoke. There was no wind so the cloud held it's shape. Other eyes on the street watched. Like a mini nuke bomb we all stared at it's form. The hood rolled under, the fire bubble billowed, driving it skyward, the fire within churning and churning. It was mesmerizing and In some bizarre way beautiful, unless of course... your in pain because of it. A trio of distant sirens filled the air. The lawnmower sound reached our ears. But there were no lawnmowers, that wasn't it. The big missile carrying drones had that faraway doppler-changing lawnmower pitch.
"A Husqvarna." said Doogie.
"Yeah." I said.
We gave them different names. Bombers were Husqvarna's. Searchers were Toros. There were others but It was time to go. Like little sheep we would march back into our pens, back to our consumer programming boxes. The street dispersed, our good neighbours also went back inside. They all knew the game. We glanced around, acknowledging each other, vacant eyes on vacant eyes. I stood for a moment at the doorway looking out. The ones outside now were our shadowy intelligent crows that lived in the trees and far up above, in the geo-engeneered sky, were the Whistlers, hovering, three hundred feet above us all - looking for dregs.
How did my life get this way? The sociopaths were running the asylum.
In my world dear reader, you are born owing three million to the system. Yes - owing three million. That is the price of the gift, of being born into this world. Only one in two hundred thousand ever pay it all back and that happens in old age. As long as you make the minimum monthly payments - you stay free. If you miss three payments they come for you. You are taken to the Fema camp where you are put to work. And there you shall stay until death. The majority of the population just lives with this debt. We're truly fucked.
O' dear reader, O' would-be illuminator of this world gone dark, if only I could trade places with you. If only I could step out of these sentences and be you reading my own words. Yes. I would trade you for your problems. It is only then that you could feel this insane burden of this world gone hard against humanity.
I have ventured past the house of the rising sun, beyond the void of whispering trees during an LSD night and have awakened, crying for the loss of my mother's passing. Wounded souls reveal the unspeakable.
I will not damn you for inexperience. I would only ask from you a slight measure of leeway, a gift of latitude, an agreement between us that you might access, that you might unscrew, that tiny thing holding the facts of your perception tightly together. Just peek into this parallel earth as it is and discard along the way that which might disturb you or bend you wrongly.
Only with the company of my friends could I remain functional here. I ignored the predictive mainstream corporate created music, instead, I plugged in to my little purple player, listening to singer-less soundtracks. I was sick of the web T.V. and the music videos full of narcissism, notions of what we're supposed to be, as long as you don't give up on yourself - more consumer programming nonsense, ugh, I rejected it all, we all did under this small apartment dwelling.
I wore my square, narrow, dark blue shades looking like some lost white dude wannabe Ray Charles throwback from an underground forgotten cyberpunk flick. I was bullshit, I had really checked out. Slacker extraordinaire. I hid like an enochlophobic on a mission. Don't fucking approach me sales people. The banks and their greed, the government's killing for energy. Our country had become a self perpetuating war machine selling weapons and looking to start wars and being known and viewed as the world's biggest bully. Congrats. All of the other countries on the planet hates us, hates Americans. A hate filled parallel earth.
In this parallel universe the media was, has, and always will be - under the thumb of the multinational corporations and the weapons makers. They have always controlled the actions of the military. My hand covers my mouth, what have I just wrote to you... how long... before I'm taken to the FEMA camp?
Our only reliable news source came from a long standing, now subverted, Wikileaks site and Doogie's secret online contacts. This is also where the rest of the disgruntled parallel survival population goes to read on how our foreign relations are actually doing. And you had better have some serious encryption on your search engine lest big brother take an interest in your interests. Do I sound bitter? Things do stray down the path of apprehension here, that Twilight Zone premonition, that slow march toward a nuclear nightmare that surely must arrive. Doesn't it always when things approach their darkest hour?
The Native American Indians were right about me the white man and our likeness. They were right about my ancestors. The end of humanity on this world is nigh.
But there's more. There's the aliens, and I don't mean the aliens that come from another country, What I like about the Aliens is this: 1. Our government cannot stop or control them in any way. 2. My enemie's enemy, is my ally, unless they try that anal probe shit. 3. If our government is working with the aliens then we're all fucked royally and the endgame will likely be deeply horrid.
Yes, aliens, they are the new colonials at our shores. Hear their poetry, watch our history divide.
We wondered around in the apartment defeated. My co-conspirators lived with me in this two bedroom doing the things people do when trapped like rats in a controlled mess. If someone cooked or got food the rule was to share but that was frequently ignored and we all suffered a little malnutrition. You had to weight yourself each week just to make sure dizzy spells were kept away. Beer cans seemed to appear on the scarred black coffee table at any hour of the day along with the ever present three foot bong that laid sideways underneath. It's bulbous curves held a shallow marsh of bongwater stench that hung in the stale air. It reminded us of our broken existence.
The alien question came front and center after my little Hawaiian vacation. After returning I made the mistake of leaking what I had seen there to Cleo. He is the educated one. He is the one Doug, Doogie, Doogs (sounding like noob) always likes to swear at - cause Doogie thinks Cleo sold out to the system by going to school and getting a degree. Cleo owes thousands for it and there aren't any jobs, not jobs that he was schooled for anyways and he wouldn't take the shit jobs. Since we are all in debt anyway it didn't really matter to him. But he wanted no part of FEMA camps. They, the State, are after him, for his school loans and he is in hiding, living with us. He has to swallow the wet cat poop Doogs throws at him every day. Not literally, I mean the slander of their relationship. Cleo sleeps on the sofa, our public litter box. Sadly very dirty because we don't vacuum much but it beats the Fema camps.
Doogie could be convincing. But the problem was, as always, proving facts. The wonder smoke that he got from his contacts at the clinic tended to blur those facts. We never really knew what we were smoking. Getting an I.D. card would be great, but then the authorities receive that information, and it's archived for some soul branding purpose of the likes only those of a Gestapo mentality can celebrate. Of course Cleo, Doogs and I, didn't mind the baked part. The highness. It gave our conversations a smoke-and-mirrors narration, a blurry crust that shielded us from the possibility of the situation of being too real and uneatable. Life in this reality had a constant wall of fear waiting just outside our own door.
"... that triangle that you saw Jim, I bet that was one of the Grays..." Doogs was doing a yoga move, the warrior, he stood up straight and looking up, brought his arms overhead - dope smoke shot out from his perched lips.
The first time I saw something, yes a UFO, was way back in two thousand twenty one. I had just got off the job. It was dusk. My co-worker and I were walking out to our cars. The company building was located on top of a hill so we had a beautiful view of the area as far as the chemtrail haze would allow. He noticed it first and pointed. It was as if a solid black line, the length from your thumb to your pinky, had been painted there, in the white sky at about two o'clock. It looked like a black felt marker. It was just frozen there in the sky, spooky, silent. Zero movement. Zero sound. I felt my stomach tighten like a bag of ice was placed on my spine. And then, as if it had noticed that we had noticed it - the thing blurred at speed, across the horizon and out of sight. Gone. Zip. Just like that. The whole moment from when I saw it lasted maybe three seconds.
We looked into each other's eyes. Roger seemed to swallow before speaking.
"You saw that right? Tell me you saw that."
"I saw it... I did. Wait... what the fuck did we just see?"
"Maybe it was military. Just... don't ever forget that you saw it."
Working at that company together I never mentioned it to anyone else and neither did Roger. It had become this weird little secret that we couldn't share. Society's vibe was, if you have seen one, then you're on a specific political side. That was of course a form of intimidation. You knew of them, or, you were brainwashed. The media had projected this rare conflict into the public mindset. If you were aware, you were awake, but avoided. Awake meaning, aligned with a political value. So to bring it up had become admission of taking a side. Admission cornered you somehow.
Talk of (that thing the UFO) was in private around trusted friends only. We tried to explain away what it might have been but it would not fit into any experience or in any explanation except for, our own military or absurdly advanced beings with superior technology. After months we stopped talking about it. Of course it was forever burned into my mind. But I would never confide in anyone that was not deeply trusted, not in this place - this world.
One day, seven years after I left that particular job (I stupidly) reported the sighting to a UFO agency online just because I felt some strange urge and obligation to do so after watching a show on the web about unidentified flying objects.
Now, I had blabbed to the world what I had seen. So now they have me on record. Obviously I wasn't thinking clearly. In retrospect I realized that the sightings haunt you, urging you into doing things. Things you shouldn't be doing if... you were on that other side of the political fence.
Then it happened again.
I had saved for years. I was driving in Hawaii just recently with my girlfriend at night. It was around eleven thirty PM, we were heading south. In L.A. the stars are nearly faded out, from the chemtrails, but on the Big island there is wind and it clears randomly, the white blanket parts for a short time, and it's as if you are marooned on a distant space station. The Milky Way dots across the night sky as clear as a polka dot dress in the sun. My hand kept walking over to her thigh, but she kept pushing it away, but I couldn't keep my hands off of her, it was going to be a wild sex night and I was thinking deeply about it worried that the day may have tired her beyond my twisted plans.
I jumped in my driver's seat. She unnecessarily pointed through the windshield, her voice was shrilled, alarmed. I had already spotted it as well. I was in shock more at her sudden outburst, not knowing this side of her either, but "There" was all she needed to say.
For a moment, a single, bright, deep green light hung in the sky directly in front of us about a half a mile ahead up in the sky. Our windows were down on our rental car and the air was cool and fresh. Looking through the front windshield that single light became three, then six , then nine lights, forming a triangle. Connecting lights came on to all three corner lights. Little rows of greenish yellows. I felt numb at that moment. This was an altogether different feeling than the first one that I saw so many years ago. My girl's hand gripped my arm at the steering wheel. This triangle was roughly the size of my hand held up to the windshield. The triangle slightly rotated slowly. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck as if a mild current was being applied. She felt it too, her worried face looking into mine. Suddenly we jumped, as tiny infrequent blue sparks crackled over our arms, legs, and faces. It was like, one of those mosquito zappers. I did all I could to stay of the road. I let up on the gas, the car slowed.
"What? Don't slow down!"
The sparks stopped. But I felt as if I was in a spinal mercury radiology hospital test or something. It had frozen me for a few seconds. I finally managed press my foot down on the pedal. The object did not seem to get larger or smaller. Now doing fifty-five, it was matching our speed... staying distant but within reach, and we were the only car on the road. The craft, like the other, was dead silent. The car passed through the night, the wind noise was at the windows as it had been for hours. But now it seemed vacant, dream-like. The triangle moved away so fast that we could not perceive it's location. It was simply no longer there - like it had winked out.
"Grab my little camera just in case."
Just in case. In case of what? In case in comes back. Please don't come back I repeated in my mind. And I knew my girlfriend was thinking the same thing even though she had removed her seatbelt, her eyes glued, she was perched at the edge of her seat like an English Setter.
There was something sinister about it's actions. I mean, if they were friendly wouldn't they just appear in the daytime so this phantom-like appearance would be less of a shock?
A second UFO sighting in nine years. That's what started me off. I wanted to know more, I needed to know more. I obsessed. Like a virus we all caught the UFO fever.
And when by chance I ran into that co-worker Roger from years ago, Cleo and Doogie were with me. It was all meant to be, they immediately asked him. And that did it. If they hadn't believed me before, hearing Roger's account - set them in stone, pun intended.
"... from what I've read the Grays are kind of just reps, you know? Not really in control, like they are being controlled by someone else and all. A sort of mind control from another alien from someplace else."
Doogie reached over, grabbing the mini zeppelin from Cleo's fingers.
"Great, great, now that doesn't complicate things." Cleo smiled that little smile he had when he smelled bullshit.
"Regardless, and I know, you both agree we shouldn't pursue it."
Doogie stood in front of us stepping up on the coffee table again. We were his imaginary fan base. He wore dark brown multi-pocketed cargo shorts that hung past his knees with black laceless sneakers and the ever present black burglars hat that covered his Howard Stern-like, long black curly hair.
"In my worldly wisdom and rock solid spite I hold for this system, I will determine the measure of our progress by... the amount of resistance we receive on our quest for the truth in this otherworldly subject, if that's what it is."
Cleo quickly spat out at him.
"Ahem, what else would it be if not otherworldly?"
"Military secrets? Indigenous craft created by our own race of course with help from..."
He turned his finger pointing up.
"I hope that you would expect me to undertake this assignment with a healthy draw from the oxygen of scientific skepticism and logical explanations. Without that leveling, our revelations, if any, will feel empty."
"Aye aye." We replied while puffing on our blunts.
He stepped off the table and flopped into the stained orange easy chair, something I picked up from Good Will for a measly ten bucks. I had no idea that what we were about to do would send us all down a trail of tears.