Underground Informer
Volume 5 Issue 18
November 5, 1994
Page 3


A.L.F. 2, Part 8  (continued from previous page)

                                                Copyright (c) 1994 Delta 1...

     "Time for the show." announced the silver man as a picture of the Earth 
formed in my mind.  It was as if a rich, deep blue ball tipped with white and 
frosted with masses of gray and white cotton-like clouds had been painted on 
black velvet.  From the surface of the ball, varying shades of greens and 
browns that I knew to be the outlines of continents peeped out from under the 
cottony white masses.  It seemed for a moment some rare jewel hung on the 
bosom of the universe, and then it seemed to explode in a rain of bright 
lights.  "There goes the neighborhood," moaned the rabbit.

     Like a swarm of angry bees, the lights danced across the surface of the 
globe, obscuring it from sight.  "This is the interesting bit," conveyed the 
silver man as the motes of light swirled around the planet, blinked and went 
out.  "In the normal course of events, the planet should break up into rubble.  
Its moon should slingshot off, perhaps attaching to another planet or smashing 
into your sun.  Now as your planet is sitting there untouched rather than 
being reduced to cosmic rubble, I'd say we have a mystery here," lectured the 
silver man.  

     "Let me see if I've got this right.  You want me to help you destroy my 
home and only planet?" I asked. 

     "If you've nothing better to do."

     "And if I don't help you?"

     "Well, we could have you for lunch." 

     "Oh."

     "We're not going to eat you.  You probably taste awful."      

     "Knowing I'm not the special of the day makes me feel much better.  So 
what strange and bitter torment awaits me if I don't help you out?"

     "Well, in that case we really have only one option."

     "What's that?"

     "We will turn you over to your government.  No doubt they will force you 
to make love to Nancy Reagan."

     The pit of my stomach threatened to leap out my throat and strangle me.  
"So, how can I be of help?" I inquired.   

     "We need you to talk to your government as our liaison--under our 
protection, of course."

     "Will the government honor that?"

     "If they try not to, just remind them they could be dinner," grinned the  
silver man.  Then he added, "Beam him down, Scotty."

     I wanted to protest that I had just had lunch and shouldn't be beaming 
anywhere, but it was too late.  A sick feeling passed through me.  As I became 
solid again, I lurched for something to hold onto, grasped a blurry figure I 
thought was a potted palm and tossed my cookies.  "Well, I'm, umm, I'm not 
gonna forget this soon, young man," muttered what I had taken to be potted 
palm tree.  Before I could even try to focus in on the speaker, a number of 
blurs crashed into me, bore me to the floor, and started pounding on me.  I 
hoped someone was getting all this on video tape.

     After being clubbed into submission, hog-tied, gagged, and frisked, they 
dragged me down a long hallway and down a flight of stairs, then tossed me 
into a lightless room and slammed the door.  As if to clear up any doubt on 
the subject of their feelings about me, speakers roared to life as Roseanne 
Barr sang the greatest disco hits of the '70s to me.  Clearly I was in the 
grip of nasty, mean and utterly cruel people without any redeeming qualities 
whatsoever. 

     After a time that seemed like ages when perceived through a haze of pain 
and the endless mental assault of singing that sounded far too much like chalk 
on a blackboard, they came to get me.  My vision was still blurry and I 
couldn't seem to focus well on forms.  I hoped it was just a side effect of 
the beaming and not from one of the thousand points of light they beat into my 
head. 

(Continued on next page)

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