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10 X 20: JOSE CHUNG'S Doggett, Jose Chung, and "The Father of Roswell" have a close encounter of a bureaucratic kind... |
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* * *
(Excerpt from unpublished manuscript
found in hotel room entitled “ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN” by Jose Chung.
FBI evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Mostly, it is my
fault. Partly, I needed the time
off. But, in truth, the talented
never really die, and I am SUPERBLY talented.
Also, I owe too much on back taxes.
As a crusader of the wrongs in this world, when facing
the veil of death, I discovered one all-important fact: As a person, I was
a failure! I decided to right that
wrong. I decided to write something
that would change lives, which would improve the human animal, which would
secure a way of life most cherished by those of a bygone era.
I decided to write…
A COOK BOOK!
I knew a man once named Frank Black, who was quite possibly
the most depressing human being on the face of the earth.
He spent his life digging into the minds of the horrid individuals
this society was capable of creating.
But, when he was at home, alone in his own kingdom, he was a happy man.
His secret: He cooked! I
was a witness. I saw him!
Chopping onions, washing carrots, and joking with his lovely daughter
about past events I was a stranger to.
All this from just cooking!
Now, please, before you judge me, before you say Jose Chung
– the greatest writer of our age – has sold out to the pimps of the publishing
world, before you say all of that (which would not be far from the truth)
let me just say, proudly…..you may be right!
It is almost
Give it up, buddy! You’re outnumbered!
Moments ago, however, I had a much different view of the world.
Moments ago, when I was given the chance to know all the answers.
Moments ago, when someone else….accepted.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
6:42 AM:
All Special Agent John Doggett wanted to do in life was
obtain a position as deputy director of the FBI. Now, all he could hope for
was to beat the ward’s janitor to the donut machine for the only jelly donut
in the whole building. Progress was
a tricky bitch, when she wanted to be.
Dashing to the end of the second-story machine, Doggett
eagerly took out his two dollars in change, dropping the eight quarters in
with an almost Olympian pride.
“Take that, you donut-eating bastard.” He eagerly smiled.
Pushing the button for his donut, Doggett heard a telltale
grind from the dispenser, but no jelly donut appeared.
“What the hell?” Doggett looked both up and down the hallway.
No one was visible. Doggett
kicked the machine. “Give me my damn
donut!”
Nothing.
Doggett heard someone laughing.
Turning toward the laughter, he saw the janitor chewing away on
his prized donut.
“Foiled again,” he pouted.
Doggett had to settle for coffee and a cherry Pop Tart
.
“Ah, If I were king.” he mused, heading for his office.
Doggett entered an empty office.
He slowly, sadly, started to chew away on his first Pop Tart
.
“Agent Doggett?”
The thunderous and authoritative voice of Assistant Director
Skinner disturbed Doggett’s melancholy.
Skinner was giving the FBI agent a curious stare.
“Yes, sir?” Doggett asked, choking down his breakfast,
straightening his tie.
“What are you doing here?”
Skinner scanned the empty office.
Doggett wasn’t supposed to be in the building.
Everyone on the X-Files was approved for an overdue vacation.
The accounting department had recently audited the FBI and had
made the amazing discovery that, since its creation eleven years ago, no
agent associated with the X-Files had ever taken significant time off from
the job. When this was brought to
Skinner’s attention, he took action.
“Well, sir…” Doggett started to explain.
“Damn it, Agent Doggett, I ordered you to take some time
off.”
“I know.”
“Then why aren’t you out somewhere, fishing, or something?”
Doggett started to fidget nervously.
“Sir, I’m terrible when it comes to managing my free time.
I’d go crazy. What are vacations,
anyway? You make plans; they never
turn out the way you want them to.
You always end up bunking with someone you hate.
And you always get sick when you drink the water.
Frankly, sir, I’m safer here.”
Skinner placed his hands on his hips, doing his best to
hold back an admiring smile. “Ever
hear of bottled water, Agent Doggett?”
Doggett smiled, saying nothing.
He offered his friend and superior officer a chair.
“Pop Tart!” Skinner proclaimed, picking up the remaining
snack. “Ate millions of these back
in my academy days.”
“Be my guest,” Doggett invited, realizing that breakfast
had been a failure all the way around.
He made a mental note: Have big lunches.
There was an awkward moment. Both
men didn’t know what to say.
Roswell, New Mexico
16 miles northwest of Brizell Ranch
“Crash Site”
When an ordinary person thinks of the small New Mexico
Township of Roswell, they usually have one of four pictures in their mind:
One: Historic – the original site of the 509th
Atomic AirWing, the United States’ first military
outfit capable of delivering an atomic bomb.
Two: “Fictional” – the town where the aliens landed.
Three: Entertainment – the small town that gave birth to
a star: Demi Moore.
And four: Tourist Trap – snap a picture where E.T. landed,
and don’t forget to visit the UFO Museum on Main Street.
Sitting up in the mountains, late at night, Oliver Henderson
knew and hated each and everyone one of these images the world attributed
to his friendly little town. Say all
you want about Roswell, there were never any drive-by shootings here, each
took care of their own and were always there to lend a helping hand when and
if someone needed it. The big cites
could keep their sad mental pictures of Roswell.
He had his!
Like most people in Roswell (the normal ones!) Henderson
felt that the famous so-called “Roswell Incident” was nothing but a bunch
of bunk! All this talk about the Army
finding and holding an alien craft, was nothing more that what his father
used to call Army “SNAFU” (Situation Normal and All Fouled Up).
Most Army jocks couldn’t tell Buicks from biscuits.
So when they spotted a weather balloon, they thought it was a Flying
Saucer.
Henderson forgave them that much.
But when people started taking the rare mistake made by Lt. Col.
Jesse Marcel as a conspiracy theory, turning his town into a freak show, that
was where he drew the line, and his forgiveness wore thin.
Anyone who worked with or for the government knew how screwed up
it really was. What most UFO hound
dogs took as government evasion, or cover up, was nothing more than homegrown
Yankee incompetence.
Why was the “Roswell Incident” so “covered up” by Uncle
Sam? Truth is, according to Henderson,
Uncle Sam probably didn’t even know where Roswell was until people started
bitching.
“Damn alien bitches!” Henderson chuckled.
Not that many ranchers bothered to ride horses anymore.
Mostly, they drove around in glorified station wagons called SUV’s.
Not Henderson! Nothing said
freedom more to him than a moonlight ride through one’s own land, with nothing
between him and the Earth but his horse.
Bud, Henderson’s horse, started to become a little jittery.
“Hold your horses, bud, and let a man roll his own.”
Henderson hated store-bought cigarettes.
All he needed were Zigzags and a little pouch of Bugle Boy
. Licking the wrappings, he rolled
one more of an infinite number of cigs he planned to smoke before he died.
He glared up at the full moon, cursing the powers of advertising.
“Damn commercials,” he said, puffing away.
A small trail of smoke left his nostrils.
“Never worry about fences again, my ass!”
Henderson had always had a problem sleeping.
One night, he was watching one of those infomercials, pushing products.
Most of the stuff they were selling was crap, but, and he was ashamed
to admit it, one product caught his eye.
Running a sheep ranch was no easy feat.
One always had a problem with a stray leaving the ranch, either
being killed by an oncoming car or lost in another’s herd.
When that happened, there was always trouble.
However, Henderson saw a new device which,
when placed on an animal like a dog’s collar, promised to keep one’s pet
within a certain space. He bought fifty,
thinking himself smart.
The damn sheep still ran away!
Henderson was just finishing up his cigarette when he spotted
something moving in the shrubs. New
Mexico had as many hills as it did grains of sand.
He couldn’t make out the shape, but he could hear its movement.
The subtle crackle-crackle of dry grass.
“Damn sheep.” He
huffed, “I should have listened to my dad and become a cow rustler.”
Pulling on his horse’s reins, he moved off towards the
noises.
Something shiny caught his eye.
The moon was beaming down on a clear night sky, making
it possible for Henderson to see for miles.
A bright light, unnatural to the area, materialized with a fiery
orange glow. At first, Henderson mistook
it for a fancy glow stick.
“What the hell?”
He squinted his eyes, focusing toward the light.
“Damn tourists.”
He headed toward the light.
* * *
(Excerpt from ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN
by Jose Chung
FBI evidence #567-HG-4532-X)
In my many travels through the tombs of American Government,
I have encountered several souls, who
though totally terrestrial could almost qualify as alien.
Drab little paper-pushers who spend their whole lives hoping for
just one pure moment of adventure – one moment of honest fulfillment.
Which makes me sad for them, because that moment never comes.
There are those in the FBI who do experience adventure.
They are dedicated, hard-working souls who, when death comes, will
be able to sit back and enjoy the ride.
That is, perhaps, why “the powers that be” have decided to hide them in
the basement. Jealousy’s a bitch,
isn’t it?
In any case, only one of these dedicated soldiers was left
standing as I wandered into the office of the FBI’s X-Files.
John Doggett: Boy Ranger.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
“Hello?”
Doggett looked up from yet another disappointing Pop Tart,
doing his best to control his temper.
He never wanted to kill someone before, but the janitor was coming close
to the mark.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Doggett noticed a drab little man, tired, worn down, but
still possessed of an untapped energy just waiting to come out.
The man wore glasses, thick glasses.
The kind of glasses that said a lot to Doggett’s powers of observation.
“Are Special Agents Dana Scully or Fox Mulder in today?”
Doggett knew he was dealing with another nut.
“Ah, no, sir. They
are…away.” Doggett got up, extending
his hand. “I’m Special Agent John Doggett.
How may I assist you?”
“Doggett?” the man said, pulling out a tiny book, scanning
several pages inside. “Oh! Mulder has
told me about you. You devil!” he
started to laugh.
“Ah, who are you?”
“I’m Jose Chung.” He paused. “Perhaps you know me?”
Doggett paused, thinking.
“No. Should I?”
Chung frowned. “Damn
the video game generation. I’m THE
Jose Chung. Boy Genius.
Writer! Scholar!
Visionary! Lover.”
Doggett’s face remained blank.
“I did an infomercial for In Search
Of…last month, for Columbia House?”
“Oh!” Doggett beamed.
“At last! A home
run!” Chung giggled. “Mulder said you
weren’t much of a reader.”
“He did.” Doggett’s
features turned hard. “I’m going to
have to talk with him about that one.”
Chung let out an ominous noise. “Let
me get to the point, then.”
“Please.”
Chung pulled out a torn and ketchup-splattered piece of
paper. “I have here, Agent Doggett,
the Holy Grail of UFO stories. I have
here, a missing chunk of the Roswell Incident.”
With a flare of the dramatic, Chung placed the paper on
Doggett’s desk.
Doggett started to eat his first Pop Tart
.
“The…Roswell Incident.”
Doggett mulled, reading the paper.
“Almost all accounts of the alien encounter, back in 1947,
have to do with the stories of a crashed saucer, or saucers, alien bodies,
and a giant government coverup.”
“Yeah, I know the story, sir.”
“No, Special Agent Doggett.
You don’t.”
Doggett stopped eating.
“What are you talking about.”
Chung pointed to his paper.
“I have conclusive proof that not one, not two, but three alien
crafts were involved in this crash.
There was a bomber pilot whom I have interviewed who has testified to me,
that the government had overlooked this vital fact.
He was the pilot who flew the alien bodies, and the UFO, to an
airbase in Ohio.”
“And?”
“And? Agent Doggett, he swore that there was another piece
of the alien craft that was, even in 1947, reported as missing.
It was assumed by those in charge that the missing piece had been
utterly destroyed during the disaster.
But this pilot I know said that he knew several people who know someone
who could testify that a fragment of the third UFO had been spotted as a
shooting star landing in the New Mexico desert, far away from the famous
Matt Brizell Sheep Ranch. Far away
from the alien crash we know.”
“Where is this man today?”
“I’m afraid I received this information from his death
bed. He’s dead.”
“Right,” Doggett said, exhaling.
“Thank you, Mister Chung.
Now, would you please leave. I have
real work to do. There’s a farmer in
South Dakota who believes his pigs are being abducted and eaten by Bigfoot.”
Chung’s eyes started to sparkle.
“Agent Doggett, are you a skeptic?”
Doggett started to squirm in his chair.
“Well, let me just say I think Elvis is dead.”
“This doesn’t grab you?” Chung said, waving the paper in
the air.
“Not at the moment, no.
Don’t get me wrong, sir. This
story would be an X-File, but a new angle on the Roswell Crash is like the
identity of the Lone Gunman at the Grassy Knoll.
It’s been done way too many times.”
Chung stood silent, looking down at his shoes.
For a moment, Doggett felt a slight twinge of guilt.
Chung genuinely looked as if his feelings were hurt.
“I understand your doubts, Special Agent Doggett,” Chung
said, taking the paper from Doggett’s desk, placing it back in his coat pocket.
“But, for centuries, we all believed that Christopher Columbus
had discovered America. We were wrong.
Then, to prove ourselves smart, we said it was the Vikings who
discovered America. We were wrong
there, too!” Chung paused, taking
off his glasses. “Now, Special Agent
Doggett, do you want to be proven wrong about ‘The Roswell Incident?’
Or, just perhaps, do you want to be in on it?”
Doggett started to point to the door, showing Chung the
way out. His eyes, however, caught
sight of a familiar poster hanging on his office wall.
An innocent enough poster of a UFO, with the simple words “I WANT
TO BELIEVE” printed on it. His thoughts
turned to both Scully and Mulder.
He wondered where they were. He wondered
what they were doing. He wondered what
they would do.
“Okay, Mister Chung,” Doggett said, rolling his eyes.
“Show me what you got.”
Chung took his seat, letting out a joyous if not evil-sounding
laugh.
“You will not be disappointed, Agent Doggett.
May I call you John?”
“Not yet.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Fair enough.”
Chung started to unravel his paper, showing it to Doggett
in a new light.
“About six weeks ago, a local sheep rancher by the name
of Oliver Henderson was found in the Roswell desert, sixteen miles outside
the limits of the famous crash site.”
“A sheep rancher?”
Doggett’s face turned hard. “Wasn’t
Matt Brizell a sheep rancher?”
“Yes! There still
are a few ranchers left out there.
Most have been bought out by big business, sold out, or just barely getting
by to feed the kids. Sad, what has
happened to the American Farmers and Ranchers, Agent Doggett.”
“You do have a point with all this?”
“Yes. He was found.
Dead.”
“Dead?”
Chung’s face got close to Doggett’s.
“As dead as losing five pints of blood can make you.”
“He was murdered?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Chung reached into his coat pocket, producing a small color
photo. “This is a picture of the man
in question, Agent Doggett. Oliver
Henderson. Please, tell me what you
think? Was this an ordinary gang killing,
or, what?”
Doggett took the picture.
The subject was an elderly man, showing signs of both a
simple and harsh lifestyle. It was
evident to Doggett that Henderson had been a smoker of the “old school.”
The telltale bag of tobacco lying innocently at Henderson’s side
in the picture proved that. Still,
this was no ordinary case of a man dying of a heart attack, or losing blood,
due to a terrible accident so far from home.
Something in the picture…was…missing.
Blood.
“You said this man lost five pints of blood?”
“Correct, sir.”
Chung placed his hands behind his back, reminding Doggett of a cross between
Basil Rathbone and Mister Spock.
“Where’s all the blood then?”
“It was NOWHERE to be found, Agent Doggett.”
Chung took the picture from Doggett, whose eyes were starting to
show minor interest. “My sources informed
me that this picture was taken by a funeral director at the Ballard Funeral
Home, in Roswell, as a fact of record for the local Sheriff’s Department.
No blood was ever found at the site.
How do you explain that?”
“Obviously, the killer had some kind of pump-like device,
taking the blood with him as a trophy or later, to digest, as a sign of power.”
Chung gave Doggett a look of disgust.
“There were no footprints except those belonging to Henderson,
the funeral director, his assistant, and, of course, the horse.”
“Horse?”
“Yes, the horse was left.
Alive!”
Doggett paused, thinking.
“Why would the killer not take the horse?”
“Perhaps the killer was a member of PETA or something.”
“What’s your theory?”
Doggett asked.
Chung laughed, rubbing his hands together.
“I have come up with a profile!
Henderson was a victim of a Chupacabra.”
Doggett looked at Chung, doing his best not to burp up
remnants of his digested Pop Tart.
“You’re serious?”
“Oh, always,” Chung
chuckled. “Think about it, Agent Doggett,
when was the first reported sighting of a Chupacabra to the press?"
“1947?” Doggett guessed.
“About,” Chung insisted, tapping on his paper of the Roswell
area.
“But aren’t you on the wrong continent?
I thought these things were only spotted in South America and Puerto
Rico?”
“Aliens get tired of their environment, Agent Doggett.
Just like us, they want an adventure or two.”
Doggett picked up Chung’s paper, studying it.
“Yes, but these Chupacabras do not look like the aliens mentioned
in the Roswell reports. As I understand
it, these aliens are said to be grey-skinned, with fangs, red eyes, and distinctive
spinal quills.”
“Consider this, Agent Doggett,” Chung said. “In every intelligent
society, there have always been those who do the dirty work, who are more
violent, more crude, because of their station in life.
Perhaps these Chupacabras are nothing more than…second class citizens
in an alien utopia?”
“You’re grasping at straws here, Mister Chung.”
“Just to surmise, Agent Doggett.”
Again, Doggett studied the paper.
“I’m heading out to Roswell, now,”
Chung bragged. “There are
many people there who have read my works and wish me to share my creative
genius with them.”
“You have been asked to investigate this case?”
Doggett asked, impressed.
“No. I’ve been asked
to do a book signing.”
Doggett expressed a flash of disappointment.
“Come with me, Doggett.”
Chung insisted. “You’re a
skeptic. Someone who is not trying
to profit or raise himself up by these events.
You are the sane voice in a world proclaiming that the sky is falling.”
At first, Doggett wanted to say no, but there was desperation
in Chung’s eyes that seemed to pull at him.
“Okay, I’ll open an X-File on this,”
Doggett said, silently directing Chung to hand his photo of Oliver
Henderson back to him.
“Great!” Chung laughed,
“We’re on a road trip!”
Doggett later regretted his decision.
* * *
Stanton T. Friedman, nuclear physicist and crusader of the People’s right
to know the truth about UFO’s, woke as the plane came to a stop.
He had been doing three lectures, and the hours were catching up
with him. No matter how disciplined
he had come to make himself, the long hours away from home were hard.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please, remain in your seats until
the aircraft comes to a complete stop.”
Stanton Friedman smiled.
The way he was feeling, it would take a crane and a box of explosives
to get him out of his seat. Meekly,
he drank down the last of his diet coke.
Crushing his paper cup, he gave it an evil sneer.
One more lecture and he would be through.
He would be able to get back home and relax.
He would be able to go through the files he kept in his grey basket.
The ones that haunted him.
The ones he labeled as “maybes.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Friedman looked up, seeing a curious stewardess looking
down at him.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you…”
“No,” he smiled, waving her on, wishing for her to talk.
Perhaps, the conversation would wake him up.
“Please, continue.”
“I’ve had the strangest feeling that I’ve seen you before.”
Friedman made a humorous face.
“Perhaps we have met in another life?”
“No,” the stewardess laughed, dryly.
“I mean on television, or something.
Are you a news reporter?”
“I’m an…activist,” he said, holding back a tired smile.
His dark eyes seemed to home in on the stewardess’ from behind
his steel-rimmed glasses.
“Oh? What’s your
cause?”
“UFOs.”
Any energy left in the stewardess’ face immediately vanished.
Friedman found himself laughing inside.
It wasn’t the first time someone had approached him, noticing his
appearance. And, it wasn’t the first
time the curious questioner’s face seemed to implode faster than a black hole,
upon hearing what he so preciously fought for.
His right, and HER RIGHT, to know the truth.
“Oh,” was all the stewardess could bring herself to say.
“Yeah,” Friedman said, holding down a chuckle.
“I know. I know.”
Friedman reached above his chair, pulling out his briefcase
from the overhead storage bin. He groaned
as gravity took hold of the heavy bag, thinking about the long drive he had
ahead of him.
He was on his way to Roswell.
* * *
(Excerpt from ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN by Jose Chung,
FBI Evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
No matter how old I get, I love meeting my readers.
They provide for me, a beacon of hope, of life, and, hopefully,
ROYALTIES! But, at the end of the day,
when all is weighed and measured, I love the commonality of the average reader.
To be able to persuade the average man to spend moments of his life
reading rhetoric I had the opportunity to type on an innocent piece of paper.
They are my family….
They are my LIFE!!!!!
* * *
The Rose Bar & Grill
Two miles outside Roswell city limits.
“God, how I hate people.” Jose Chung grumbled, his face
sourly pouting over a small shot glass of Jack Daniels
. “Look at them, Agent Doggett.
Look!” Chung waved his hands
outward, silently ordering the FBI agent to follow his lead.
Doggett wiped barbecue sauce from his mouth, turning to
look at the crowd of people in the bar, doing what people in bars do – playing
pool, talking, drinking, loving, fighting, and hoping to have love or a fight.
He saw nothing wrong with what Chung was so riled over.
“People having fun,”
Doggett said, biting into another rib.
“So what?”
“Do they ever stop to think where they are?”
“In a small New Mexico town that has seen better days.”
Doggett suggested, continuing to attack his ribs, chewing, savoring,
and enjoying every Southwestern bite.
“No one really appreciates their home town until they lose it, Mister Chung.”
Jose Chung turned from the crowd, his eyes gleaming with
curiosity. “I sense a story deep inside
that comment, Special Agent Doggett.
May I call you, John?”
“Not yet.” Doggett
said, dropping his rib bone on his plate and picking up another.
“Still, I believe you’re right.”
Chung went on, trying his best to ignore the FBI agent’s harsh
look. “I love people.
I always have. One does not
become a writer without knowing his fellows.
Still, sometimes, I think God looks down at us and says, ‘I gave
you a nice planet, and you screwed it up.’”
Doggett finished his meal, placing a toothpick placidly
between his teeth.
“So, what’s on for tomorrow?”
Chung rubbed his hands together.
“Ah! At last! Something
to talk about.” Chung placed a goldenrod-colored
piece on paper of the table. “Have
you ever been to a book signing, Agent Doggett?”
“Stephen King signed a copy of
The Shining for me.”
Chung’s face flashed disgust.
“Ah! How can you
read that tripe?”
“Tripe? It’s one
of the best books ever written.” Doggett
paused, “By the way, can I borrow one
of your books? I’m curious to read
your stuff.”
Chung almost broke into tears.
“Special Agent Doggett, you are in for one hell of a treat!
Fantastic! Incredible but
true adventures in literary expression.
I have several copies of my books.”
Chung reached into a gym bag he kept with him, under the
table they were sitting. The tiny booth
filled with his evil sinister laugh.
From his bag, he produced a paperback book.
It looked to Doggett to be several decades out of print.
It was dog-eared and yellow from age.
Still, given the manner in which Chung was holding the book, Doggett
chose to ignore the details.
“What’s this?” Doggett
inquired, taking the book. He had to
hold it tight. Several pages were on
the verge of falling out.
“This is my first novel.” Chung said.
Doggett read the title.
“Dance With the Devil.”
“A fantastic detective novel about a Nazi threat in Nebraska.
A fantastic yarn! I think
you will like it.”
“Nazis in Nebraska,”
Doggett repeated.
Chung laughed.
* * *
Stanton T. Friedman opened the door to the bar and grill,
wanting nothing more than to have a nice dinner.
He was in the Southwest.
What else was there, besides Mexican, BUT barbecue?
“Behold!” Stanton huffed under his breath. “The public.”
Friedman started to walk to the end of the bar, looking
at least in his mind like a watered-down Norm from the TV series
Cheers. He wanted to cap the
day off with a cool lonely glass of beer.
Something caught his eye.
Something that kept him from that beer.
“Oh, my god,” was all he could bring himself to say.
Stanton T. Freeman began to laugh.
* * *
Doggett soon noticed that all the color left Jose Chung’s
face. Chung’s hands began to shake,
not from fear, but pure rage.
“Jose!”
Chung closed his eyes.
“Oh, no. Agent Doggett, would
you do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
Chung pointed toward Stanton Friedman.
“Please tell me, that a fat little troll with glasses,
dressed in an overly imposed suit and tie, isn’t waving his hand in the air,
smiling, and looking this way.”
Doggett noticed Friedman walking toward them.
The FBI Agent was becoming mildly amused.
“Okay. I won’t tell you
he’s waving at you. He isn’t.”
Chung rolled his eyes, exhaling with relief.
“Thank God.”
Doggett hid his amusement behind his beer mug.
“He’s standing behind you.”
Chung exhaled in total panic.
Doggett froze in his beer drinking.
He waited for the other shoe to drop.
He was bored, and had been praying for action since he and Chung
left Washington. Although it went against
the nature of his job to keep the peace, a nice, good old-fashioned bar fight
would help take the edge off. Although
a little ashamed of the fact, Doggett could feel an evil laugh welling up
inside.
Doggett would be disappointed.
Chung turned, noticing Stanton Friedman smiling at him,
and hugged the noted lecturer like a long-lost brother.
“Stan! Where have
you been, you bastard! It’s been way
too long.” Chung laughed.
“Been about, Jose.
Been about.” Friedman took a seat
next to Doggett, throwing him a causal glance.
“You here for the anniversary convention, guys?”
Chung laughed. “First,
Stan, let me introduce you to Special Agent Doggett, assigned to The X-Files,
with the FBI. Agent Doggett, this is
Stanton T. Friedman, nuclear physicist, lecturer, and all-around pain in
the ass.”
“You’re full of heart, Jose,”
Friedman laughed.
“You’re full of it too, Stanton.”
A splash happened in Doggett’s proverbial well.
Stanton T. Friedman was a prominent mention in almost all of the
X-Files involving UFOs, extraterrestrials, and alien abductions.
Doggett’s interest peaked.
Friedman was highly respected by Mulder.
“Doctor Friedman,” Doggett said, extending his hand.
“Mister Friedman,” Stanton corrected.
“I haven’t obtained a Ph.D. as of yet, sir.”
“I apologize, Mister Friedman.”
“Common mistake.”
Friedman said, taking Doggett’s hand.
Friedman’s face flashed recognition.
“Jose, did you say that Agent Doggett here was associated with
the FBI project known as The X-Files?”
“Yes!” Chung stated,
as he dropped two Alka-Seltertablets into his tiny shot glass, pouring in
a healthy dose of Jack Daniels.
“Agent Doggett’s in charge of the whole damn thing.”
Stanton T. Friedman’s face turned hard, his eyes, cold.
“Oh? Is that a fact?”
“Anyway, what is this talk of an anniversary convention,
Stan?”
“Fifty-Fifth Anniversary of the Roswell Crash.”
Friedman never took his eyes off of Doggett.
Doggett, putting his beer mug back to his face, started
to feel uneasy. He didn’t like being
the center of attention.
“Really? Time flies,
doesn’t it?”
“Agent Doggett,” Friedman said. “I wonder if I might ask
you a few questions?”
“Sure.” Doggett
smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
“The X-Files.”
Chung drank down his bubbling liquor, rubbing his temples.
It was obvious to Doggett that Friedman’s sudden appearance in
his life was causing the novelist some personal problems.
The FBI agent theorized that Chung and Friedman shared a love-hate
relationship.
“What about them?”
“Well, I’m amazed that our friend here, Mister Chung, was
allowed to mention that you, sir, are associated with that particular project.
I find that quite fascinating.”
Doggett looked at Chung, silently searching for answers
to the attitude Friedman seemed to have in his questioning.
Chung, totally lost, shrugged his shoulders.
“Back in ’95, I learned from a friend that there existed,
in the government, a certain group of agents whose sole purpose was to investigate
UFO cases. This organization was suppose
to make Project Blue Book look like an amusement park.
This group was simply known as The X Files.
“So I tried to obtain copies of these so-called X-Files.
I got no where. I later
sued the U.S. government, petitioning under the Freedom of Information Act
all information pertaining to these X-Files.
Big mess. Cost several thousands
of dollars.”
“And?” Doggett asked,
genuinely interested.
“Agent Doggett, I got nothing for my efforts.”
“Nothing?” Doggett
repeated. “I cannot honestly believe
that, sir.”
“Agent Doggett, I was told that there was no such project
called The X-Files. Officially, you
do not exist.”
Chung hummed a Dragnet-
like tune, giving Doggett another of his evil laughs.
The writer rubbed his hands together, getting out a notepad and
pencil. “You guys go on with your petty
conspiracy theory. I’m going to write
all this down. This shit’s good.”
Both Friedman and Doggett gave Chung a dirty look.
“Honestly,” Chung retorted. “You can’t make this stuff
up.”
“Well, Mister Friedman,” Doggett stated, finishing up the
last of his beer. “Let me assure you
that I do exist.”
Friedman growled hard at the FBI agent.
“I like him,” he concluded, turning to Chung.
“I know!” Chung
joked. “Isn’t he a peach?”
Both Friedman and Chung started laughing.
“What?” Doggett
asked, lost.
“Don’t mind Stan, Agent Doggett,” Chung said.
“It’s just his way.”
Friedman started to pick at the pretzel bowl in front of
Doggett. “Is he always this stiff?”
“Most of the time, yeah,”
Chung concluded. “Can I
call you John yet?”
“Not yet.” Doggett
said, looking for a waiter. “We have
to go.”
Both Chung and Doggett got up.
“Jose, if you aren’t here for the convention, why are you
here, then?”
Chung paused, uneasy.
“Oh, something I just dug up in the desert.
That’s all. See you later,
Stan.”
Stanton Friedman waved goodbye to his fellow college and
the FBI agent. On his face was a puzzled
if not troubled brow.
“Something in the desert?” he repeated.
A waitress came over.
“Are you ready to order, sir?”
Friedman looked up, lost.
“Ahh, could you give me a minute, please?”
The waitress never returned.
Life in a small town.
26 miles Southwest of Roswell
12:43 AM.
The thing had been living in these hills for a time period
beyond its calculations. These were
not its stars. Time was not easy to
measure from these thick skies. But,
to all living things, there is one universal idea, feeling, and creed – hope.
For a long time, it had hoped for a rescue.
Marooned on a barbaric planet which seemed to know nothing but
tribal warfare, pollution, and death.
How it hated this ball of mud that it had been forced to live on!
It had decided that the time was right for a feeding.
Feedings were the only enjoyment it had.
And one thing about this planet, it was plentiful in its nourishments.
Approaching several beasts in a caged area, It decided
to eat from an animal the barbarians called a “Kow.”
It heard them babble this noise as identification for the beast.
In any case, the thing called “Kow” was filled with what it needed.
It needed fear.
Fear was so tasty on this planet.
It, as well as his fellow partners, had discovered wondrous levels
of fear on this planet. Tasty!
Far from the foods in its own system.
A system, as It knew it to be, running out of the emotion.
It lived off fear.
There was something in the air, while living things gave off fear, which
fed it. Still, It could never bring
itself to feed of the advanced creatures.
The high-thinking bipeds that ruled.
As “tasty” as they appeared to It, their colors gave It an upset
pair of stomachs. The long eternity
here had taught It that! That’s why
It stuck with “Kows.” Stupid animals
which were filled with fear. A fear,
that when it took hold, froze the animals in their tracks.
Easy and fulfilling, to say the least!
Hungry at not having anything better to do on a foreign
world, It attacked. Cutting.
Removing. Draining blood.
Whatever It needed to do to help produce the fear.
The pure compassion for the dumb beast was never far from Its conception,
but survival being what it was, survival took precedence.
It feasted. It feasted
well!
* * *
(Excerpt from “ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN” by Jose Chung,
FBI Evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
Rod Serling, that great great genius of television, said
it best, “The People, and their liking or disliking of your art, is the key
to success or starvation.” I know well
the dedication my fans have shown to me, and they have been both a curse and
a delight. It amazes me the attention
I receive from complete strangers, hoping that I can provide to them that
much-needed tidbit of information, that can make their circle in the game
of life complete.
Is Mankind really, so lost?
I think so.
It is for that reason that people like me are here.
When in the bosom of their praise, I offer….HOPE!
Roswell UFO Museum
Main Street
3:47 P.M.
The utter emptiness of the area around Jose Chung’s table
caused Doggett to express pity for the frustrated writer.
It was quite obvious to the FBI agent that no one in the entire
town seemed to give a damn that he was there to sign books, or not.
The main attraction seemed to be Stanton Friedman and his new book
on the conspiracies behind the town’s famous crash.
“Slow,” was all
Doggett could bring himself to comment, as he read over Chung’s coveted copy
of Dance With the Devil.
Doggett had to admit Chung was an original if not impressive
writer. So much more to the tragedy.
Jose Chung silently sipped from his huge cup of Starbuck’s
coffee, glaring a stare of death into the face of his fellow writer, Stanton
T. Friedman. Only one person in the
entire course of the day had come up to his table.
And that was only to get directions to the nearest snack bar!
“Damn people!” Chung huffed,
“None of you would know great literature if it came up and bit
you on the ass!” The writer collapsed,
hiding his tortured face in his careworn hands.
Doggett looked up from his book, having ended it.
“Good book.” He commented.
Handing the frail book back to its creator.
Chung looked up, wiping away tears.
“Keep it, Special Agent Doggett.
I fear that I will have no more use for it.”
Doggett accepted.
Silence and heavy sighs separated the two of them for quite
some time. Theirs was a world of watching
others walk by, staring, momentarily, at the little guy, hoping to grab the
audience. Then, as fast as they walked
by, they disappeared into the seas of humanity gathering around others at
the convention.
“Why do I do this to myself?”
Chung asked. “These damn
people don’t want to read my stuff.
Why do I do this?” Chung paused,
looking at Doggett. “You want to go?”
Doggett shrugged.
“I don’t know. You may still get
a few admirers.”
Chung smiled. “Oh,
thank you. That’s just what I needed
to hear.” Chung sat back down, giving
the FBI agent a dirty look. “Optimism
sucks.”
From the crowd in front of them, both Agent Doggett and
Jose Chung could hear that Stanton Friedman was having a successful if not
enjoyable time.
“People have a right to know this stuff!”
Friedman attempted to explain. “This is a Cosmic Watergate.
The governments of the world have to realize that we can no longer
afford to keep the people of this planet under a protective layer of ignorance
any longer.”
“Aren’t those who believe in UFO’s nothing more than kooks
or Star Trekfans with overactive imaginations and too many beers in them,
Mister Friedman?” a news reporter demanded,
shoving a microphone in the lecturer’s face.
“Not at all!” Friedman
deigned. “If you believe in UFOs, you
stand with the cream of the crop.
Almost ninety percent of those who believe in the possibly of life on other
planets are college educated. Although
if they like Star Trek, I can’t
hold that against them.”
This last comment caused several in the group of reporters
to chuckle.
Friedman looked out into the crowd, noticing Jose Chung
and Doggett sitting alone at a nearby table.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, please.”
Friedman headed toward the two.
Doggett noticed a tense anticipation growing in Jose Chung’s
frame. He started to respect Chung,
knowing that the writer wanted nothing more than to leave the room, but still
he stood his ground, waiting for the inevitable.
“Stan!” Chung bolstered.
“You’re doing quite well for yourself today.”
Stanton Friedman shrugged his shoulders, humbly.
“I’m doing okay. Need to
sell the books if I intend to keep up the fight.
How goes it with you, Jose?”
Chung laughed. “Can’t keep them away from me.”
Both men turned serious.
“If anyone deserves it, you do,”
Friedman stated. “You’re
a great writer.”
“Stop!” Chung said,
holding up a hand. “Pity is not becoming
on you, Stan. In fact, I just may barf.”
Friedman held up his hands, backing off.
No one noticed the county sheriff standing behind them.
“Ah, excuse me, gentleman,” the sheriff said, taking off
his cowboy hat. “Which one of you is
Special Agent John Doggett?”
“Here, sir,” Doggett
said, holding up his hand. “What can
I do for you?”
Sheriff Ken Arnold stood uneasy, not knowing what to say
or do. He looked the part of a small
town law enforcer. And, being a small
town law enforcer, he was uneasy asking outsiders for help.
“Sheriff Ken Arnold, Agent Doggett.” The sheriff offered
his hand to shake.
“Something wrong, Sheriff?”
Friedman asked, curious, and genuinely concerned.
The sheriff played with the brim of his hat, uneasy.
“Sheriff?” Doggett
asked. “Is something wrong?”
Sheriff Arnold placed his hat back on.
“Would you gentlemen please come with me?”
Doggett, Chung, and Friedman all looked at each other.
“Sure.”
“By all means.”
“Why not? Got nothing
better to do.”
They all left. Leaving
the UFO convention to take care of itself.
26 Miles outside Roswell City limits
4:57 PM.
John Doggett did his best to maintain a calm stomach.
Both Chung and Friedman were buzzing about the mutilated carcass
of the dead cows like they were answers to an interesting puzzle that was
way beyond the depths of Doggett or the sheriff.
Wiping sweat off his face, Doggett noticed Sheriff Arnold.
He too was trying to hide the fact that the dead animals were starting
to make him sick.
There were about three cows, all dead.
Two looked as if they were victims of local wildlife.
The third, however, was quite different.
It had the look of being medically conditioned.
“This is utterly fantastic!”
Chung shouted, taking pictures of the dead beasts like a mad man.
“Do you know how many books I can get out of this?”
“Don’t jump the gun just yet,”
Friedman warned, waving a weak hand in the air.
He too was starting to look a little green around the edges.
“We could be jumping to conclusions here.”
“Conclusions?” Chung
protested. “This is a classic mutilation
if I have ever seen one. Just look
at the cuts on this thing.” Chung pointed
down to the rotting cow, clicking pictures.
“I’d rather not.”
Friedman said, wiping sweat off his face.
“The heat’s getting to me.”
“Hah!” Chung laughed.
“When I get back to my hotel room, I’m starting a whole new profile.
This will blow the lid off Roswell, this I promise you!”
“Jose, why are you here?” Friedman asked.
Jose Chung froze, trying to change the subject,
“Ten bucks this cows’ nervous system has been totally polarized.
I bet you’ll not find one healthy white blood cell in its entire
body.” The writer let out a long evil laugh.
“God! I love this stuff.”
Friedman started to walk away,
“Okay, you win, Jose. Live
your fantasies. I’m going to go get
a coke or something.”
Doggett watched, his stomach starting to gain control.
“Agent Doggett?” Sheriff Arnold asked.
“Yes?”
“You think this is the work of aliens?”
Doggett shrugged his shoulders.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Jose Chung started to answer
everything.
“The aliens are not only snacking on your livestock, Sheriff,
they have awakened something best left sleeping.
There is a hidden secret here that I plan to blow wide open, out
into the hot rays of your inhospitable sun.”
“What are you talking about, Mister?”
“Cattle mutilations have been going on in this country
since 1947. The first recorded by
the press was in 1967. Do you see
a connection, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Arnold thought long and hard on the question.
“No. No, I don’t.”
“The Roswell aliens weren’t all captured and contained
by the Army Air Force. There is still
one out there. Somewhere.
Awakened after a long slumber, and hungry as hell.”
Chung pointed to the dead cows, dramatically stating his point.
“Obviously, they like their meat rare.”
Friedman laughed, heading toward the Sheriff’s car.
“You’re a nut, Jose.”
“Blow me, Stan!”
Chung yelled back.
Stanton T. Friedman just waved tiredly back at Chung, heading
toward the police car. He had seen
enough, and he wasn’t impressed with it at all.
Doggett tended to agree.
“Mister Chung, I really do not see anything to this incident,
but, perhaps, some kids playing a rather sick Halloween trick at the expense
of a few ranchers.”
“Really?” Chung
huffed.
“Really.” Doggett
confirmed.
“There’s nothing to this, then?”
Doggett surrendered some.
“Perhaps. Something.
But, certainly not anything out of the ordinary.”
“Then, Special Agent John Doggett,” Chung said, handing
Doggett a pair of binoculars. “How
do you explain those people over there!”
Chung pointed to a low hillside not more than a mile from where they were
standing.
Doggett, looking through the binoculars, noticed that he
and all his party were no longer alone.
“Who the hell are they?” he asked.
About a mile away, looking just as keenly at Doggett and
Chung, were two mysterious men, dressed in dark suits.
Their faces were obscured by overbearing sunglasses, and they were
standing next to an early seventies black Ford.
When spotting Doggett staring at them, they lowered their own binoculars,
disappearing into their car. They drove
off, leaving a trail of dust behind them.
“Those, Agent Doggett, are the M.I.B.’s.”
“M.I.B.s?”
Doggett chuckled. “You don’t
mean…”
“The Men In Black.”
Chung huffed. “They know why we’re
here!”
Doggett tried to laugh.
He tried to tell himself this was all just a bunch of B-movie paranoia.
He tried to tell himself that this kind of shit doesn’t happen
in the real world.
“I should have went on vacation.”
Doggett huffed.
All three men headed back toward the Sheriff’s car, joining Friedman in
their escape from the New Mexican heat.
9:45 PM.
Doggett was tired.
He and Chung went over several geographical land maps of
the Roswell area and had narrowed the proposed crash site of the undiscovered
piece of the “alien spacecraft” to three possible locations.
Still keeping it hush-hush, the two planned to start scouting those
areas in the morning. Doggett at first
agreed with Chung to keep what they were doing a secret, but was having second
thoughts. He suggested to Chung that
they include Stanton Friedman in on their mission – experts such as him
were hard to come by in such field investigations – and he had started the
Roswell investigation! Or, at least,
was a prime player in bringing the incident into the American consciousness.
Wanting to start fresh, Doggett turned in early.
There was a knock at the door.
“Ehh?” Doggett groaned,
blinking his eyes.
The knock repeated.
“Coming!” Doggett
grumbled.
Opening the door, Doggett saw two strange men, dressed
in black suits, wearing sunglasses, staring back at him blankly.
They both had the look of government agents.
At least, that was Doggett’s first impression.
“Yes?” Doggett asked,
his curiosity peaked.
“Special Agent John Doggett?” one of the men asked.
There was no emotion on his face as he hid his eyes from Doggett
from behind his sunglasses.
“Yes.”
“You should not be here, sir.”
“What?” Doggett huffed, mildly amused.
The first man held up an identity card.
Nothing special. At least
Doggett thought so. It was strange
to the FBI agent, that he couldn’t recognize the government ID, badges, or
agency emblems.
“I’m Special Agent Kay,” the man said, pointing back towards
his silent partner, “This is my partner,
Special Agent Jay.”
Doggett could help but smile.
“You’re kidding? Right?”
“Sir?” Jay blankly asked.
“You know,” Doggett joked,
“You two. Dressed in black.
Jay and Kay.”
Both men looked at the other, questioning.
“Didn’t you guys ever see
Men In Black?” Doggett asked.
“We did, sir,” Jay responded.
Both men, without permission, started to walk into the
apartment. Doggett closed the door,
just mildly annoyed with their rather clipped manner.
“No offense,” Doggett
said.
Both Kay and Jay started to open Doggett’s things, looking
through them without permission. Neither
man seemed to care or take into account that Doggett’s temper was starting
to flare. They rifled through his clothes,
looking over his road maps and, of course, the material Chung had given him.
“May I ask what you’re doing here, gentlemen?”
Doggett’s voice was almost at a roar.
“Stay where you are, sir,”
Jay cautioned. “That would
be the best thing for you to do.”
Doggett walked up to his motel room’s door, opening it.
“Gentlemen!” Doggett
shouted, “The time has come to tell
me your intentions, or I want you out of my room.”
Both Men In Black paused, silently staring at each other.
Doggett froze, his finger pointing towards the open door.
Both Agents Kay and Jay looked at each other, studying
their partners silently. It was as
if they were communicating to the other, wishing to know if they should really
follow Doggett’s advice that they “get the hell up, and leave!”
“Okay.” Kay calmly stated, closing Doggett’s suitcase.
Doggett cleared his throat, relaxing.
“There’s just one thing we need you to do for us, Special
Agent Doggett, before we can leave.”
Kay started to pull something out of his suit coat pocket.
Something metallic. Something
that looked like a ball-point pen.
“And, what is that, sir?”
Doggett asked.
Both Kay and Jay secured their sunglasses.
Kay held his pen-like device in front of Doggett’s face.
“Would you please stare into this,” Kay calmly said.
Doggett saw the red flash.
It was the last thing he remembered.
Doggett’s Motel Room
Eight hours later
“Agent Doggett?”
Doggett slowly blinked his eyes open.
He couldn’t remember how he ended up on his bed, fast asleep.
He only knew that it was one of the most satisfying sleeps he had
ever had. Never had he been this rested,
this content.
“Yeah?” was all he could bring himself to say.
Blinking his eyes into focus, Doggett recognized the eagerly
smiling face of Jose Chung looking down at him with the eyes of an anticipating
child. Today, they were going to look
for the “missing” piece of the famous Roswell Crash.
Today, Chung was going to prove to the world that he was more than
a has-been writer, living off the dulled glories of the past.
Today, Chung was going to be a winner!
“Ready to explore?” Chung chuckled.
Doggett smelled the two chili dogs in Chung’s hands before
he saw them.
“Here!” Chung said, thrusting one of the dogs in the FBI
agent’s face.
Doggett felt like puking.
Although rested, he was suffering from a weak stomach.
He noticed his room.
“What the hell went on here last night?” Doggett asked,
rubbing his head.
“I was going to ask the same thing,”
Chung said, looking around the room.
“Looks like you had one hell of a party last night.
My only complaint, sir, is that I wasn’t invited.
But, a man’s recreation is his own business, I always say.”
The room was a mess.
Clothes were thrown everywhere, drawers were half-open, and almost all of
Doggett’s personal effects were gone through.
Then, Doggett noticed the most important feature: All maps, photos,
and papers he had had on the Roswell Crash were missing.
What the hell happened?
“Who was in here last night?” Doggett asked, almost yelling
at Chung.
Defensive, Chung put his hands up.
“Hey! I wasn’t.
What are you getting at?”
Doggett shuffled around the room, desperately looking for
the missing Roswell papers. “All our
info on the crash site is gone.”
“What!”
“Gone!” Doggett
grumbled.
“Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know!”
Chung started to turn dramatic.
“I told you THEY don’t want us here!”
“Who are they?”
“The government.”
Doggett shook his head.
Putting on a new tie and dressing in a navy blue jacket, he kept looking
at Chung in a way a teacher might look at a troubled student.
Still, there was at least a six-hour window where Doggett couldn’t
remember a damn thing.
“One thing is certain,” Doggett said.
“Someone’s interested in your little curiosity.”
“That mean’s something?”
Chung asked, hunger clearly in his eyes.
Doggett chalked the “hunger” up to his desire to be right in his
assumptions – it couldn’t be the chilidogs.
“That, Mister Chung, means something.”
Both men started to leave.
“You remember where those three proposed sites were, Mister
Chung?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Doggett.”
Chung paused. “May I call
you John?”
“Not yet.”
The men headed out for the sites.
Proposed “Crash” Site #2
60 Miles Southwest of Roswell
6:45 PM.
Doggett had seen emergency medical cleanup teams before.
This one appeared to be run by the military.
At least two hundred armed men, scientists, and special technicians
were milling about in the desert, doing their best to convince the local populace
that it was a special exercise to see if the “Four Corners” region of the
United States was ready in case of a bio-terrorist assault.
Sneaking around the site and seeing what was going on,
both Doggett and Chung knew this was about as far away from bio-terrorist
exercises as bullshit was from chocolate.
“Why do you think all these people are here, Agent Doggett?”
Chung asked, looking at the FBI agent over a pair of binoculars.
“Well, it appears that someone is taking your little story
very seriously.”
“Or it’s true, sir!”
Doggett gave Chung a look of utter confusion.
“Since when?”
“You mean to tell me that you’re still a skeptic?”
“I thought that’s why you asked me out here.
You said you needed a skeptic.”
“Agent Doggett,” Chung huffed.
“There is a difference between being a healthy skeptic and a downright
pain in the ass.”
Doggett studied the crash site.
“Perhaps this is in connection with the death of that sheep rancher
and the cows?” Doggett paused, taking
the binoculars from Chung, looking.
“Perhaps this has something to do with your alien left behind theory.”
“Perhaps,” Chung mused. Taking out a writing tablet, he
began to compose. “One thing is certain,
sir. We need help if we are ever to
prove this damn thing. We need a witness.”
“Who are we going to get?”
Chung let out another of his evil laughs.
“I know just the man!”
* * *
(Excerpt from ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN
By Jose Chung. FBI Evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
As a child, I was always fascinated with the legends of
King Arthur and his quest for the Holy Grail.
The Grail represented to Arthur hope and a renewal of what was
once lost to him – that one magical moment in his kingdom where all was set
right, he was happy, and there was love in abundance.
When one loses all of that, they turn to a higher power.
In Arthur’s case, it was the cup of Christ.
In my case, my Grail was success.
I am not a happy man.
I seek substance from a world that would just as soon forget that I ever
walked upon the earth. I am a walking
sore, waiting to find someone to heal me.
I’m babbling.
Friends are few and far between.
I love and cherish each and every one that I have, and have had,
throughout my life. They can be a constant,
reliable, force. Always there when
needed.
Then…there’s Stanton!
Roswell Convention Center
11:42 AM.
“No.” Stanton T.
Friedman said, signing one of his books for a fan.
“This sounds too much like a classical set up.
Did you guys ever consider that?”
“What is your problem, Stan?”
Chung huffed, his eyes burrowed into Friedman’s own soul.
“Huh?”
“I just think…”
“You think? Hah!”
“Now, just one minute, Jose.”
Friedman laughed, rather insulted.
“Ever since I met you, Stan, you’ve been spewing ‘Roswell,
this! Roswell, that!’
Blaming everything on the government.
Cosmic Watergate, this!
Cosmic Watergate, that! Damn it, man!
You have a chance, here, to see, firsthand, proof that what you’re
selling in your pulp books is nothing but the truth.
I’m offering this to you one, because you are my friend.
And, two, you are the best at what you do.
Now, for the love of Pete, will you either shit or get the hell
off the pot?”
Doggett’s eyes shot open in surprise, doing his best to
hide the obvious smile forming on his face.
“We need to move fast if we are to do this thing, gentlemen.” The
FBI agent looked down at his watch.
Friedman was beside himself.
He stopped signing autographs long ago, quite surprised at the
passion he had been hearing in Chung’s voice.
Like most intelligent men, passion seemed to grab at him, cutting
through the bullshit of business politics, bringing things closer to home.
It had been decades since he had seen Jose Chung passionate about
anything! Then, as if his own mind
had decided to play Devil’s Advocate, he asked himself an intriguing question:
What if Jose was right?
“Okay,” Friedman
huffed, putting all his books away, and securing his table.
“Things have watered down here, and will not pick up until later
tonight. If you have proof, Jose, Agent
Doggett, I’ll be happy to judge its authentication.”
“Hot damn!” Jose
yelped, grabbing Friedman and dragging him out the door.
“Now, that I have a chance to think about it,” Doggett
said, rubbing his temples, “a vacation
wouldn’t have been all that bad.”
All headed for Doggett’s rental car.
Proposed “Crash” Site #2
60 miles southwest of Roswell
3:52 PM.
Stanton T. Friedman glared through a pair of Army-issue
binoculars with his mouth open like a codfish.
Three times, Jose Chung attempted to obtain the spyglasses from
the scientist, but was told not to touch them.
Friedman was beside himself.
Fascinated at the things he was witness to.
What the three of them were seeing, after having creeped
back into the site several miles back, and peering over a hillside cliff,
were an emergency crew of Army soldiers, at least three hundred more than
Doggett and Chung had seen originally, guiding a mobile truck into place,
near a cliff facing opposite of them.
There were signs of explosives having been used.
Several tons of displaced dirt and rocks littered the fields, piled
high enough to be mountains in their own right.
Earthmovers had managed to keep the chaos together, remolding the
landscape as “Uncle Sam” continued with his dirty work.
All Army eyes, staff eyes, and Doggett’s, Chung’s, and
Friedman’s attention were focused on an oblong, purplish, rather shanty-looking
craft, sticking halfway out of the New Mexico desert.
Part of the famous Roswell space craft?
“What the hell’s going on here, guys?” Friedman asked,
focusing his spyglass.
“Who knows?” Chung huffed. “Someone keeps pigging the glasses.”
“If that thing is a piece of the Roswell crash, I need
a sample from it,” Friedman stated,
handing Chung the binoculars.
“And how would you propose we do that, sir?” Doggett questioned,
his eyes squinting in the bright desert sun.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Friedman said. “That’s your job, Agent Doggett.”
Chung passed the binoculars to Doggett, giving Friedman
a surprised look.
“There have to be over three hundred soldiers down there,
Stan!”
“Yeah? So what?”
“Half or more look armed.”
“Your point is?”
“Agent Doggett may be a federal agent, fully trained, but
he’s not Roger Ramjet.”
As Friedman and Chung continued with their debate about
the finer arts of subterfuge, Doggett spied the crash site.
The two writers were right: One would have to be Superman to get
through the group of soldiers guarding the site.
Doggett also saw a couple of familiar faces: Agent Kay and Agent
Jay. The mysterious Men in Black
who had come to visit him before. Still, he could not seem to remember why.
But, if there was one constant in military tactics, was that there
was no such thing as an impregnable fortress.
Doggett would find a way.
“Okay,” Doggett
confirmed, lowering his glasses.
“Okay?” said Friedman and Chung in unison.
“Okay,” Doggett
repeated. “I think there just might
be a way.”
“I told you he had training from the CIA,” Friedman said,
hitting Chung on the shoulder.
“Actually, I was once a Marine,” Doggett explained, with
a sly smile. “Was pretty good at it,
too. The CIA couldn’t even touch me.”
Chung started to laugh his evil maniacal laugh.
He took the spyglasses once more, and eagerly glanced down at the
crash site team. “From the Halls of
Montezuma…,” he devilishly started to sing.
7:55 PM.
Agent Kay had been keeping his eyes on the three intruders since they had
entered the area of the military exercise almost three hours ago.
He knew who they were, whom they had known, what they did in life,
and had even checked on whom they had voted for in the last seven primary
elections.
He was leaving no stone unturned.
Agent Jay had called his superior, advising him of the situation.
Their boss had instructed them to keep an eye of them, and to allow
“Nature to take her course.” Neither
one of the two men could seem to figure out why their superior just didn’t
order them to sneak up on the three and liquidate them.
Why not just kill them?
It would take years to find them and then possibly another set of years to
identify their remains.
Still, both Jay and Kay knew that their superior was something
of a loose cannon.
“God, how I hate the desert.
Anyone know where a man can find a good hooker this time of night?”
Morris Fletcher looked up, after lighting his cigarette, and noticed
the harsh, surprised, and nervous stare he was getting from all around him.
“Oh, come on!” the mysterious man giggled neutrally.
“What did I say?’
No one challenged his authority.
No one dared.
His presence in the service had always been a powerful
one. No one knew how he came to be,
or his place of origin. Few had honestly
talked with him. Of those, they passed
on some rather bizarre information to those who wished to know.
Fletcher told miserable stories about his family life.
About how much he wished he could just “make them all disappear.”
He told a fascinating story once about being another person.
He claimed to have awakened inside the body of a FBI agent named
Fox Mulder.
He’d get his unfortunate audience drunk, and tell stories about the unfortunate
FBI agent living his life, in his body, and he would live in Mulder’s.
Then, after the story, there would be a quiet, far-away look in
his eye. A tired look.
“Okay! Let’s get to work.”
The soldiers who had nothing to do, who were lost or just
lazy, found something to do quickly.
They did not wish to cross this man.
Agent Kay and Jay approached him.
“Sir,” Kay said, showing his credentials.
“I’m Agent Kay. This is my partner, Agent Jay.”
Jay slightly shook his head.
Fletcher laughed.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Sir?”
“Didn’t you guys ever see
Men In Black?”
Kay and Jay gave the man blank stares.
“Forget it.”
“Sir?”
“What!” Fletcher yelled, annoyed.
“What do we call you, sir?” Kay asked, his emotions never
showing through his black sunglasses.
“What is your designation?”
Fletcher gave Kay’s question some thought, and giggled
hollowly. “You can call me…God.”
Both Kay and Jay stared at each other, questioning, never
saying a word.
Fletcher just shook his head, sadly, walking away.
“You government types are all the same.
Seen too damn many Clint Eastwood movies.”
“Sir, we have a problem,”
Kay explained, catching up with the Man.
“Lose your personality?” Fletcher joked.
“Sir, this is a serious breach,” Kay retorted.
“Of, course.” Fletcher lit up a Morley cigarette.
“What’s bothering you Napoleon Solo?”
Kay and Jay stopped walking.
Fletcher was hit with another blank stare through sunglasses.
“What? Didn’t you guys watch
The Man From U.N.C.L.E. when you were kids?” Fletcher paused, taking
a fountain pen from his coat pocket.
He pantomimed pulling up an imaginary antenna from the pen.
“Open Channel D. No?
God! I’m working with uncultured morons!”
“Sir, our security has been compromised.”
Fletcher stopped, turning serious.
“How?”
Jay handed Fletcher the paperwork he had been able to compile
on the intruders. Something caught the Fletcher’s eyes, causing him to laugh.
“So, Agent Doggett’s here.
I was wondering when I would run into those people again.
Hey! Stanton Friedman! Cool!
You guys might just accomplish something here.
We could use this guy.”
“Sir, we need to know what you plan on doing about these…people,”
Kay said, annoyed.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kay asked.
“I have the right person…thing…expressly qualified to handle
something like this,” Fletcher tried to explain, waving his arm toward the
surrounding mountains. “In fact, it’s
probably watching us as I speak.”
“Sir, are there other agents involved in this mission?”
Jay asked, nervous.
“You could say that, son.” Fletcher meekly looked out into
the darkness, smoking his cigarette.
10:04 PM
It approached Fletcher cautiously.
There were things about this barbaric world it knew; one of them
was never underestimate the officials who consumed their firesticks.
Many of its comrades were dead, buried, and forever forgotten for
doing so.
It was hungry. It needed to go out
and frighten another “Kow.” But, upon
hearing the whistling sound used by the barbarian’s officials, it knew they
were calling him. Perhaps, just perhaps,
they would have something for it to consume?
It hoped so.
One of the barbarians was reading a book of some kind.
There was a picture of a female of their species on the front.
Upon living on this world, for many orbital time periods, It had
learned to read the inhabitant’s language, although it couldn’t pronounce
it, even if It had the tongue to try!
The word Playboy was on the cover
of the book. It recognized the government
barbarian – he was Fletcher! It knew
killing would be involved. Killing
requiring no food. Killing for killing’s
sake. And It was ashamed.
Its stomachs started to ache, and its eyes started to swell.
A long night was ahead.
“Ohhhhhhhh!” It grunted as it approached Fletcher.
Agent Kay and Jay reacted in horror.
Both pulled their weapons, pointing them at the small creature
before them. “What the hell is that
thing!?” Kay asked.
Fletcher flipped a page of his magazine, admiring the naked
beautiful women, playfully showing him what they were made of.
He fantasized about moonlit beaches, of naked women wanting him,
and of happiness – something he knew he would never have.
Then, he, too, noticed the gray creature in front of him, cowering, like
an unwanted guest. And he wondered.
Wondered about the loneliness this poor Son-of-a-bitch was going
through. Wondered if Its superiors
were as cold as his. Wondered what
it would be like to walk in Its shoes – if It wore shoes.
“Hey there!” Fletcher called, showing the
Playboy centerfold to the creature.
“Nice girl, but she’s into water polo.
Could never work.”
Upon seeing the oblong picture of the naked female in front
of it, the creature blinked its rather large red/black eyes curiously, trying
to understand what Fletcher was implying.
It could not. All It could do
was wonder why Fletcher was showing the picture.
Like most of the animals on this planet, it presented an upsetting
picture. The males of this world loved
to show off the females. It could not
understand why.
“I have a job for you.”
Fletcher said, rolling up his magazine.
“A small…task.”
It looked up at Fletcher, blinking.
The vocals of these animals hurt its stomachs.
The sounds were not the kind which were…normal.
Then again, normal was far from home.
It could only make out that this animal wished him to kill.
It concentrated, doing Its best to understand.
It shook.
It was frightened.
Doggett’s Motel Room – 9:55 PM.
“I can’t believe my eyes!” Chung shouted, entering Doggett’s
Motel Room. “I’m finally going to have
a chance to write a bestseller. Christ!
I’m finally on my way. Years of writing
worthless, although fantastic, pulp.
Karma has finally laid a golden egg in my nest.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Doggett warned, loading
his weapon. “You still have to get
a piece of that thing.”
Friedman entered the motel room, troubled.
He had been observing Chung since they left, had kept his eye on
Doggett, and, much more surprising, had been noticing a change come over him.
All his life he had searched for the truth.
Inching, fighting, and crawling each step of the way.
Years of fighting, hoping to bring the cockroaches out into the
light, thousands upon thousands of dollars spent in the struggle, only to
obtain copied paper blacked out by cheap magic markers long-since dried,
possibly by Air Force secretaries long-since dead.
Now, finally, he was about to pull the Holy Grail out from the abyss, for
all to see. And, he had to honestly
ask: Was he ready for this?
“Agent Doggett,” Friedman asked, “how do you propose entering
that compound? I’m no soldier, and,
please, do not be insulted by my skepticism, but I worry for you.
What if they catch you?”
Doggett found himself smiling.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Mister Friedman.” The FBI agent was
loading up a fresh clip of bullets.
“Soldiers are creatures of habit, no matter where they’ve been trained or
who has trained them. What is required
here, sir, is nothing more than good old-fashioned patience.”
“Patience?” Friedman posed, squinting his eyes in confusion.
“Yeah. Just watch
the one soldier who goes to the can too many times, or the Joe who bums out.
There are holes in any security, Mister Friedman.
You just got to know where to look for it.”
“That’s where you’ll come in, right?” Chung asked, laughing.
“God, I love this man. May
I call you John?”
Doggett pulled back on his weapon, locking a load in its
chamber.
“Nope. Not yet.”
Chung let out a disappointed grunt.
Doggett found himself smiling.
“What do we do now?” Friedman asked, sitting down at the
foot of Doggett’s bed.
Doggett picked up the phone.
“I need to make a few calls to Washington.” The FBI agent
stated.
“Washington?” both Chung and Friedman rose in surprise
and unison.
“Yeah,” Doggett blankly challenged.
“If you guys are to prove your case, once a piece of that thing
is ours, we’re going to need a political ally.”
“Senator Matheson?” Friedman grinned.
Doggett placed the phone back on its receiver, surprised.
“Yeah. That’s right.
The Senator has helped Agent Mulder in the past.
I have been briefed by a fellow FBI Agent, Dana Scully, that when
faced with an impossible situation involving those in the United States government,
contact Senator Matheson.”
Friedman grinned, shaking his head.
“What?” Doggett replied, annoyed.
“You are a fool, Agent Doggett.”
“Explain.” Doggett’s hands hit his hips defensively.
“Senator Matheson is a highly established, willing defender
of UFO truth for a reason. He works
with those in power to debunk the enthusiast like me, and, I dare say, like
you, so that we end up looking like crazed troublemakers.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Have Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, or you ever walked away
from an encounter with the senator knowing that you have won a victory or
saved the day?” Friedman asked. “If you can answer ‘yes’ to any one of those
questions, I’ll join you in your call, add my two cents.”
Doggett gave the question some thought.
Like a blind man who is suddenly forced to admit he will never
know what a simple flower would look like, the FBI agent’s face flashed with
a profound disappointment. He had
to face the bitter truth: Friedman was right.
“Let’s go,” Doggett ordered, checking his gun.
Chung started to huff, nervously. “Now, come on, Agent
Doggett,” he said. “Things aren’t going to get that messy, are they?”
Doggett stared at Chung, saying nothing.
He allowed the click-click sound of his weapon speak for him, as
the gun was allowed to secure a round in its chamber.
“Oh, I should have been a farmer,”
Chung moaned, as they all left the apartment.
They had work to do!
(Excerpt from “ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN” by Jose Chung.
FBI evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
Motivation!
It is recorded, as a matter of both legend and history,
that when Cortez landed in the New World, he set aflame his ships in order
to motivate his men. This, I can understand,
if not condone. Nothing gets a man
off his ass faster than the instinct to survive!
And there is no telling how far he would go to preserve that survival.
Point in fact: There is not a person living, with the exception
of either the very rich or the very lazy, who had not been forced, sometimes
for years, to work at a job they’ve hated with every fiber of their being.
But still, they worked it – it paid the bills.
Why? Survival?
Could that, by the way, be the sole reason behind Roswell?
Survival.
Could some intergalactic Cortez be staking his claim on
their “New World?”
Could the famous crash at this small New Mexico town, be
no crash at all? Could it just be motivation
implemented by a higher race, not realizing the danger?
God! I hope not.
If the universe is to exist, at least in the mind of this
writer, boys and girls, I sincerely hope that we humans are the only ones
stupid enough to be burdened with motivation.
Motivation never REALLY helped anyone.
Proposed “Crash” Site #2
60 Miles Southwest of Roswell.
Doggett was fighting the onset of a headache.
The constant chatter between Chung and Friedman was enough to drive
anyone mad. Still, in his own way,
the FBI agent was just as excited.
He now seemed to understand Fox Mulder a little better.
He wondered if Mulder felt the same when faced with such a situation?
Did Mulder suffer from headaches?
Was this how Agent Scully felt all those times, when he tried to
provide her with a logical answer.
John Doggett was, quite slowly, becoming a believer.
“I don’t care,” Friedman barked, his voice carrying over
the back seat. “I hate the title.”
“Why?” Chung asked, “I think
Encounter With the Unknown is a great title.”
“It suggests conclusion.”
“Ah! Conclude this!”
Doggett found himself smiling as he turned off the highway
toward the crash site. Cautiously,
he turned off his headlights so he would not be spotted.
“Quiet, now, guys,” Doggett warned.
All sat quietly.
Only the occasional “tick-tock” sound of gravel hitting metal could be heard.
Doggett kept switching his attention from the road to his rearview
mirror. He couldn’t see any evidence
of it, but he had the feeling that he was being followed.
* * *
“Those stinking sons-of-bitches!”
Both Chung and Friedman stood on the edge of a cliff, overlooking
the proposed crash site. Chung’s open
comment seemed to echo into the surrounding mountains.
Stanton Friedman just stood there, staring out at the site, shaking
his head, as if half-heartily expecting something like this.
Nothing.
Where there had been soldiers by the hundreds, earthmovers,
jeeps, tents, and aircraft, surrounding the remains of a “questionable” craft,
there was now nothing. No sign that
man had been in this part of the New Mexican desert for decades.
Whoever it was had covered their tracks well.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you, Agent Doggett?” Friedman barked, staring a
hole into the agent’s head. His face
showed nothing more than a controlled rage.
“Nothing’s here, Stan!” Chung shouted.
“Where the hell did everything go?”
Before Doggett could say anything, his phone started to
ring. “Excuse me,” he said as he haphazardly
walked away, toward the car.
“Happens all the damn time, Jose,” Friedman said, controlling
his anger. “Every time we get close
enough to grab the brass ring, they change the speed of the ride.”
“Shit happens, my friend,” Chung sighed.
“One way or another, I’ll get something out of this.
I always do.”
Friedman patted his friend on the shoulder.
“You got to admit it, though,” Chung concluded. “They do
a nice job cleaning up their messes.”
Friedman chuckled. “Wish they could teach my daughter a
trick or two.”
Both laughed.
“Well, that’s it!” Doggett said, slapping his phone shut.
“Let me guess,” Chung said, “You’ve been accepted as a
contestant on Blind Date – right?”
Doggett cleared his throat.
“No.”
“Pity,” both Chung and Friedman said, almost in unison.
“That was a call from the funeral home.”
Doggett explained. “The dead rancher’s body is missing.
Taken from the place over an hour ago.
Our evidence is gone.”
“What did you expect, Agent Doggett?” Friedman huffed.
“Oh, these guys are good.
As I have been saying for years: It’s all a Cosmic Watergate.
The government knows more than it’s telling, here.”
Chung rolled his eyes, annoyed.
“Stan.”
“Yes?”
“Shove your Watergate!”
Silence.
All three ended up laughing.
They headed back to their car, beaten, but not defeated.
* * *
“I have to admit it, gentlemen, you’re both taking this
rather well, considering,” Doggett said, looking at Chung and Friedman in
the rearview mirror.
“Isn’t he just the cutest thing?” Chung joked, laughing
devilishly.
“Delicious.”
Doggett returned to his driving with a glum look.
“Don’t be disturbed by our blasé attitude toward all this, Agent Doggett,”
Friedman said.
“No?”
“No,” Chung confirmed.
“We’ve been down this road before.
Sooner or later, the truth will come out.
It always does.”
Friedman shook his head.
“What do you guys say to one last beer?” Chung asked.
“Yo!” Friedman seconded.
“Makes me happy,” Doggett agreed.
Doggett drove the car toward the city.
“Agent Doggett,” Chung asked.
“Yes?”
“May I call you, John?”
Doggett smiled. “Not yet.”
47 miles southwest of Roswell, New Mexico.
The bright blinding light came from nowhere, totally enveloping
Agent Doggett’s rental car.
“What the hell?” he grunted between clinched teeth, as
he slowly brought the car to a halt.
“Oh, oh!” Chung said.
“Oh, oh?” Friedman replied.
“What oh, oh?”
The white light started to flicker.
Several bodies moved both left and right surrounding Doggett’s
car.
“We’re not alone, gentlemen,” Doggett said, reaching for
his gun. By just sheer intuition, Doggett
believed that whoever it was, they were completely surrounded.
The white light blinked off.
Doggett blinked his eyes – focusing.
Several M-16s stood, pointing at him in the night.
Doggett took his hand off his gun, relaxing.
At least as much as he could, under the circumstances.
* * *
As the limo approached, Doggett could barely make out the
loud music coming from inside.
“Ozzy,” Doggett murmured.
“What?” Chung asked.
Doggett pointed to the limo. “I hear Ozzy Osborne coming
from that car.”
“No one said that U.S.-led assassins didn’t have taste,
Agent Doggett,” Friedman chuckled.
The limo stopped.
The door opened.
Ozzy made his presence known:
…Maybe! It’s not too late!
To learn how to love,
And forget how to hate!
Doggett would have laughed if he were not aware of the
danger he was in.
* * *
Morris Fletcher stepped out of the limo, doing his best
to tap the good from of a bad situation.
Snapping his fingers and listening to the tunes, he threw out a cigarette
butt.
“Pick that up,” he ordered one of the soldiers, pointing
toward the glowing butt.
Without question, the soldier did as he was told.
Fletcher noticed the car they were ordered to stop, and
saw Doggett glaring out at him. Fletcher’s
face filled with disgust and, surprisingly, pity.
Agents Kay and Jay soon stepped out of the limo to join
him.
“Hey! It’s the bobsy twins.”
Fletcher chuckled.
“Sir?” Agent Jay asked, blank.
“Nothing.” Fletcher’s face turned bored and tired.
“I hate cleanup. It always
bums me out and gunks up my shoes.”
They all three headed toward the car.
* * *
“I’ll take care of this,” Doggett reassured his two guests.
Both Chung and Friedman were doing their best to remain calm.
It wasn’t working.
Doggett stepped out of his car, flashing his badge.
“I’m Special Agent John Doggett, on assignment.
And I demand to know what’s going on here.”
Doggett did his best to inject the best “Alpha Dog Bark”
he could into his voice, but he knew he was screwed.
Worse! They knew he was
screwed, too.
Doggett presented his badge to the one who appeared to
be in charge. He guessed it was the
agent who appeared to be the most tired.
Fletcher took Doggett’s badge, looking at it, blankly.
“Here, let me see that,” Fletcher said, sarcastically.
“Ooooo! And don’t you look mean in your picture.”
He turned to both Kay and Jay, ordering, “Shoot him in the knees
and leave him in the desert.”
“What?” Doggett asked, openmouthed.
Fletcher handed Doggett back his ID.
“Here, you’ll need that for the funeral.
Have a nice day.”
Like programmed robots, both Agents Kay and Jay reached
into their coat pockets, pulling out huge guns with silencers on them.
Both agents started to aim at Doggett’s knees.
“Whoa!” Doggett yelled, timidly trying to calm himself.
“I’m a federal agent, guys.
You don’t want to do this.”
Kay and Jay pulled back the hammers of their guns.
“Shit,” Doggett whispered, surrendering to his fate.
Both Chung and Friedman got out of the car.
* * *
The desert wind turned into a violent sandblast as a mysterious
craft suddenly seemed to appear from nowhere to hover above Doggett’s car.
The craft was about as large as an average city bus.
A bright orange beam emerged from the craft, bathing all in the
light.
“Oh, great,” Fletcher moaned, unaffected by the sight of
the craft. “There goes my pension.”
No one moved. All became silent.
Jose Chung, making a horrible face, let out the longest
fart Agent Doggett had ever heard.
Friedman started to laugh. “Jesus, Jose, what crawled up
inside of you and died?”
“Sorry.” Chung said, mortified.
“It’s last night’s chili.
It’s killing me!”
Another moment of silence was followed by several harsh
looks at Chung, who in turn silently apologized for every look he received.
“Someone’s coming!” a soldier yelled, pointing his weapon
into the orange light.
Doggett found himself holding his breath and thinking of
Mulder. Of all people, he should be
here to stand witness to this event.
Doggett, somehow, felt unworthy.
Stepping from the light, calmly rolling himself a cigarette,
was Oliver Henderson, the sheep rancher supposedly killed earlier six weeks
ago!
“What the hell?” Doggett shouted, marveling at the sight.
“This can’t be! This is impossible.”
“Impossible to us, maybe.” Friedman stated. “Perhaps not
for them.”
“But, he was dead.
Six weeks dead.”
“Time, Agent Doggett,” Friedman said, “means nothing to
beings such as these. We deal with
the here and now. They conduct their
business in the infinite. Totally different
laws of science we are dealing with here, sir.”
“Well, I’ll take your word for it.”
Doggett paused only long enough to grab Henderson, placing
him in the car. The FBI agent gawked
at the rancher with total, complete, childlike wonder.
He never heard of anyone coming back to life like this, that is,
outside the Bible.
Chung was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Pulling out a pocket camera, he took pictures.
Doggett was quite sure the writer would never be allowed to keep
his camera once all this madness passed.
Then, the aliens appeared.
“Holy…!” Chung said, dropping his camera.
“I don’t believe this!” Friedman said, laughing like a
schoolboy. He and Chung grabbed and
hugged each other in pure, innocent delight.
Two small alien figures were seen clutching each other
in the orange light. One appeared
to be a classic Gray, the other what people in South America called the Chupacabra.
Both looked as if they were searching for someone.
They both slowly walked up to Jose Chung.
“Oh, my, God!” Chung exclaimed. “What do I do?
I’m no diplomat.” The writer started to laugh with devilish mirth.
Both aliens stood, looking intently at Chung almost sadly.
Then, raising their arms in a powerful gesture, both motioned the
writer to follow them into their craft.
It took several pantomimes on the aliens’ part.
But, ultimately, Chung got the message.
“You want me to go with you?” Chung asked.
The aliens continued their hand motions.
“Agent Doggett, what should I do?” Chung’s face exploded
with fear, as he waited for an answer.
Doggett, meekly, shook his head. “I cannot even begin to
give advice on this one, Jose.”
Again, the aliens motioned Chung to follow them.
(Excerpt from “ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN” by Jose Chung.
FBI evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
What does a man do, once he has been offered all the secrets
of the universe? At that particular
moment in my life, as terrified and excited as I was, one line from a book
I had read, as a child, kept thundering over and over again in my mind:
“Once Alexander saw the breath of his domain, he wept.
For, there were no more worlds left to conquer.”
Most would be happy to know the unknowable – not me.
As a writer and a freethinker, I need my magic.
I need my monster in the closet.
I need my pain. And, I’m
ashamed to say I was a coward. No
more. No less.
Someone else would have to take up the mantle of explorer – not
me!
* * *
Chung started forward, and Doggett saw him pause – only
for a second.
“No,” he said, sadly.
“I can’t go with you. My agent would
kill me.” Chung meekly stepped back.
At a private level, Doggett completely understood.
Flashes of a certain Twilight
Zone episode kept coming to mind.
Any second now, he expected someone to step forward with the horrifying
revelation, “It’s a cook book! A cook
book!”
Never happened, though.
The aliens, now knowing that they could not get Chung to
go with them, turned their innocent all-knowing black eyes towards Stanton
T. Friedman.
Excited, the nuclear physicist saw that the aliens, in
turn, were silently inviting him to follow them.
Friedman couldn’t believe his eyes, letting out a nervous laugh.
“Of course!” was all that Stanton Friedman could bring
himself to say.
Both aliens, grabbing Friedman by the hands, were leading
him into the alien craft, looking a lot like extras from
Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Friedman found himself laughing.
“What about your family, Stan?” Chung asked.
“Have Agent Doggett tell my family that I will return one
day with all the answers – at least for their zip code in the universe.” Friedman
walked away, pausing, only to say, “Oh! And tell them to get rid of my gray
basket. I no longer have a need for
it.”
Friedman and the aliens, headed back to the craft and into
the orange light.
Morris Fletcher stepped forward.
Doggett held his breath.
“Oh, boy.”
There was going to be trouble.
Morris Fletcher was now showing off his ID and badge to
the aliens, as if they would be impressed.
The aliens stopped only because Fletcher was in their way.
They gazed up at him with dark, innocent eyes.
Wondering.
“Wait a minute,” Fletcher said, an air of misguided power
seeming to ooze from him. It was almost comical.
“You can’t do this.”
“Do what, sir?” Friedman chuckled.
“Learn some of the secrets of the universe?
You know, you guys need to discover that obtained knowledge does
not necessarily have to be used for weapons research.
Grow up!” the nuclear physicist huffed sarcastically at the agent.
Fletcher turned to the aliens, producing yet another badge
and ID.
“Mr. Friedman is a citizen of this planet, and is not trained
to represent his race.”
The aliens meekly, blankly, blinked their eyes.
They tilted their heads from left to right.
Other than that, they were completely silent.
“By the authority, granted to me by the President of the United States,
Dwight D. Eisenhower, I hereby inform you that I am within my rights to…”
The Chupacabra stepped forward, blocking Morris Fletcher’s
way. It bared its teeth.
Its spiny spikes rose upward, in attack posture.
It hissed at him.
The smile eroded from Fletcher’s face.
The Chupacabra roared at the agent.
Spittle sprayed all over Fletcher.
Doggett caught himself laughing.
“Okay,” Fletcher said, taking out a handkerchief, wiping
off his face. “Okay. Fine.” He walked
away.
Score one for the little guy!
(Excerpt from ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN by Jose Chung
FBI Evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
I stood there, shivering in the desert night, almost unaware
of my discomfort. My eyes were fixed
on Stan. I was wondering what it was
like to be him, at that moment – and shame, because I had passed it by….
* * *
With a strong wave of his hand, Stanton T. Friedman continued
his trek into the alien craft. Doggett
noticed the fixed stare between Friedman and Chung, and could only make a
guess as to what each was thinking.
Personally, he sided with Chung – he wouldn’t have the guts to go, either!
As fast as it takes one to tie their shoes, Friedman was
on board the craft, and the ship was gone.
All were left alone in the dark.
Morris Fletcher cleared his throat.
“Okay, guys!” he said, “Let’s go to the Bunny Ranch.
First round’s on me.”
All the soldiers started to cheer.
Even Agents Kay and Jay smiled.
Doggett saw Fletcher give him a salute as he entered his
limo and drove off.
Both Doggett and Chung were left alone.
“I would say something thoughtful and deep, about now,
but, nothing’s coming to mind.” Chung meekly chuckled.
“Let’s take Mister Henderson back to town so he can be
checked out by a doctor.”
“How you going to explain him in your report?”
Tired, Doggett said, “This whole report’s unexplainable.
Get in the car.”
Chung laughed his devilishly best.
“I feel a best-seller coming on!”
The Rose Bar & Grill
Two miles south of Roswell, New Mexico
3:14 A.M.
“To ships that don’t come in!” Chung toasted, raising his
glass of warm beer.
Doggett silently clinked his glass with that of the writer’s.
Both had been silently stewing in their own thoughts for hours.
“I have to head back to Washington tomorrow.” Doggett said,
drinking down the last of his beer.
“Yeah?”
“Yep.”
Silence.
“Wonder what Stan’s doing?”
Silence.
Doggett got up and put his jacket on.
He studied Chung. The writer
was only mildly drunk, but he could tell that there were a lot of demons swimming
around in Chung’s mind. Doggett almost
felt sorry for him.
“Are you going to be all right?” Doggett asked.
Chung grabbed Doggett’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
The pain almost made the FBI agent wince.
Then, it was gone.
Chung removed his hand.
“Eventually, Agent Doggett.”
Chung replied. “I’m always
all right.”
Doggett gave the writer a confident nod of his head, picked
up the tab, and headed out the door.
Something made Doggett pause.
“What the hell,” the FBI agent grunted, smiling.
“Jose!”
“Yes??”
“You can call me John.”
Chung’s face exploded with happiness.
He chuckled, raised his beer in silent salute, and emptied the
glass. John Doggett felt great, and left the bar whistling a cheerful tune.
Doggett’s Room
Roswell, New Mexico
6:45 AM.
The phone rang with an explosive clarity.
“Hello?” Doggett moaned, barely able to keep his eyes open.
He forgot he had asked the hotel manager to deliver a wakeup call.
Getting up, Doggett quickly noticed the red and blue flashers cascading
on his walls.
“Police?” he mused, getting dressed.
Opening his hotel door and fighting back a huge urge to
yawn, John Doggett adjusted his tie.
Later, he thought, he would take the manager up on his free Continental
Breakfast.
“You John Doggett?”
Doggett stepped back mildly surprised to see the New Mexico
State Trooper up in his face.
“Yes.”
“You an FBI agent?”
“Yes, again,” Doggett turned defensive.
“Something wrong, officer?”
“Come with me.”
Following the trooper, Doggett started to become upset.
This would mean no free breakfast.
Then, Doggett’s face turned hard.
They were heading toward Jose Chung’s room.
“Wait a minute!” Doggett barked,
“What’s going on here?”
“Someone attacked this room in the middle of the night,”
the trooper explained. “Its occupant
is believed dead.”
“Dead?”
“See for yourself, sir.”
Doggett, without thinking, dashed past the New Mexico trooper,
almost knocking him down, and entered Chung’s room.
Upon first sight, he could understand why the trooper believed
Chung was dead.
It was the massive display of blood.
Blood was everywhere!
The room was a gutted out, an unholy mess!
There were traces of blood everywhere.
Whatever had happened, Jose Chung had put up one hell of a fight.
Smears of blood danced across the walls, ending in a rather fuzzy
handprint. The scene reminded Doggett
of one of Chung’s books, ironically enough.
Doggett spotted a severed hand in an evidence bag.
It wasn’t Chung’s hand, of that, Doggett was certain.
Whose was it? Doggett bit
his lip, suppressing his emotions.
“I want to speak with the man in charge.
Now!”
Several state troopers went in search of their superior
officer. Some left out of fear, Doggett
surmised, others because they no longer wished to remain involved.
Something caught Doggett’s eye.
Something shiny.
Bending down and moving a Gideon Bible out of the way,
Doggett discovered a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
The right lens was broken in half, but none of the glass had fallen
out of the rim. Doggett noticed the
blood smear on the lens, but said nothing.
“What the hell did you walk into?” Doggett asked himself.
A small box under Chung’s bed, caught Doggett’s attention.
It was the book Chung was working on.
An envelope was taped to the box.
It read:
“To Agent John Doggett”
J
Doggett open the letter, noticing that the paper and the
box were among the only items that did not have blood on them.
Doggett smiled at this, and, deep down, suspected a rat.
The note only had two words on it:
AT LAST!!!!
Doggett took the manuscript and note with him.
He left his phone numbers with the officer in charge, and left
Roswell that afternoon. He had a
plane to catch for Washington, D.C.
His “vacation” was over.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Six weeks later
Doggett wiped his eyes as he entered his office.
Normally, when he attenedd FBI-sponsored funerals, they didn’t
get to him.
This one did.
He knew the men who gave up their lives, so that others
could live.
These me were his…friends.
Frohike, Langly, and Byers had given up their lives, potentially
saving thousands from a horrible death.
Having just had Agent Scully crying on his shoulder, Doggett needed a place
to focus. A place where he could morn
those who ran the newspaper The Lone
Gunman, in peace.
“Agent Doggett?”
He didn’t get either.
Doggett turned to see Assistant Director Skinner checking
up on him.
“Director Skinner,” Doggett curtly nodded.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine, sir. Thank
you for your concern.”
Skinner thumbed through a pile of paperwork on Scully’s
desk, noticing an old issue of The Lone
Gunman. He picked it up, reading
it.
“I’m going to miss them,” Skinner said, leaving the office.
“So will I, sir,”
Doggett smiled. He noticed that Skinner
took the newspaper with him.
He had a report to finish.
(Excerpt from ENCOUNTER WITH THE UNKNOWN by Jose Chung
FBI Evidence # 567-HG-4532-X)
I now come to the end of my journey, not much better for
the wear. All I can say to you, dear
reader, is not to take the ordinary for granted.
You never know when you might have to get rid of it.
Someone’s knocking at my door, and I have to…….
John Doggett placed a copy of Jose Chung’s manuscript in
a parcel envelope, ready for mailing.
Chung’s publisher had requested a copy – they wished to publish it as the
man’s final piece of work.
John Doggett smiled.
The world hadn’t heard the last of Jose Chung.
Of that he was damn sure.
Doggett placed the orignal copy back into its X-File, thumbing
the glasses belonging to Chung.
He wondered where he was.
He wondered what Chung was doing.
He wondered if Chung was happy.
Doggett placed Chung’s X-File in a separate file cabinet,
with the words “OUTCOME: UNKNOWN” written on it, and went home.
He would get drunk, watch a good western, and turn in.
The end to a rather crappy day.
J.
The janitor was running late, and he cursed himself for
doing so. He prided himself on his
timeliness – so did his employer!
Heading toward the vending machine, he pulled out his money,
anticipating a jelly donut. Before
he could place his first quarter into the machine, something was thrown at
him, hitting the floor.
It was a packet of cherry Pop Tarts
.
“What?” was all the janitor could say.
Looking up, the janitor’s jow dropped in surprise.
Eating his jelly donut, with the greatest of relish, John
Doggett felt like the king of the world.
In the back of his mind, Doggett could hear Chung’s devilishly
evil laugh.
Jose Chung would have approved!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donald Allen Kirch lives in Kansas City, MO and is preparing to publish
his second book, which should be out by late October.
He has been writing since he was thirteen years old, and is currently
working on three novels. His hobbies
are History, Literature, and the Study of Strange Phenomena.
He is an active member in the Horror Writers Association, and the
Rod Serling Memorial Foundation.
If you like this story, read Donald Allen Kirch's fantasy mysteries at Just
One More Paragraph, the web's largest repository of Columbo fanfic:
Columbo: A Stake In Murder
.
A Columbo/Kolchak: The Night Stalker crossover.
Columbo: A Port By Any Other Name
.
A Columbo/Quantum Leap Adventure!
Also, seek out his first novel
“KA-RE” at these sites:
To have Donald Allen Kirch autograph your novel send book with SASE to:
311 E. 91st Terrace
Kansas City, MO 64114-3738
(Note: If you wish to have book returned, please include proper
* * *
Stanton T. Friedman’s website is:
http://v-j-enterprises.com/sfpage.html
and his email address is
fsphys@
brunnet.net
.
If you have any questions, or are simply interested in UFO and UFO-related
material, please send a SASE to Mr Friedman at:
Mr. Stanton T. Friedman
P.O. Box 958
Houlton, ME 04730-0958
Again, this author extends his personal thanks, and directs “humble apologies”
to Mr. Friedman, for allowing the use of him as a supporting character in
this story. I would encourage anyone
who is interested to read any and ALL of the books Mr. Friedman may recommend.
Thank you!
Donald Allen Kirch
Kansas City, Missouri
March 3, 2003