|
|
10 X 20: JOSE CHUNG'S Doggett, Jose Chung, and "The Father of Roswell" have a close encounter of a bureaucratic kind... |
|
* * *
(Excerpt from unpublished manuscript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.