The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Here you go,” said Jake, displaying the newspaper in front of her face. He rifled through the pages, and found his article in that issue: “Russians Play Chess with Vodka-Swilling UFO Crash Victims.” He gave it to the naked girl, tapping his five-point byline. “I get even bigger letters for my monthly column.”

  “Wow!” she said. “My mom reads this! Dad says it’s all garbage—but you know, come to think of it—he’s mentioned you. You’re the Jake Camden! I think my father’s got one of your books!”

  “Well, I can’t autograph his book for him, but give me a pen and I’ll be glad to sign his little girl!” He felt a stirring as he looked at the way her breasts draped over the pages of the Intruder. “On second thought, who needs a pen?”

  Corey apparently did not hear what he said. She was absorbed in the article. “Gosh—a UFO in Siberia, talking with the Russians,” she said, looking up finally. “How did you get this bit of news?”

  “Top-secret resources. I can’t divulge that information.” He sat back in his chair, pleased with the way she was impressed. Some people were openly derisive when they found out that he worked for the Intruder ... but they were generally the kind of snobs he didn’t care to associate with anyway.

  “How did you get into this stuff, anyway?” Corey wanted to know, as she got out of bed and stretched her lithe curves that had impacted so much on Camden last night. Her pubic hair was blonde and silky, like the top of a baby’s head, showing her true hair color—but that red was perfect with those emerald eyes.

  “Long story,” he said, not really wanting to go into it.

  “I got time. Just let me use the powder room.” She wobbled forward, leaned over, and kissed him on the forehead, her breasts dangling like ripe fruit in front of his face. “And maybe the valiant gentleman would care to buy a poor little girl some breakfast from room service.”

  “Dumps like this don’t have room service,” said Jake. “But I think I can rustle up something fun for breakfast.”

  “Yummy,” she purred, her natural grace overcoming her sleepiness as she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door modestly behind her.

  Jake Camden went to his luggage. He rooted through his socks and underwear, which he’d never gotten a chance to store in the dresser, and pulled out a Snickers bar, a package of Fritos, a half-empty container of Oreo cookies and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. Then he dug in deeper, pulling out an ordinary-looking prescription-drug bottle. These things, along with his shaving kit, he dragged over to the table. From the drug bottle, he pulled out a standard gram-container of cocaine. From his shaving kit, he pulled out a mirror and a razor blade.

  Crunching on an Oreo, he poured a small amount of the pure white stuff onto the mirror and began chopping it up. Good stuff, this—from a direct source in Florida. Stepped on not at all, a little bit of this delicious fruit of the coca tree went a long, long way.

  A few bathroom sounds later, Corey joined him. She wasn’t so thrilled with his offered breakfast, but she smiled when she saw the neat, long lines on the little mirror.

  “Better than coffee!” she said, snorting one through a rolled-up dollar bill.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Camden. “Coke is a luxury; Coffee is a necessity.” She hadn’t put any clothes on yet, and he wasn’t in any hurry for her to. He had other ideas—hence this unusual generosity of cocaine to a near stranger.

  “So,” she said, leaning her head back and sniffing throatily. “You were going to tell me about how you got into the UFO business. “

  He drank some more of his whiskey and considered. Why not? After today, he’d never see the chick again, probably. She was an open, pleasant sort, about as guileful as a friendly cocker spaniel. He was a well-known reporter, sure, but it wasn’t like he had a reputation to sully—no one was looking for a scoop on his life story. Besides, it was all spelled out in the subtext of his first book, The National Intruder UFO Investigator.

  “I was a journalism major at Princeton,” said Camden. “Shit, I had some high aspirations—I was gonna be the new Tom Wolfe, I was gonna be the new Woodward and Bernstein, I was gonna be absolute tops. But all I could get hold of was a job on a Maine newspaper, writing obits and reporting on county social events. Christ, I tried and tried on the biggies ... could not get in the door, and couldn’t afford to take on mail-room jobs, I had this huge college loan to payoff.”

  He pulled out a cellophane bag partially filled with dry vegetable matter and a pack of Top Jobs. “Roll us a joint, huh?”

  “Sure,” she said, still quite chemically happy.

  “Yeah, so anyway, I’m working the Monitor a few years and dying, dying ... I wrote a novel or two and they didn’t sell. I go through a couple of girlfriends, but I was an unhappy S.O.B. and they couldn’t take it. So you know, each year, there’s these recruiters who came through Portland, and I’m getting these calls from editors of newspapers. The fucking tabloids were reading my stuff, and liking it, and they wanted me! But shit, I wanted the Washington Post, the New York Times to call ... not the Enquirer! But the money they were offering me—hell, it was three times as much as I was making in Maine—plus perks.

  “Finally, they just wore me down. My old Buick threw a rod, my cat Puddles died, the twentieth publisher in a row rejected my novel—so I said, hell. Why not. I took the next offer—the Intruder, natch. I moved to Florida, and never looked back!”

  She was sucking on the roach, which gave Camden definite ideas. She took the completed number from her mouth and handed it to him. “But UFOs! That’s what I want to hear about.”

  Camden sighed and lit the marijuana with his Bic lighter—funny, here he was unburdening a bit of his soul to the woman, and all she wanted to hear about was flying saucers. He’d figured her different, thought maybe something of him had rubbed into her last night; maybe she wanted to get into his head a little as well as his pants. But noooooooo ... Clearly, what he had here was a Saucer Groupie. Oh, not your garden-variety Saucer Convention Trekkie with pointy ears and a lifelong desire to mate with Mr. Spock—but a space case nonetheless. Hell, though, Camden thought. This one was worth a show.

  “Oh, yeah!” he said, shifting gears. “I’d seen some funny stuff in the sky when I was a kid, and I knew this guy in college who claimed that he’d ridden in a saucer—been abducted by people from Beta Centauri, or something. And I’d read a few books on the subject. So when I talked with the editor, he told me I had a natural affinity for UFO investigation, what with my journalistic background and all. So I started working with Pete Hubley, the UFO reporter for the Intruder. He taught me his—um—investigative methods, gave me lots of books and papers and reports to read, took me to a few UFO conferences. And then—bang!—the great mother-ship of the sky came down and scooped him up with a heart attack. I inherited his position, just as the Intruder was squeezing into the book business. I’d been doing some work on the book anyway, so I just finished it and got my name on the spine, and suddenly, here I am, chasing critters from the Pleiades!”

  “Have you ever actually seen any?!” said Corey, her young eyes glowing with enthusiasm.

  “Not personally, but I’ve seen things and heard things you wouldn’t imagine ... a lot of which hasn’t seen print and maybe won’t ever! And I’ve heard some stories that would curl your toes! UFOs are real, Corey, don’t you let anybody tell you different. There’s something absolutely paranormal happening!”

  Corey took another line of cocaine, and turned back to him breathlessly. “I hear that flying saucers come down and take women away and force them to have incredible alien sex!” She was visibly aroused at the very notion, her pink nipples hardening and darkening.

  “Um ... er ... yes! Yeah, babe. Some incredibly kinky sex. The Pleiadans, I’ve heard, have got these orgasmatrons for one thing. They stick women in these things just for starters, to get ‘em warmed up. The chicks I heard tell me they came for thirty minutes straight! And then aliens whip out their sexual organs. And for
little guys, these Pleiadans have got dongs the size of horses!”

  “Really!” She grabbed his knee, and squeezed hard. A dainty red tongue flicked out of her mouth, tracing the curve of her lips. She half closed her eyes, fading away into her private fantasies. “More,” she said breathily. “Tell me more!”

  Camden had encountered the alien sex-fetish before; but never had it been embodied by such a fabulous babe as this. Jeez, the odd shit that went on inside people’s heads! But he wasn’t one to turn down something like this, sizzling just inches from his lap.

  “One woman gave me the whole story,” he said, making it up as it came to him. “According to her, two of the males attended to her, and they had penises like thick antennae that could protract such a distance that they could have fucked her from across a room! Penises that vibrated! And they exuded this kind of perfume that just drove her into a sexual frenzy.”

  Her fingers drifted up to his crotch, and long, red-painted fingernails stroked the bulge in his jeans. “Oh!” she said. “Yes, I somehow knew, psychically, that it would be like that!”

  “And that’s not all! There were two ganging up on this chick, one for her front, one for her back door; and because they were small—their bodies, that is—they contoured in, real sexy-like!”

  Her lithe fingers tugged on the zipper of his fly, and he almost lost control, right in his pants, this visage before him—the naked girl, framed in red hair, big chest heaving, enthusiastic passion personified—was so exciting.

  “Ooooohh ... “ she crooned. “How ... how long did they do it?” She had the belt and button undone now, then his zipper was down, and she moved her face into his crotch, her breath hot on his Fruit of the Looms. “Tell me! You have to tell me!”

  “Hours!”

  Suddenly, she fell back onto the floor, legs open, arms reaching up, eyes open and flashing with lust as her body contorted and writhed like a spastic gymnast. “Take me, Jake! Take me now! You’re my alien lover, Jake. Do it for hours!”

  He didn’t know about the hours bit, but he could try—and he could always apologize afterward. Grinning, he took one last pull of the marijuana cigarette, one last snort of cocaine, and one last gulp of whiskey. Then, grinning still, he began to pull down his jeans.

  The phone rang.

  Later, when he got a chance to reconstruct the moment, Jake Camden was able to figure out why he picked that phone receiver up at all, and had not just let the sucker ring. It was because of all the time he spent at the goddamn office desk. It got so you heard that ringing, and you thought, this could be a big story, or it could be some key witnesses calling in with information, or it could be accounting, telling him they had his biweekly check for him early.

  Anyway, still just stepping out of his jeans, Camden automatically reached over and picked up the receiver.

  “Yeah?” he said in his usual unfriendly phone manner.

  “Camden!” the unmistakable voice burst from the earpiece like thunder from Olympus. “Camden, this is Kozlowski, here. We got some talking to do, guy!”

  Oh geez. “I’m sorry—you must have the wrong number,” he said in a squeaky voice. “My name’s Bob Smith!”

  “I know it’s you, man. You hang up that phone, I feed your balls to my alligators!”

  The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice. Howard Kozlowski was the editor and publisher of the Intruder. Jake Camden was in absolutely no financial position to get fired. He owed that Colombian coke dealer from Miami his next month’s salary, and those boys from South America had deadly ways of dealing with people who reneged on debts.

  On the floor, Corey moaned a bit, then flashed Camden a sultry pout.

  “Just messin’ with your head, Koz. What’s up, buddy!” Camden said, disguising his panic with his usual throaty rasp.

  “I want you in my office nine o’clock sharp, Monday morning, Camden!” said the boss. “I want you in there, and bring along some explanations!”

  “What for, Koz?”

  Corey started to tug at his half-removed jeans, flashing him bedroom eyes. Camden shook his head violently, then jerked his thumb toward the door, holding his hand over the receiver and mouthing the words, “Get the fuck outta here!”

  “What’s going on, Camden? I hope you’re working on your story!” rattled the voice from phone. “You better be working on that story, let me tell you, fella!”

  With a hurt expression, Corey got up and proceeded to pick up her clothes from the chair on which they were strewn, and put them on. Jake Camden did not watch. He was too busy gripping the telephone and sweating. Christ, this could be damn serious. He didn’t like the tone in Kozlowski’s voice ... It wasn’t just editorial ... Something else was going on, and he was afraid he knew exactly what it was.

  “Well, actually, Mr. Kozlowski, I’m happy to say that I did some excellent investigatory work this morning, and I was just on my way out to do some more.”

  “Sure, Camden, sure,” the voice was screeching out over the receiver so loud that Camden had to take the receiver from his ear. “I bet you’re in your hotel room with some whore, aren’t you! Drinking, screwing, and God knows what else! That’s your usual investigation methodology, isn’t it?”

  Corey heard the outburst. Just buttoning her shirt, she flashed Camden a horrified and angry look, and grabbed her shoes. “Asshole!” she yelled, and headed for the door.

  “Who was that, Camden?” his boss wanted to know.

  “Um—the maid, Mr. K. I’m afraid this room’s a real mess and she’s very upset.” He winced as the door slammed. So much for an afternoon of hot alien sex.

  “Camden, I gotta tell you—if I didn’t need you, you’d be history at the Intruder. History!”

  “I thought you were pleased with the job I was doing, Mr. Kozlowski!” Uh oh. Camden’s worst fears were coming true. The boss had found out about him and Cynthia.

  “Never anything more than substandard, Camden ... but that’s not what I’m talking about. No, my daughter got very… well, drunk and drugged up last night. And she told me…” Kozlowski’s voice cracked a bit. “She told me about what you did!”

  “I can explain, sir. Cynthia’s got a few very deep problems, Mr. Kozlowski, and I think maybe she needs some kind of psychological help. I told her so, and I meant to discuss it with you. I care very much about your daughter, sir, and ... “

  “Care! I bet! She’s barely seventeen years old, you lecherous hooligan! Why, I oughta have your tail thrown in jail!”

  “Sixteen’s the legal age, I should remind you. And Cynthia is a willful young lady,” said Camden in way of defense. “I can’t tell you I’m not a weak man, Mr. K. But your daughter wanted her own way with me ... I just couldn’t, in good conscience, continue.”

  There was silence from the other end of the line.

  “Sir? You still there? When I get back, we’ll have a good heart-to-heart on this, I promise,” said Camden. “And you’ll like what I have for my next story.”

  “What?”

  “Uh—er—” Kozlowski’s demand had been so abrupt that Camden momentarily lost his train of thought. What was it? Abduction? Giant three-eyed creatures from a saucer? No, of course not. He remembered now! “I’m tracking down a government conspiracy with extraterrestrials whose purpose is to scare farmers off their land!” The words gushed from his mouth willy-nilly—he just hoped they were understandable.

  “Another government conspiracy!” said Kozlowski. “That story’s almost forty years old!”

  “A different slant, I told you! Farmers! I’ve found the exact hook for all that farmer work I’ve been doing and—“

  Kozlowski’s voice turned cold and dead. “Camden, I was going to save this for Monday morning, but I might as well tell you now. I’m pretty sick of the bullshit you’ve been turning in lately. Your column has gone to hell, and the stories you’ve been writing are just old retreads from the sixties and seventies. I’m giving you a month to come up with a killer story—a story
that will do something for our circulation. The goddamn New York posh publishers are getting better saucer stories than you! If you don’t give me that story—you’re gone, Camden. And just consider this a stay of sentence, in light of this recent development with my teenaged daughter!”

  “Right, Mr. K. I’m on the trail of something really exciting! In fact, like I say, I’m on—“

  “Don’t forget, Camden. Monday morning. And I hope you like assholes, Camden, ‘cause you’re going to have a brand new one Monday afternoon!”

  Click! The connection was broken, and Jake Camden was left standing, his pants around his knees and his job in mortal jeopardy. He hung the phone up, pulled his jeans back on, re-buckled his belt, and zipped his fly. He looked around at the wreckage of the room where the naked Corey had lain, and his lust—so aroused only minutes before—was just ashes in his mouth.

  Camden sighed and sat down. He pulled out a Camel and started to smoke it.

  That little bitch Cynthia! He knew he shouldn’t have let her insinuate her little butt into his life!

  “The boss’s daughter!” Camden said. “Jakey, you nitwit!”

  He’d been plowing her for months now, and when last week she’d demanded that he marry her, he naturally had just laughed in her face, thinking she was kidding. She had to be kidding! But she’d gone running away in tears—running to Daddy, apparently. Big Howie Kozlowski, owner of the Intruder, an orange grove, a TV and radio station—and the biggest alligator farm in Orlando County. The beans were spilled now. The dominoes were collapsing.

  Jake sat down and poured himself some more whiskey, thinking feverishly. Within minutes, he’d finished the glass, and poured another one. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, visualizing headlines.