Bullet Through Your Face (improved format)

by Edward Lee

  “Now wait just one minute,” the Chief mumbled aloud. Five 2-liter Coke bottles was what sat in the fridge. A’corse, the Chief wouldn’t mind a good, sweet slug’a Coke

  right now ta wet his whistle but it were quite clear that there weren’t no Coke in any of them bottles; the Chief could see for hisself, in the bright interior fridge light, that all them bottles were filled with milk or somethin’, somethin’ white, so he took one out’n twisted off the cap’n took a sniff and—

  “Lordy! What is that?”

  “It’s sperm, Chief,” a voice came from behind. “Human spermatozoa and seminal fluid.” Well, the voice was such a surprise that the Chief spun ‘round in somethin’ close to shock, and what shocked him even further was to discover that the source’a the voice was none other than the stunning Captain Majora.

  What weren’t so stunning, though, was that she were pointin’ that bigass Government Model Colt .45 right in his face.

  “Captain Majora!” he exclaimed.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” she said. “I’m sorry about this, Chief, but you’re going to have to remain under arrest until you can be properly debriefed.”

  “Duh . . . debriefed?”

  “That’s right, Chief Kinion,” she said in her tight, prim’n proper Army uniform, and, well, not ta sound sexist, but her tits were fillin’ out the khaki top just dandy. “I”m afraid things aren’t quite as they seem—”

  “You shore got that right, ya lyin’ tramp! Freeze!”

  click!

  “Hays!” the Chief rejoiced.

  Yes sir, just in the nick’a time’n by the grace’a Gawd, it were none other than PFC Micah Hays who’d appeared as if from out’a nowheres, and even better, he were holdin’ his service revolver right smack-dab up against Captain Majora’s temple.

  “You’se a ballsy bitch, ain’t ya?” Hays said with a cocked grin, “thankin’ya kin hold my fine boss at gunpoint. Well you got just one second ta drop yer piece or else I’ll’se drop you and yer li’l prissy, citified red bush ta boot, Captain Majora, or should I say Geyserite!”

  Majora dropped her pistol, then went slump-shouldered. “How did you find out my classified codename?”

  “Same way I found out you really ain’t in the Army,” Hays answered, “and the same way I found out what’s really goin’ on.”

  “Hays,” Kinion stepped up, still holding the opened 2-liter Coke bottle. “Dang good work, boy, just like the way I trained ya. But . . . what else is that ya got there?”

  Hays picked up Majora’s gun, then walked over to the lab table on which he placed Majora’s briefcase and opened it. “All kinds of poop in here, boss. First off, as we already suspected, she ain’t no Army officer. She’s in the blammed F.B.I.”

  Dang! the Chief thought. Then he turned to Majora. “Is this true?” “I’m afraid so, Chief Kinion,” Majora answered. “It’s all part of a federal disinformation strategy that’s worked for fifty years. Impersonation of other agencies to decredulize the witness. The same with context—by fabricating the lie which claimed that Doctor Willis was involved in the selling ammunition technologies to terrorist governments, I was able to supplant myself in your midst, so to speak, by which I could investigate the real point of concern.” “Uh . . . huh,” the Chief respondered. “Sounds more ta me like you’re just plumb crazy.” Then he turned to the PFC. “Hays, ya know what she just done tolt me? She said this here 2-liter Coke bottle is full’a . . . well . . . spunk.”

  “It is, Chief,” Hays said. Chief Kinion dropped the bottle immediatly, where it thunked on the floor, and since its cap was still off, it—gullup-gullup-gullup— emptied onto the lab floor. Chief Kinion gulped’n glanced down. It, well, it shore as hail looked like spunk comin’ out that bottle.

  And there was four more bottles full of it in the fridge! “You’re problee wonderin’,” Hays postulated, “how so much petersnot come ta fill that whole bottle—”

  “The average male ejaculation,” Majora added, “comprises a liquid volume of 7cc’s—about enough to fill an eyedropper.”

  Kinion’s eyeballs went wide at the size’a the puddle on the floor. “Then how the hail—”

  “Check it out, Chief. This briefcase is chock full of papers like this,” Hays said, and handed the Chief a sheet.

  Kinion’s eyes remained bugged-out as he read:

  TOP SECRET

  SPECIAL ACCESS REQUIRED/EYES ONLY TEKNA/BYMAN/UMBRA/SI

  DEPARTMENT OF THE AIR FORCE WASHINGTON DC 20330-100

  OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY 25 May 1998

  SAF/AAIQ

  1610 Air Force Pentagon

  TO: DIRECTOR, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  SUBJECT: CLASSIFIED REQUEST PER MEMORANDUM (GAO Code 701034); AFR 12-50 (CLASSIFIED) Volume II, Disposition of Air Force Records and Material

  (a) Identify pertinent directive concerning crashes of air vehicles not of terrestrial origin, investigations, wreckage/debris/dead bodies — retention, recovery, and evaluation.

  Dear Mr. Director:

  Per your request relative to the above memorandum, i.e., the incident concerning the Low Frequency Radar Array (LFRA) detection on 18 April 1998 and disposition thereof. This is the thirteenth documented contact of vehicles bearing this structural signature, and we can only anticipate similar subsequent “collection” activities. MADAM and HRMS pulses verify a contact-point in vicinity to a remote rural township, Luntville, VA. As in the past, I would like you to assign this case to Special Agent Dana Majora, whom we feel to be the best operative for the job.

  Attachment (TO): -MILNET

  -U.S. Air Force Joint Recovery Command

  -NSA (Interagency Liaison Office)

  Signed, William Jefferson Clinton

  PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Washington, DC 20012

  “Tarnations!” Kinion bellowed. “This here letter’s signed by the President!”

  “Dang straight, boss,” Hays confirmed.

  “And . . . what the hail—”

  Hays sliced a grin at Majora. “Captain—er, I should say Special

  Agent Majora. I thank it’s only fittin’and proper that you explain the rest.” Majora’s eyes cast down in dejection. “It’s about I.G.E.’s, Chief Kinion—that’s Intra-galactic Entities.”

  “The hail?” Kinion affirmed his confusion.

  “Aliens,” Majora went on. “Aparticular species we’ve identified as coming from the M34 Star Cluster; every 6 years and 25 days—in accordance with what is known as a an epicycular apogee, and by classified technological detection systems such as the MADAM—

  that is the Mass-Activated-Detection-Activation-Mechanism—and the H.R.M.S.—the High Resolution Microwave Survey—in other words, Chief, airborn-detection technologies which vastly exceed the capabilities of traditional high-and low-frequency radar systems,

  every 6 years and 25 days, this craft, in collusion with certain members of our own race, returns to earth in order to replenish a particular substance that their own race can no longer provide in order to propagate their civilization.”

  “Huh?” the Chief said.

  “Sperm, Chief. The M34 alien race can no longer produce the necessary sperm to keep their civilization in a state of replication, at least not without help, I should say. Doctor Willis really had nothing to do with it—I implicated him in the specious primer-technology

  conspiracy for the reasons I’ve previously described—to divert the attentions of your own investigation from the actual truth. In actuality, it was Mrs. Willis who originally effected communicative contact with the M34 aliens, some 12 years ago, via her abuse of NSA radiotelescope receiving devices, after which she married Doctor Willis under a less-than-truthful guise so to embezzle money from his bank account in order to maintain contact with the aliens . . . and to assist them in their quest.”

  “Their quest fer . . . sperm?” Kinion queried.

  “That’s right, Chief,” Hays pi
ped up. “That’s what these blammed aliens want from us. They want a good rasher of our petersnot ta keep themselfs goin’ till the next time they kin come back. You know, Chief, our spunk, our peckerjuice, our dicksnot, our cock-hock, our—”

  “Spermatozoa,” Majora clarified. Hays again: “And, see, them aliens was in cahoots with Mrs. Willis, and what she were doin’ was givin’ ‘em the best locations fer gittin’the most dick-loogie in as short as time as posserble on account they can only be here fer a short time ‘fore they gotta go back.”

  “It’s called a straticular apogic-de flection window, Chief,” Majora added. “Think of it as a window of opportunity. The aliens only have a space of about one day before they can arrive, achieve their collection priorities, and leave. If they leave late, they’ll never get back to their own planet; earth’s orbital angle would be off.”

  Hays were noddin’. “And, see, Chief, there’s more. But first, I’se got me a question fer Miss Majora.” He looked her right in the eye. “See, I bushwhacked Mrs. Willis back at your motel room when she tried ta do the job on me, but . . . she kept sayin’something about a . . . Supremess. The hail is that?”

  “The alien flight technician. A female of their species. She is, in fact, the only occupant of the craft.”

  “And that craft is coming back soon?” Hays asked.

  Majora looked at her watch. “In a matter of minutes, in fact. But she’ll be in for a big surprise this time. No sperm.”

  Now Hays got it, but he felt the Chief deserved more of a explernation. “And likes I said, Chief, there’s more. See, what they done is give Mrs. Willis this li’l purple marble which gives off this funky light that causes folks to become hypnertized’n go unconscious—”

  “A low-yield millwave discharge unit which alters beta brainwave activity,” Majora accentuated.

  “Like all them boys at the County Watch-House?” Kinion pieced together.

  “That’s right, Chief, and she done the same thang at the VFW Post.

  Since the aliens gots so little time ta collect as much spunk as they can, they gotta go ta places with a high number’a fellas—ya know, more spunk fer the buck. And I’ll’se bet their new-fangled radio-telescope frequencies done brainwashed Mrs. Willis inta doin’it.”

  “Precisely,” Majora said. “You’re very deductive, PFC.” Hays were all in a swivet talkin’‘bout all he’d figgered out on his own. “And, Chief, there’s also somethin’ else she does, see. Before she orders the fellas ta go unconscious, she makes ‘em inject this stuff . . . inta their wood!”

  “No!” Chief Kinion exclaimed.

  “Your deputy is quite correct, Chief,” Majora said. “It’s a genetically-engineered oxytocin-nutrient which not only fuels the testes and the seminal vesicals, it enables the men and boys to achieve several dozen orgasms in the space of an hour. It’s a libidinal

  stimulant. Chief.”

  But the Chief looked crosseyed at her, like he didn’t know what’n tarnations she were blabberin’ ‘bout.

  But Hays noticed this inflection, so he augemented, “What she means, boss, is that this stuff you inject in yer dick makes ya able ta have a bunch’a nuts real fast, and it were Mrs. Willis who done sucked out all that dicksnot and then spat it inta them big 2-liter

  bottles. It were the aliens who done gave her the stuff, and the purple marble, influencin’ her by their fancy alien technolergy.” “It sounds ridiculous, Chief,” Majora said, “but it’s true, and PFC Hays is absolutely correct in all counts of his speculation—

  echnology, of course, being the operative phrase. It’s an alien conspiracy to appropriate human sperm for their own devices.” Chief Kinion glanced again to that giant motherfuckin’puddle’a spunk on the floor. Holy shee-it. That’s a dang lot’a joyjuice, yes sir!

  Problee enough spunk in each’a them bottles ta keep them aliens in spunk fer a LONG time! What a EVIL hoodwinks! “And as far as Doctor Willis being certi fiably dead this morning, “ Majora went on, “yet being quite alive when you confronted him upstairs—it can all be explained by more of the technology that the aliens gave to Mrs. Willis in exchange for her assistance. A simple biogenic reanimation serum was infused into the corpse—by Mrs. Willis—and this produced a mute assistant for her objectives.”

  The zombie, the Chief calculated. But, yeah, the whole thang sounded purdy dickerluss, but the Chief thought he were beginnin’ta see it all. “But,” he said, ta further his questions, “how do the aliens know ta come here.”

  “Simple, Chief,” Majora answered, “and this might sound ridiculous too, but it’s true. Dr. Willis, even in his retirement, attended several medical conventions ever year. Upon such occasions that he was out of town, his wife took money out of his bank account to build a low-ohm, refractive radio-telescope receptor; it’s buried in the field behind the house. See, simple. The aliens will be re-assuming a sub-orbital in just a few minutes, thinking they will receive the next cachet of sperm from Mrs. Willis. You may have noticed me earlier, out behind the house looking up into the sky.”

  Yeah! The Chief shore did! And she were doin’so with a pair’a somethin’that looked like binoculars!

  “I was using a specially made optical device that the Air Force Material Command was able to construct that will penetrate the alien stealth systems.”

  Yeah, the Chief thought. It sounded more ridickerluss than simple but how could he not believe it? All the proof was there . . .

  “But there’s still one more thing,” Majora said, “and obviously, through his intelligence and perceptivity, PFC Hays has already figured it out . . .”

  But when Majora and Kinion looked around . . . Micah Hays was gone . . .

  XVI Yeah, Hays had read all’a them fancy government classer fied papers in that red-hairt bitch’s briefcase. He knew, and he was dang well pissed. Bunch’a evil aliens tryin’ta steal our dicksnot!

  He ran down behind the house, knowin’ full well when the final embarkation would occur on account’a he seed with his own eyes the NASA trackin’ infermation.

  He knew, alls right . . .

  And he dang shore knew what he was gonna do.

  He stood back there, in the field behind the house. He looked upin the sky but weren’t surprised that he couldn’t see nothin’ but stars. Alls he knowed was what he needed ta know.

  She’ll be comin’. And she’ll be thinkin’ I’se the one with the spunk . . .

  Suddenly a great whirling wind rose; it seemed to turn circles around him, and nearly blew him off his feet. Blades’a grass and weeds’n dust rose like a friggin’ tornado, and just as Hays thought he’d blow away like a piece’a straw—

  Fuckin’-A! Cool!

  A cone of light bright as the sun beamed down on him, and a second later—

  FFFZAPP!

  Hays were standin’someplace else. Nothin’at all like the breezy field behind Doc Willis’ house but . . . inside somethin’. Someplace that were made of a bunch’a, like, honeycombed walls at all differnt angles, all drab gray, and it was cold in here, and he heard this steady hummin’ in his ears, a low, black, warblin’ noise . . .

  OUTER LIMITS NOISE FROM DOOMSDAY

  At once, though, Hays knew where he were.

  Jesus Chrast in a porn parlor! I’se right smack-dab in the middle 'a the alien ship! —You are— a sultry voice fluttered in his brain.

  From one of the honeycombs, a shadow stirred, then moved forward.

  Shee-it . . .

  The figure approached—it was short and thin’n all covered with slick gray skin, and had skinny beanpole arms’n legs. Problee no more than four-foot tall it was but with a big bald gray head like a upside-down pear. Another thang was the mouth: just like little slit’n two holes fer a nose. Purdy plain, though, that this were a gal alien, on account that she had pointy, gray tits on her rack-skinny chest’n darker gray nipples stickin’ out long as golf tees, and ‘tween her beanpole legs, Hays could see a li’l gash down there. Not a bad cut fer a alien, he
considered. But then he noted—

  The eyes.

  Dang!

  They’se was big as crystal-black tennis balls sunk in the skull.

  Oh, yeah, when Hays saw it, he knowed just what he were lookin’ at . . .

  “The Supremess,” he whispered.

  —Yes—

  But it weren’t like regler talkin’ that this alien gal talked ta Hays. It were more like a scrapin’ sound in his head that sounded like words. Teleperthee, he suspected.

  —Where are the collection receptacles?—the Supremess asked.

  “Oh, you mean them 2-liter Coke bottles filled with cum? Why, they’se down in the fridge, ya silly gray bitch,” Hays was kind enough to answer.

  —You fool! Full-positive straticular apogee is about to occur!—

  “Yeah, I know, ya ditz, and that means you gots ta leave. Well this time you’se leavin’without them bottles’a peckersnot, so how do ya like them cookies?”

  —Go back and get them!—the alien woman’s telepathic voice rocketed.— Get them and bring them to me!—

  “Fuck you and the spaceship you rode in on,” Hays replied, chucklin’. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ ‘cept maybe bitch-slappin’ the aylights out’a ya.”

  —RETRIEVE THE COLLECTION RECEPTICALS! MY RACE CANNOT PROPAGATE WITHOUT THEM!— “Propergate this, spacecunt!” Hays grabbed his crotch and gave a squeeze. “I ain’t doin’ shit you say!”

  —Oh, yes you will . . .—

  Suddenly the Supremess’ black-crystal eyes began to glow with the same danged purple light that come out’a Mrs. Willis’ marble back the motel! Yes sir, that same evil, mind-controlin’, hypnertizin’ light!

  —You have no choice but to do as I bid—the Supremess said.

  —Step back into the egression beam, then retrieve the collection rececepticals, and bring them back to me at once—

  Hays stared, stock-still, and his voice droned: “Yes, my alien master. Your wish is my command . . .” Then Hays cut a big shuckin’ grin, and he grabbed his crotch again. “In a pig’s peehole, ya alien tramp!”