Mark A. Carter

RECTAL probe:
missing time, and Zeta Reticuli

World famous Canadian Science Fiction writer Mark A. Carter rants about alien abduction, missing time, Zeta Reticuli, and being on the receiving end of the infamous rectal probe.

From the top let me say that the rectal probe wasn't as horrific as its sensational depictions on television. Homophobes, and you know who you are, have shuddered at the thought of being violated in such a manner. Whereas my gay neighbor has commented that he would like to be probed, that it might be nice.

Nice? Oh please ... I was drilled far deeper than my rectum. I am bruised and groggy and altogether feel like I have been thrown down a flight of stairs, and this is two days after the event. The experience wasn't enjoyable. It simply was.

My wife and I were heading home in Solar Flare, our little Kia Rio an hour after sunset, after being out for veal Parmesan at the Hungry Wolf Restaurant when the alien abduction occurred. I had just commented that the sky was so clear that evening you could almost reach out and touch the stars. "Let's take the scenic route," said Donna, who was driving, was in a good mood, and didn't want to go directly home. So, we went for a ride. She turned right off of Walker Road and onto Grand Marais. We were just passing Chrysler Center when the city was hit with a blackout, and our headlights caught a young, blonde cheerleader standing beside her broken down car on the right shoulder. The hood was up and the girlie girl was waving her arms over her head frantically for us to stop. So, we did. We normally would not have stopped because a dangerous scam was going on around our area where people feign a break down then rob people who stop to help. I have no idea why we were good Samaritans that night. But, as the saying goes, 'no good deed goes unpunished.'

The only thing I remember about the blonde was that she had very large eyes. My wife insists that it was a guy, not a girl, and he was in his mid-twenties, had his shirt off, and was tanned and toned. She agrees with me that he had large eyes that seemed to be all pupil. The large eyes that figured prominently in our disparate accounts screams screen memory.

B. Z. Toons rectal probe graphic copyright © Brian Zaikowski. All Rights Reserved.

There seems to be gaps in my memory from then on or perhaps it was missing time. One moment I was sitting in the front passenger seat of the Kia. The next moment I was resting in a recliner in a room full of recliners, and other people. Some of the people had their shoes off. One man was reading my novel Hephzibah of Heaven of all things, while he waited. The woman, at least I think it was a woman, to his left was reading Thea of the Seraphim. The guy to his right was reading Tellusian Seed. At that juncture I wasn't sure what we were waiting for. quot;Don't you just love the color of these walls?" asked a familiar voice to my left. When I turned my head, I discovered my wife sitting beside me. She was reading Hephzibah of Heaven too, or maybe it was Thea of the Seraphim, or perhaps it was Tellusian Seed. I can't be sure.

"I just don't know who you are," Donna gushed. "I know you wrote this. I watched you write it. But I still can't believe that you did it. Who are you?"

I shrugged.

I remember downing a bitter liquid that I would not naturally drink. It was awful and sickly sweet. Yet I drank it all. I vaguely remember washrooms and diarrhea, a lot of diarrhea, everyone having diarrhea, me having a lot of diarrhea. And I couldn't help but think it was a visceral commentary on my writing.

I remember a room with a bright overhead light, a cobalt blue operating table and machines humming in a rack beside me. And hanging above the machine was a black probe. "Is that the rectal probe?" I asked. It didn't look so big. The Zeta pointed to a large container on the counter containing a long, black tendril. "That's the rectal probe," she said, "and we drill much deeper than your rectum." It sounded ominous. I was just about to ask, "How deep?" when I was slammed by a push of sedation. My voice got all girlie. And I fell asleep. I do not remember the gastro probe being inserted into my mouth, although I have a faint memory of a rigid, straight pipe being shoved down my throat.

I opened my eyes just in time to catch the Zeta doctor who was performing the procedure on me as he inserted a long metal wire into the probe presumably to take a tissue sample from my stomach. Then I remember the gurney being turned around. I recall the Zeta assistant talking to the doctor. "Do you want two?" she asked. "You better give him three," replied the Zeta physician. I saw her holding three syringes beside my right hand. She removed an empty syringe from a shunt placed in the back of my hand, and injected a fresh syringe containing an orange liquid. I felt that push too.

I do not remember the probe being inserted into my anus. I opened my eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of my gut on the big screen attached to the wall. I watched as the probe was pulled out. "Elvis has left the building," I chimed. No one laughed. I recall someone wiping and washing my ass. I was given a paper towel and told to dry myself, and I did a half-assed job of it at best. Then I found myself on my back with the alien nurse dressing me. She pulled up my underwear and my blue, plaid bottoms. Then I found myself being walked to the recovery area. But I don't recall how I got off the table. The Zeta assistant was holding my left arm securely so I wouldn't fall down ... how kind. I looked at my feet and discovered that my socks had been put on over my running shoes. Who on Earth would do a thing like that?

I looked at Donna as she drove us home from eating our veal Parmesan suppers at the Hungry Wolf. Essentially, we picked up where we left off, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. But my stomach knew something was amiss. It gurgled its displeasure. "Don't you just hate it when you're hungry five minutes after you've eaten?" I asked Donna. She nodded. "Hey," I said, "the street lights are back on." It took a while for it to sink in that we had been abducted and were experiencing two days of missing time.

We were confused about the entire situation for months. The best we can figure it, we were picked up by Zetas on Monday. They performed their procedures on Tuesday. They didn't touch Donna. I don't know why not. And we were returned on Wednesday. The worst thing about the whole deal, aside from being thoroughly buggered, in more ways than one was not eating for forty hours. The worst thing about the experience for my wife was the alien assigned to help her pass the time. The Gray thought himself a comedian and had dreams of working the comedy circuit and of being on television. So, while I was being probed, he tried his routine on my wife which was torture of a kind in and of itself because the only comedy in his arsenal were variations on Henny Youngman one-liners. "Take my husband, please." The Gray confessed to Donna that the Zetas considered Earth to be a real fun place. They couldn't get enough of it. So, when they were in the galactic neighborhood, they always dropped in for a visit. "Your entire planet is a joke," he said to her. I always knew it.

Read: Infection, delusion, and alien invasion
Aliens and Angels
Bible Aliens
Bug-eyed Monsters
Cloudcuckooland, Inferno, and Nineteen Eighty-Four
Centipedes and Homo Sapiens
Red-eyed Tree Frogs

Now you know.

from the imagination of Mark A. Carter - writer

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