missing time, and Zeta Reticuli
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.
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
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
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
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.
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