True Alien - Chapter 2

in funny •  2 years ago


My work is about more than extra-terrestrials. I study the basic elements of understanding: What the universe truly is versus the limits of our perception. We, as animals of nature, are physically restricted, (more accurately we are prohibited, but we will come to that later) from knowing reality in its truest form. We live in illusion. The objects of our world, the causes and effects, the colors and calamities, even our own selves…all are constructs of our handicapped brains, hobbled by evolution to keep us from escaping the proverbial work farm. This is common knowledge, understood by even the dimmest child. But children are not the problem. It is your average adult who resists this truth most aggressively, often violently, and all too frequently to the death.   It was adults such as these––the violent kind––that I have dealt with for most of my career, and who, on the night of January 17th, 1988, had me fleeing for my life into the stygian dark of the western Pennsylvanian night. They were within their rights, I suppose. There are laws of nature and laws of man and in my haste to disprove the former, I wound up breaking the latter. Indirectly, of course. Or rather, it wasn’t homicide. I am no murderer. Still, John Stubbins was dead and I would be blamed, so escape was the only logical action to take.   The little Gremlin chuggered as fast as it would go over those rolling mountain roads, speeding down the slopes, gasping up the inclines like a dingy in a storm. I had won a ten-minute head start, having been warned of my imminent arrest by a friendly local, but there was only one road out of town and I knew they were behind me in the dark, gaining in their big-wheeled trucks with the over-stoked diesels. I did my best to keep the little car on the road, but I am not a natural driver. Some are born to machines and mechanisms. People like Ezra Mooney. I am not one. Even trains make me nervous. Piloting a get-away-car through unfamiliar terrain was not a skill I possessed and my nerves were pounding louder than the engine. But for all my fear, I felt no guilt over the reason for my flight. It’s true, I had killed John Stubbins. I had jabbed him in the neck with a hypodermic needle full of zatting fluid and his brain had melted out his ears. But it was not murder, for John Stubbins had not been human.   How do I know this? It is my job to know such things.   


Copyright 2017, Daniel Capuzzi

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