Hillbilly 3001 [a good ol' psyops short story]

Rusty dragged his feet along the dusty yard back to his beloved porch. A mechanical chicken crossed his path and he booted it out of the way. He felt a tinge of regret, he loved them chickens, but what his brother had said stung. He wasn’t no idiot. Rusty parked his butt in the rocking chair, slumped down and dialed in his favorite drink on the bevy-materializer.

“Good ol’ Ultra-Bud Light 3000, you never steered me wrong, unlike some folk.”

Rusty looked across the yard at the spacecraft parked in the driveway. His brother was underneath it trying to fix the damn thing.

“Hell with ‘em.” Rusty cranked the radio.

...Reports from all media sources are confirming it. There is no intelligent life out there. None. Scientists and their probes have scanned the furthest reaches of the galaxy...

Rusty raised his beer.

“To Pa, up in the big yonder. You knew we was the only intelligent ones here, goddamn right.”

Rusty downed the suds in one go. He let out a long burp. The mechanical chickens all stopped, their audio sensors finely attuned to the sound. His mood lifted and he dialed in another bevy. The sun began its slow dip beyond the horizon. Rusty settled into nighttime mode: more beers, more radio, and more mech-chicken watching.

---

General Gerald pressed his face close to the thick glass. Deep underground, in a bunker situated in Area 5001, there was a lot of activity in the dissecting area he watched over. Scientists and their assistants busied themselves with scanning, pocking, prodding and cutting up all manner of blue, green, purple and damn near any shade of alien one could imagine. Appendages of all kinds were wheeled away to another room for further study.

An officer approached Gerald and saluted. “Sir, reporting for White-OPS Delta Farmer.”

Gerald returned the salute to the lower ranking officer. “How are we looking on the civilian front?”

“Dissemination of the latest news is working as well as expected, Sir. Sure, we have a bunch of conspiracy fanatics drumming up hysteria on the net, but what else is new.”

“Good, good. The public must never learn of this.”

Gerald grabbed a cigar and a pack of matches out of his inside breast pocket. He loved the old ways, especially smoking.

“Those idiots, sorry sir, civilians, will never clue in. We’ve got things on tight lockdown.”

The two men grinned and watched a scientist use a sonic-phaser to dissect an alien with quad-breasts.

“Well, look at the tits on that one. And it appears the gate technology is working optimally.”

“Yes sir, they're beaming in faster than we can process them.”

Gerald nodded. He watched the busy operating theater below. There was a sectioned off area, heavily guarded by soldiers, with a gateway that cast a blue glow. Instructions to assemble the corresponding gateway were beamed into space. Aliens from every quadrant of the universe obliged and materialized out of the glowing gate, and just as quickly, a soldier with a phase-rifle put them to sleep.

“Things are ticking along like clockwork.” Gerald breathed out a big smoke ring which dispersed against the glass.

---

Rusty was a few cans deep by the time Cletus reached the porch. The sun shone a remaining sliver of light on the farm.

“Toss me one of ‘em beers.” Cletus sat down beside his brother. “At least I earned this one.”

He tilted his head back and guzzled down the whole can. He shifted in his seat and let out a butt yodel.

“Nice one, but quiet it down. I’m trying to listen to my radio.”

“Goddamn it, Rust, you’d believe anything you’d hear on that idiot box. You know the government is just feeding us lies upon lies.”

Rusty’s face scrunched in puzzlement. “You mean, they could be lying to us about this?”

“You’re damn right they be lying. Just look up any article on Steemit, I’m sure they got the real goods on the whole situation. Now put on some tunes.”

Rusty twisted the radio dial. The sun dipped below the horizon. The two brothers drank their beers and watched mech-chickens poke around the yard.

...Country roads, take me home. To the place, I belong...

---

This is my entry for @v4vapid's Psy-Op Conspiracy Writing Contest.

It's also part two of Hillbilly 3000, a lil' story that happened right before the events of this one.

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