No one respects you when your abduction experience beings in an airport bathroom. Your fellow Abductees will shun you at events and you will never, ever get laid at conventions.
What you get are conversations like these.
“Are you sure they didn’t take you in a field and then deposit you in the airport?”
“I’m sure. It was Dulles International, in the B-Gate men’s room.”
She left me alone real fast. That convo came from an informal get-together of Experiencers in Philadelphia.
One time in Roswell, I had a life-altering version of the same old chat.
“Did you float out of your car like it wasn’t even there?”
The big-haired bleached blonde was looking at me with gin-enhanced vision. For someone who claimed to have been farmed for eggs by Reptilians, her neckline reached her navel. Most of the farmees I’ve met tend toward super modest clothing, almost as if that would keep aliens out of their pants.
“I told you already. It reached down out of the ceiling tile and grabbed me by my head—no blue lights, funny noises or anything like that.”
Gin Blonde nodded at me, as if she hadn’t heard a word I’d said. She had a great ass, but my desire to fly her to Venus had slipped away… probably ran right out of the hotel bar.
“Was it a Gray, a Reptilian, or a Plieadian who used you for your sperm?”
“None of the above. She was purple, furred, and smelled a little like mint.”
My former booty prospect put her damp hand over mine, and breathed juniper berries up my nose.
“Did you suffer,” she exhaled like the air brakes on a Semi, “an anal probe? Did they stick anything in you? Implant you? Hmmm?”
I added 15 years to her estimated age.
“Uh-uh. She shagged the stuffing out of me.”
“Oh God!” Gin Blotto clawed at my hand with her carefully groomed and painted fingernails. “Breeding experiments!”
Scotty? Beam me up. Please! Now!
“No, not likely. I had a vasectomy three years ago. She told me she was horny as hell and had an itch for Human.”
“Oh. I can see why she chose you!” Alcohol Babe batted her besotted eyelashes at me and I wanted to weep in terror. Purple ceiling bitches frightened me less than this woman did. “You’re so tall, with mysterious Svengali eyes. You look like Turkish crossed with Black Irish. Mmmmm!”
“No. I ask myself why she chose me about 10 times a day.”
“I bet you’re hung, too.”
Mommy! Scary Lady is scary!
“Eh. No. I think I was just in the right place, taking a leak, at the wrong time.”
Her tone changed completely, so quickly that I nearly missed it.
“You’re lying. You’re just here to sow disinformation and discord! What are you? MJ-18? MiB? What? What? What?”
Oh my God.
“No. None of them! The only thing I got out of blogging about my abduction was a call from a company that makes silicone sex toys! I don’t know anything about MiB or MJ-whatever! Honest!”
I got out of there so fast I left my skin under her fingernails. When I got back to my hotel room, I just folded myself up into the closet and shut the door. That was the start of my phobia of blonde women with long fingernails.
Funny thing, though—she got my ancestry right. Dad was Black Irish and Mom was from Istanbul. That’s how I ended up with the name Robert Tcheky O’Brien.
It was a good closet—a friendly closet—until a bright light appeared over my head, and a familiar clawed finger tapped me on the crown of my head.
“Hey, Bobby Check! I’ve missed you!”
“Hi Misot. Your timing is impeccable, as always.”
“I’m so glad!”
She grabbed me by my head, just like so many times before, and I added La Quinta Inn to my list of abduction sites.
