Every once and a while I like to cut loose and spend a day with a good book. Ever since 'The Hunger' way back when, Whitley Strieber has been a favorite. This guy has got 'mad literary skills.' I've followed him through 'Communion' and the whole sick alien trip. You think your gonna find a better author on the subject?--forgetta about it!
See, what I'll do is, I'll unplug the land line, grab a sweet Italian cream pie, a big bag of Dutch pretzels, a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard, and a few beers, loosen my belt, unzip my jeans, and sink back in the comfortable chair for hours at a time. It don't get any better.
The first time I was abducted, well, it was a trip of an experience, and I ain't selfish---it's something I wish on everybody. I woke up to find myself lit up like a semiconductor and floating through the freak'in wall. A lot of household objects were also drifting through the air--a pizza box, the car keys, a framed picture of my father, a pile of stroke books, my razor, a zucchini--it was amazing, I can tell ya.
Inside the ship, the grays were swarming like locusts on the Serengeti. There must have been 18 or more of 'em. They make a rasping asthmatic sound that's hard to tolerate, but otherwise, they treat you good. They got the quiet manners of an Italian pope. St. Philomena didn't carry herself with more poise or dignity.
I was pretty much paralyzed the first time they took me up, but I still used the experience to learn things. I discovered parts of my body I didn't even know I had and things that could be done to me. Yowza--I'm practically a liberal now! You think they wanna hurt you? Hey, don't worrya about it!
After a while they shifted me around, and instead of a white glowing room like something out of a 70s Penthouse spread, I found myself staring at a basement café with exposed brick walls and a lot of small tables with candles in colored jars on 'em. The grays were now wearing blue-and-white striped jerseys and black berets. They had little mustaches and goatees--you know, chin hair. One was playing the accordion in a dark corner and another was singing 'La Goualante du Pauvre Jean' under a dim light.
They do Polynesian and Egyptian themes too.
The next morning I woke up in bed, a bit sore in the keister but otherwise pretty much as usual. The pizza box, house keys, and whatnot were back on the kitchen table, but the two slices of pizza that had been in the box were gone. But hey--I'm gonna begrudge our space brothers two slices of a Veggie Wedgie pie? Forgetta about it!
Since then, I've kinda strong-armed 'em into working for me, and discovered what hard workers they are. No one trims a nicer hedge, weeds a bed of petunias, or builds a better veranda. They prepare a plate of gnocchi bolognese and a three-bean salad your grandmother would trade her goat for.
They're tireless, reliable, and follow instructions first time every time. They don't eat, drink, sleep, wear clothes, overreact to thunder, or use the john, and you don't have to pay 'em or register 'em with Uncle Sam.
You just gotta sorta keep 'em out of sight is all. Old lady Notrathomaso went ballistic when she found 'em in her chokeberry bushes. High fences still make good neighbors. Whatever Pilgrim Father came up with that bit of timeless wisdom was dead on.
At night I just herd 'em all in the shed and lock it up. They can stay like that for weeks in any weather and be none the worse for it. If I hadda guess I'd say they're made of some sorta soft plastic. They're pliable, like al dente pasta. They got moist, poreless skin like tree frogs and smell like fresh asparagus. I guess they could beam themselves up if they were unhappy. They ain't done so as of yet.
If you think you could deal with 8 docile but industrious monkeys around the house, call me up. I'm thinking of renting 'em out. Would they be taking jobs from good tax-paying Americans? Maybe. But you should see the trim job they did in the dining room. Im-mac-u-late. Not a spot of paint on the lacquer. What high school kid can do that? Hey, it's a capitalist's dream I got going on here.
I disagree, therefore, with Strieber about what the grays are all about. Far from dissecting me, I sorta wish one would drop dead so I could dissect it. I have a suspicion I'd find nothing but roots, tubers, and fungus inside, and moss for brains. Sometimes I put little hats on 'em and march 'em around the yard.
Still, 'The Grays' is good stuff if you can get past the character of the young genius, Conner. And I mean really young--like, 10. He's a bit of an obnoxious brat and know-it-all, but that's the literary world for ya. Huck Finn or Oliver Twist, he ain't. He's more like Tom Terrific with ADD.
If you bought this book, you've probably already heard about black helicopters, undetectable military bases, cavity probes, Roswell, and the whole sick conspiracy trip. Nothing new in that regard here. But Strieber tells a dramatic horror story for a few hours--you'll forget to eat your pretzels, is all I can say.
I got the idea to use one of my grays as a footstool last night, but that seemed like going too far. I gotta soft heart--me, inflicting pain or humiliation?--forgetta about it! I'm pulling your joint!
I recommend you get this novel and then ease into Strieber's others if you like it. It ain't a waste of money and it ain't fruitcake.