Craving
Phil Temples
It’s late Saturday night and the desk sergeant calls me to the lobby to speak with two women. One looks disheveled and a bit confused. The other explains that she found the first woman walking along the side of Highway 24 on the outskirts of town.
“I think she was assaulted, officer.”
I thank the Good Samaritan, take down her contact information and send her on her way. Then I get the victim—whose ID reads Gloria Swenson—a soda and a candy bar from the vending machine.
“Gloria, can you tell me who assaulted you?”
“It was aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“Space aliens. They hit me with some sort of light beam then they sucked me up into their spaceship. And you probably won’t believe this …”
“About the aliens and their spaceship?”
“No. About the sex. It was some of the best sex I’ve ever had! No one has ever made me come like that before. Now I’m pregnant. If you’ve had kids before you just know these things. Trust me. Pretty soon now, I’ll give birth to one of their hybrid offspring, then they’ll come back for the baby. That’s what they told me. It’s part of their plan to repopulate their home world.”
“I see.”
“I’m glad you believe me.”
I’m about to excuse myself to place a call to psychiatric services at County General when Gloria adds, “The aliens wanted me to pass along a message to you.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“They told me to tell the authorities that they’re not responsible for the cattle mutilations on the Pennington farm out on Rockport Road.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But they do take responsibility for the crop circles. They apologize. Something about performing a cold engine restart too close to the ground … Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any pickles in your breakroom? I have a sudden craving.”
