Hello my name is Jacob Matthews. I'm 26 years old and hail from Boston, MA originally, but currently I'm on vacation visiting an old Internet friend. My friend is really into aliens and, in my heart, I want to believe in them as well. Coming from a big city, I'm immune to most stories of alien abduction, chalking most of them up to misdiagnosed airplane sighting or various other natural occurrences. The accent, I believe, works. I even throw in the word "chowda", knowing no one who actually ever used that term. My real name is Stevehen Warren. I'm 29 years old and a complete skeptic when it comes to well... most everything. Jacob Matthews was a failed idea for a comic book I had years ago. What happens when you put a skeptic with some acting ability and a light New England accent into a room full of UFO fans? Well, it's wicked awesome, here we go.
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| I'm Olaf Stapledon, a completely random reference. Um... Man with WINGS! |
I fear for a moment they will attempt to check my identification. Being paranoid pays off sometimes, boys and girls, I stashed anything containing my actual name safely away; ready to produce an empty wallet with a few small bills. My editor doesn't know this; it's called a trump card. Of course, I don't have ID. Did you know that the government puts UV tracking slips into everything from ID cards to credit cards. Why do I want them to know who I am? Vote Ron Paul.
After choking down a process drench donut and some decent coffee, one of the trifecta leaders darts angrily at my editor. "Is that a recording device?" What kind of sick bastard would dare report on a closed meeting advertised on the Internet? Anyone caught leaking information discussed in this meeting will never be allowed to attend another one. Now sometimes in these things, I come off as a little gruff, a little mean spirited, if you will. For respect of their rules, there will be no names. Upon learning that a pen and a pad of paper are recording devices, I silently placed my pen down. I went to college. If I can remember a three-hour lecture on the history of women during the Civil War, I can learn about the truths of the universe. Consequently, as a believer of fairness, I cannot adhere their gag order. You want freedom to assemble then you get freedom of the press, them the rules.
Fun fact number one, Ted Kennedy died from a brain tumor caused by cell phones. As we all know, only people who have cell phones get brain cancer. That's your scientific fact for the day. This is the exact moment that science, having no reason to stay, picks up his suitcase and walks out the door proclaiming, "Cool, when you need me I'll be outside." There are stories of pictures, none produced, of lights and various other illusionary terrors. Illumination is all about alien foul play, just tossing that one out there. This is almost boring, I dart angrily at my editor until a man stands proclaiming that there's a symbol scribbled on the wall. Well, look at that, there is. It's a puzzle, a puzzle to which each of us has a piece. Stevehen thinks it looks like a poorly drawn 'S'. Jacob wants some chowda while watching the wicked retarded Yankees choke it hard in Octoba.
This was the spark everyone needed. Suddenly the stories jump to life, descending down the corridors of madness screaming, violently pressing against the walls of logic. It becomes a cosmic game of one-upmanship. When we get down to the last of the first row, a gentleman with a wooden plank and two crystal skulls leads my little inner voice proclaims, "We have a winner." This voice subsequently break dances popping and locking in my mind.
Do you like machines? How about a machine capable of creating matter using two crystal skulls? What, you thought you could create matter with only one skull? Well, no you ignorant fuck, you can't. Well, with this machine could you make an apple? You sure could, well, eventually once you got over traversing the Nexus. This begins some weird debate, the majority of which floats over my head in a fabulous rainbow of delight, dropping chocolate nuggets into my mouth. When the debate turns to dream stones and their ability to work with the machine my inner voice begins doing the robot.
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| I have an odd feeling July 8, 2008 sucked. It's a very strong feeling. |
All the while, the sounds of fluttering papers fill the room. There's a bit of reading material going around. I finally get my hands on it. This is official, people. The current Swine Flu epidemic is actually the 1918 flu that we sucked from a frozen dead Eskimo... my inner voice beings to do the dance from the Great Adventure commercial before suffering a heart attack. It becomes too much. The edge is too close; I return my glare to the symbol, attempting to logically decipher something, hell, anything. My eyes track down for a moment catching one of the suspicious ones looking me over. Does he suspect? That bastard will never take me alive. Right as I'm ready to proclaim, "You can't silence the press," before tossing the table and making my way to the nearest window, a kindly older gentleman gets the floor.
Forty years ago, he saw some lights he couldn't explain. At this point, mind you, I've drenched my mind around some strange things. It's good to have a rest. "Sir, do you have any military experience?" What kind of question is that? Honestly, if the old guy was part of an old military experiment, would he have wasted our time with such a tame story? I saw some lights once when I was in the military. It was right after my three hour verbal interrogation with thirteen interplanetary sailors all of which I killed with my bare hands. Well, you guys didn't ask if I had military experience. Didn't think you were interested.
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| Waverider is going to travel through time and figure this all out. You must chill. |
The symbol, the bookend to this odd tale of sober debauchery--here's a hint--it came from a spaceship. Wait, we have a spaceship? Here we go, people, it is party time. Let's drink some beer and shoot cans off of it. We're killing the world anyway; let's give Jeff Goldblum a virus or something. I love that movie. What do you mean we don't have the actual ship? Well there's a picture of it right? How did you find out about it? I'm three seconds from proclaiming the artist a government plant and watching as the crowd rises to tear him apart. That bastard killed my Christmas; he gave me the equivalent of socks.
Are they, coining a phrase they used, wackos? No. They are normal people who wake up, kiss their kids before sending them off to school, work hard and in their spare time look for some sort of answer to the world around them. Granted, it's not the same answers we look for, but that does not make them deviants. We need to open this up though, separate the known and unknown. We don't get to scream into the box and claim everything we believe is sacred and cannot be ridiculed. That wouldn't be very fair.
Stevehen J. Warren is a trained professional in dealing with the crap society churns out. If possible, do not attempt to engage any crap you may find. He mocks it so you don't have to.
If you have a movie, picture, website, friend, game, book, fan fiction, or toilet you would like me to see, or crap all over, please inform your friendly webmaster and include your name and the name of the crappee. The numbers are open and we have trained professionals waiting to receive your call.
