Brainless Alien?

Four tall, thin men dressed in black suits and fedoras arrested the quiet stranger teenager Elizabeth Stockmeyer and her mother called “Fred.” Sheriff Winslow Tate sipped Mrs. Stockmeyer's fresh coffee with his back to the arrest by the outsiders. He stared at the kitchen counter as the four agents from who-knew-what federal agency handcuffed and hauled the young man out to their black late model Ford sedan. As far as the sheriff could tell, the only crime the lad committed, other than his odd looks, including a left arm that was a foot longer than his right, was to pop out of the woods buck naked earlier that morning and thereby expose himself to an innocent young Wisconsin teenager on a cold November morning. The year was 1946. Sheriff Tate knew if it was up to him, he'd haul the young man to the state line and turn him loose with the warning never to show his butt in Grant county again. He couldn't even look Mrs. Stockmeyer in the eye when she moaned, “What the hell.” Sixteen-year-old Elizabeth explained that the boy was a fugging Nazi spy. Her mother scolded her for her language.

The four agents drove “Fred” to Madison where they parked in back of a nondescript four-story office structure that could have been a state government building or something else. Within minutes, the men had taken “Fred” to a basement laboratory and strapped him down on an autopsy table, but as a stranger from a far distant place, Fred did not recognize it as such.

The four black suits left the room. Another few minutes passed when a middle aged plump man entered accompanied by a woman, also middle aged. She was tall and thin, an apparent sister to the black suits. She and the man wore black lab coats, surgical masks and head coverings.

“Do you understand English?” the big man asked.

“Si,” replied “Fred.”

“What's your real name?” the woman asked.

“They call me Fred.”

“But your real name is?” asked the rotund man as he rolled a cart filled with surgical instruments up to the autopsy table.

“Fred.”

“Well, Fred, your name is of no matter. Welcome to earth, to America, the land of the free and home of the brave. We would love to interview you in depth about your advanced alien science, but we simply don't have time. Our superiors want us to learn everything about your biology and they want to know immediately. Something about not wanting to unleash alien bacteria and such on America. We're delighted to see that you look like us, with a few weird exceptions like your orange and green eyes, purple hair and one arm longer than the other. It'll make our living autopsy easier. I'll begin by removing your brain for examination. Don't worry, I'll put it back when I'm finished. You don't mind, do you?”

The man and the woman both bellowed their best rendition of an evil mwa-ha-ha laugh.

THE END

7 PREDICTIONS YOU CAN MAKE ABOUT ANY STORY
Do you ever wish you could better predict the end of the movie you're watching or the novel you're reading? Do you envy friends who always seem to know what will happen next in a story? Want to learn their secret? Send for your FREE copy of my new guide – 7 PREDICTIONS YOU CAN MAKE ABOUT ANY STORY. It's FREE plus I'll email occasional updates on my new releases, current novels and more (Never more than once a month. Cancel anytime.) Click here to signup now.   

Elizabeth Stockmeyer's Most Unusual Morning

Through her glasses, with lenses thick as a soda bottle bottom, sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Stockmeyer spotted a flash of bare human flesh through the woods about 20 yards down Stickle Road from her family's farm. Snipgridix, the teenage alien hermaphrodite shapeshifter, wandered out of the forest. Unfortunately, he hadn't yet mastered the art of being human. His sky blue left foot was a size 6 and his right sky blue foot size 18. The right side of his body was white while the left side was black. Otherwise, he appeared average height, weight, brown hair and forgettable face. He had one purple eyeball and one orange.

The most interesting thing, of course, for young Elizabeth was she now knew what gentleman kepthidden beneath their khakis. She suspected the weather on this November morning in 1946 may have affected the young man's, uh, “equipment” which the stranger made no attempt to cover. She had heard from the other girls to expect the young man's thingie to be much larger.

“Buenas dias,” said the youth. “You wouldn't happen to know where I could obtain some of those outer coverings you creatures wear, would you?”

“You must be freezing. Here, cover yourself with my coat.” Elizabeth removed her navy blue wool A-line jacket and handed it to the stranger.

“Thank you.” The newcomer attempted to put the coat on upside down. Then he twisted it sideways to wear like a wrap. He smiled at Elizabeth. “Ist gute, ya?”

“You'd think you never in your life wore a coat before. Let me help you.” Elizabeth moved behind the man and held up the jacket. “Slip your arms in these holes.” From this position she missed seeing the young man conform his body to the size of the A-line. “Oh, my, a perfect fit, but how is that possible? Come to my house where you may borrow my father's clothes. They'll be way too big on you, but you can't go about naked and half frozen to death even if you are a Nazi spy.”

While her Mom assisted the young visitor with his apparel needs, Elizabeth waited in the kitchen with a well-sugared and creamed cup of coffee by the wood stove. She sauntered down the hall where she called the sheriff's department on the telephone to report the arrival of the odd-colored naked stranger. The sheriff ended the conversation by suggesting Elizabeth make a fresh pot of coffee.

Within a short time, her mother returned with the young man behind.

“Your father's clothes fit,” Mom said.

“But that's not possible,” Elizabeth said. “My coat fit him before. Besides he lost some of his color and now his feet match. What's going on here?”

“We can worry about that later. I'll drive you to school, but first, let me pour Fred a cup of coffee.” Mom picked up the coffeepot.

“Sorry, Mom, but I called the sheriff. We should wait.”

“Don't worry. I'll make breakfast for Fred in the meantime.”

Thirty minutes later, Fred, or Snipgridix as his home world folks named him, watched out the window of the kitchen as Sheriff Tate liberated his oversize mid-section from behind the wheel of his Chevy in the driveway. An unmarked black Ford sedan parked next to the sheriff's Chevy and ejected four tall, thin men dressed in black suits, black neckties, white shirts, black hats and black shoes. They wore black sunglasses.

THE END

7 PREDICTIONS YOU CAN MAKE ABOUT ANY STORY
Do you ever wish you could better predict the end of the movie you're watching or the novel you're reading? Do you envy friends who always seem to know what will happen next in a story? Want to learn their secret? Send for your FREE copy of my new guide – 7 PREDICTIONS YOU CAN MAKE ABOUT ANY STORY. It's FREE plus I'll email occasional updates on my new releases, current novels and more (Never more than once a month. Cancel anytime.) Click here to signup now.