We spent the night at the No Tell recovering from our ordeal.
The local yokels investigated the incident, but of course, they
couldn't make heads or tales of the situation, and had to call in
reinforcements. At around noon the next day, there was a
knock on the door. I opened it to find an official looking man
and woman standing there. The man thrust his credentials in
my face and announced with deliberate earnest, "FBO." He
then repeated himself even more forcefully, and I replied, "All
right already, I heard you the FIRST time!"
Nonplussed, he continued. "Mr... Bastardo? My name is
Wolfe Muldwine, and this is Agent Stoli. We're with the
Federal Bureau of Oenology, and we're here to investigate
what I believe is a conspiracy to subvert and enslave the
world's population through the mass distribution of an
extraterrestrial liquid called 'Borgundy.' What can you tell us
about your experience?"
We recounted everything we could recall; the "Borgundy," the
feeding tubes, the flying doughnut et al. When we finished,
Muldwine sat in silence for a moment while his partner made
no secret of being bored; then he uttered gravely, "My worst
fears are realized. The aliens are among us."
"Muldwine, that's absurd," Agent Stoli blurted. "You'll
jump at
the flimsiest evidence to support your alien fantasy, including
the delirious ravings of a bunch of drunks who ride around on
a glorified Greyhound!"
"Deena, I want to believe," he replied.
"You wouldn't know an alien plot from an old script from 'The
Outer Limits!' There's a reason why everyone at the Acadamy
called you 'Corky.' "
"Stoli, the juice is out there!"
They then fell into some very petty bickering, and Madame
and I took this as our signal to exit, stage left.
We returned to Cloudy Bay with Bree, the lads and the
Canadian Wine Wankers, where we recuperated for a few
days, drinking copious amounts of Screaming Beagle and
Chateau Le Feet and shooting skeet out in back of Hotel
califusa, before returning home to Day-twah.
The last we heard of Bacchus and Miss Vicky, they were
running a shelter for alleged victims of alien abduction at a
nudist trailer park in New Mexico. As for the Overborg, no
one knows what became of him and his flying doughnut. The
FBO undoubtedly did extensive investigation of the bus and its
contents, but we'll never know what they found.
However, sometimes, in the middle of the night, when I'm fast
asleep, I'm still haunted by a sinister whisper hissing,
"g3po..."
I don't fall asleep again on nights like those.
B
Disclaimer: Any resemblance between the characters in this dispatch and
actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidence and a fig-Newton
Claret of my twisted imagination.
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