Singular Purpose

“This may not be the best of all possible universes but it may well prove to be one of the simplest.”
— Werner Heisenberg

Here we are¹,

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or here I am I should say,

writing down my account of what

happened, just as your MEN IN

BLACK agents asked of me,

but I must warn you:

I probably don’t have the

answers you’re seeking.

You, most likely, know far more than I do, afterall, you’re the ones who found us; found us sprawled out in the middle of that desert, lying peacefully upon the ground,

which by that time had been littered with our telescopes, cameras, food, and whatever else we brought

— so take all of this as

you will.

Some time between midnight and two

a.m., my friends, Gabrielle, Michael, and

Raphael, and myself, of course, decided to

take a special trip, in more ways than one,

out in the desolate, yet beautiful Nevada

desert, around the technological Narnia

known as Area 51; a place that exists

simply to not exist.

After

finding

suitable

location,

somewhere

the

desert

sands,

set

our

tents,

cameras,

telescopes.

Gabrielle and Michael started a campfire,

while I helped Raphael unpack our

‘goodies,’ settling in for the night’s

event.

Now, I may sound redundant for

repeating what those ‘goodies’ were,

but there is a near infinite chance

that you could have actually

forgotten, so allow me to save you

some trouble with a quick rundown:

a baggie of pot,

some LSD,

magic mushrooms,

and the most potent substance of all —

a half dozen boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Once everything was set

in its proper place,

I began to scan the distant horizon

for that tangible illusion

of a base, Area 51,

using one of our many telescopes;

scanning, searching, praying,

awaiting to see the sort of thing

one hopes to see in a place like

this, but never truly expects to

F I N D.

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By this time,

it had become

quite apparent that

my friends had

begun to kiss

and make out

with our illustrious

fifth member, the

ever sensuous, Mary-Jane,

and had begun

to ‘enhance’ and

‘enchant’ our donuts

with magic; all

of this was

sprinkled with a

healthy dose of

talk and banter

regarding the nature

of the Chosen One.

‘If you are truly chosen

out of freewill,’ Michael

began, ‘then one’s destiny

is not set in stone, and it

can always be changed,

including being the

so-called Chosen One.’

Gabrielle, naturally, had a different point of view, ‘There really isn’t a choice for anyone,’ she said dreamily, ‘everything is set in stone when you get down to the core of everything; infinite paths, same destination, same monumental moments and events, all hitting the same marks, just not in that order…²’

The two of them

continued to ramble on

about this and that,

while Raphael leaned closer

to me, mumbling under his breath,

‘How can something be a choice

through freewill if the choices are

given to you?’ He sighs heavily

before stealing another kiss from

Mary-Jane. ‘It’s all just chaos until

you do something.’ I simply shrug

my shoulders in silence before

returning to my telescopic

observations.

Silence

soon

befell

our

little

party like a heavy

woolen blanket. The

only sources of

light came from

our campfire, the soft,

hazy glow of the

mysterious military base off

in the distance, and the

clear, star-filled sky; not

a moon in sight. The

silence was not to last

long, though, as spouts of

giggles and snickers arose from

behind me.

I turned to face my comrades;

my expression relaying the question:

What’s going on?

At first, only more uncontrolled

laughter answered my

questioning look, until Gabrielle

was able to compose herself

enough to ask me a question

in return.

‘Do you know

where magic

mushrooms

grow?’ she said,

laughing between

breaths.

I shook my head

in response.

‘They. Grow. On. Cow. Turds,’ she managed to continue, still snickering between syllables. I raise a dubious eyebrow, channeling my inner-Spock towards the three of them. ‘Where do you think the phrase ‘that’s good shit’ comes from‽”

With this, they all lost their composure once again, tumbling down in fits of joyous laughter.

‘Hey, hey — maybe that’s why the

Hindus think cows are holy!’ interjected

Raphael.

‘H-o-l-y—s-h-i-t,’

was all Michael could say

in response, his voice a

sudden whisper of

revelation, his

own eyes

filled

with

excitement

and wonder, as

if he had just stumbled

upon the greatest secret in the universe.

‘EXACTLY!’ the other two shout

in unison, both at the

revelation and pun

Michael had

made,

only

for all

three to erupt in a

volcanic explosion of

shouts, hoots, hollars, and

more laughter; a near delirious

state of euphoria in the

enlightenment they had discovered.

‘I know where Heaven is!’

hooted Michael.

‘It’s in a cow’s butt!’

answered Raphael

‘And McDonald’s is the antiChrist!’

Gabrielle added on.

Their happiness

made me wonder

if this

is why everyone

laughs the

first time they

take mushrooms.³

In the end, everything they said made

some sort of weird sense.

In fact — it made

complete and total sense.

Suddenly, something that I can only

describe

as a

flaming stealth

pancake shot out of

Area 51, like some kind of reverse

shooting star;

splitting the black starry

sky in its

wake,

exposing sights ★ ★ and visions

from ★ ★ ★ afar; the

furthest ★ ★ reaches of

the cosmos

and

beyond; making

right angled turns on a

dime;

twisting,

pitching, yawing, and

barreling all over, performing

Escher-esque maneuvers in the cool

Nevada air, before slowing down and

coming to a stop; a serene halt, landing

right in front of us;

in front of our sweaty hands and

trembling knees; in front of our

wide eyes and gaping jaws,

yet in that very

moment, all I could

think of was

‘I hope no one noticed that I pissed my pants.’

A horrific excitement filled the air

as the craft stood before us,

with its soft glowing yellow and

golden lights, spanning out like the

fingers of a new dawn. Right

before us, blooming like a rose,

opened a circular aperture,

revealing the shadowy interior of the

craft. Then, a being, straight out of the

X-Files, appeared

in the threshold, looking

like some kind of

hairless blue-green Jackie

Chan, with deep,

sunken little beady coal-like

eyes, and a mouth that

resembled a severe papercut more than

anything else.

The most peculiar aspect of all

was the overwhelming stench of

vanilla pancakes that had been left

out a little too long in the sun, and

that this being, this E.T., was

wearing a three-piece suit. Pretty

snazzy for a space creature, if you ask

me.

Then the X-Files being began to

approach is; maybe I should clarify, it:

E.T., didn’t so much as walked, but

rather floated on over, like an

apparition in slow motion, its

movement like that of something out

of THE MATRIX; you remember that

film, right? Whatever, it doesn’t

matter.

Onwards it

hovered until

it was right in

front of us, in

front of me. My

body shivered and

shook, yet

somehow

I managed

to stay my ground

and kept myself

upright on my feet.

E.T. then proceeded to reach

out with its lanky arms; it opened up

its triple digit hand (three fingered

for you lay-persons) to reveal four

orange slices, or at least I thought

they were oranges. For all I know,

they could have been anything, yet

before ‘stranger danger‘ could finish

flashing in my mind, I found my

mouth full and gleefully chewing on

the orange slices.

I turned back to face my

companions, only to find

them down on the desert earth,

lying in various awkward

positions. Passed out or dead, I

couldn’t really tell, but for some

queer reason, I didn’t seem to

care at the time. I suspected that

the orange slice had something to

do with that, and that it had

ceased my trembling at this

time.

With a sudden

and abrupt swiftness

which I could not fully catch,

E.T. lifted and pointed

one of its skeletal fingers at my

face, opening the miniscule mouth

on its face as wide as it could possibly

go. I expected to hear a scream, or tell, or

some sort of unearthly voice in an alien

tongue, yet nothing of the kind arrived.

Instead, a booming voice, like a

thousand thunderous

gods and goddesses

harkening at once, echoed through my

mind, sending thousands of needles

through my heart.

‘YOU ARE THE

CHOSEN ONE!’

proclaimed E.T.,

‘YOU ARE THE

ONE WHO WILL

DELIVER THE

MESSAGE TO THIS

WORLD;

A MESSAGE OF HOPE

FOR THOSE WHO

CHOOSE TO HEAR IT;

AND A WARNING

FOR THOSE

WHO DO NOT!‘

I meekly pointed a finger

at myself, mouthing in silence

my one-word question: ‘Me?’

Me, I think to myself; me, with

some serious concern; E.T. chose

me, out of all possible people —

E.T. chose me, and I didn’t even

graduate from highschool.

Needless to say, I was completely

dumbfounded and awe-struck by the

notion, like a deer stuck in the

headlights of an intergalactic big rig.

Why did I get chosen?

I continued to ponder

to myself; none of it

made any sense to me,

whatsoever.

E.T. continued

to stare at me with

its somniferous marble

eyes, as it inquired

for my name with

its thoughts. I just

stared back at the X-Files

being, not knowing how to

react to the request, or,

more importantly,

how E.T. would

react to my answer.

So I took a risk,

leapt

into

the

unknown;

raising

both my

hands slowly,

I signed my

name.

Now it was E.T.’s turn to be

dumbfounded as it tilted it’s

bulbous head to one side in

confusion, clearly unable to understand what I had just

done. E.T. once again spoke

into my mind, this time asking

why I did not speak like the

others, and like before, I

responded in kind, answering

with the use of my hands,

sketching invisible symbols

in the air between us;

AND

turning

my fingers

like a mad wizard, only to receive the same confused, tilted head stare from E.T.

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For a while, nothing happened between us as we lingered in the cool Nevada desert. A small, gentle breeze blew on by as the pancake ship stood as a taciturn witness to the dust devils swirling here and there, making it seem like we were in some kind of B-Movie Sci-Fi fantasy Western shootout, starring a cybernetic John Wayne and a two thousand year old Clint Eastwood, as a lo-fi rendition of The Ecstacy of Gold played in the background. All that was missing were the tumbleweeds and sombreros.

The silence didn’t last for long, however, as E.T.’s brow furrowed, raising its hand to its enormously smooth forehead, then slid it down its face in an overly exaggerated fashion, like some kind of animated character from the LooneyToons: the truth of the

matter had finally

dawned upon the

intergalactic visitor.

‘YOU FOOLS!‘

bellowed E.T.

in what felt

like every

frequency of

communication

as it spun around to face its ship

and, I assume, its fellows within.

All the while, I cowered at the

sound of its voice, covering my

ears to dull the grandness of the

alien voice, not that it made any

difference in the end.

‘THE CHOSEN ONE

IS A MUTE!‘

E.T. bowed its head and shook it

from side to side in utter

disappointment. Dejected,

it began to make its way back

towards the flaming stealth

pancake spaceship. As it entered the

doorway, E.T. looked back at me

and shook its head once more.

‘I AM SORRY WE

DISTURBED YOUR

GATHERING,’

the X-Files being said solemnly and

apologetically, and featuring towards my

friends, though its vice still rumbled

through my mind like a storm;

continued it went, swallowed up by the

reverse-blooming flower door, and

disappearing within. The ship soon

lifted off and shot off into the night sky,

leaving a wake of blue light.

Next thing I knew,

I was waking up

to find myself

here, surrounded

by your

MEN IN BLACK agents.

According to them,

I had been slipping in

and out of consciousness

for several days (‽),

requesting nothing but

oranges, vanilla pancakes,

and Krispy Kreme donuts.

My head spun like an out of control

gyroscope, all I wanted to do was go

back to sleep, but your

people are

persistent as

summertime mosquitos;

asking me a million variations of the same

singular question with the same singular

purpose: to annoy me.

Not the answer you’re looking

for, I’m sure, don’t worry,

I’m asking myself the same

question; one thing’s for

certain: I don’t have to

wonder

whether or not

my encounter

really happened,

or even if you

believe me — I

know something

is up, because

why else would

you be

hounding

me?

You know it happened,

but that’s not what you

want to know, is it? No,

you want the message.

What was the message?

To be honest, I don’t remember,

I didn’t exactly write it down, you see;

it wasn’t a part of my agenda that night;

and neither was the burden of

being the Chosen One,

so forgive me if

I don’t have an answer for you.

I don’t even know

where to begin

when it comes

to what that

message could

have been,

but I will say this:

McDonald’s is the anti–Christ.

Maybe that’s the message I’m

supposed to share with the

world at large.

Regardless, all of this

writing has built up

my appetite, and I

think you know what

I’m craving right now,

cause some oranges,

vanilla pancakes, and a

box of Krispy Kreme

donuts sounds just

heavenly right now.

FIN

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¹ •This tale was loosely inspired by the song Rosetta Stoned by the band TOOL, off of their 2006 album, 10,000 Days, as well as a prompt from a few years back simply called ‘Voice.’ Getting this posted was spurred on by the persistent (and stupid) notion about raiding Area 51. I still believe, if there’s any that needs to be raided by its people, it’s the government offices, and removing the trouble makers who dare to hinder progress.

² • Obviously, there was more to this conversation, but I doubt there’s enough space in all of space to contain the discussion they had.

³ • This little segment was taken from a bit by the late comedian, Bill Hicks.

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