Tagged: alien

O’er the Ramparts We Watched

Dear Planet Earth,

It’s the Fourth of July, in case you didn’t know. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. None of us felt free today, no matter how many mole people we killed or how many pieces of American society we tried to pick up.

We got drunk — wasted, really — and listened to classic rock and roll. The kitchen staff took the unflavored tofu we’ve been living off of lately and molded it into the shapes of hamburgers and hot dogs. When the sun set, we blew up some cars and Cash4Gold billboards while mumbling the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

It was the Fourth of July in the sense that the date was the fourth of July. We had nothing to celebrate. We had no independence. We had no inspiring speeches from Bill Pullman about how today was truly the day to honor that original fight for freedom on this hallowed land.

And then some random girl kissed me. She pulled me into a woody area and shoved her tongue into my mouth. It happened so quickly I didn’t get a chance to see what she looked like or wonder if it was a good idea. She abruptly stopped after about a minute, giggled, and said, “Thanks.”

I watched her saunter back to the unfestive festivities, her blurry figure silhouetted by a bonfire fueled by Justin Bieber CDs. I instantly became aware of the dopey smile on my face. More than that, I realized I was happy and I was free, even if only for today. I won’t know what fights may come tomorrow, but I do know that if my happiness and freedom is on the line, I will fight.

God fucking bless America.


The Mole Men Chronicles

Dear Planet Earth,

I’m probably not dead if you don’t see any updates on here for awhile. Our ragtag resistance is finally moving on out, somewhere north if the rumors have any truth to them.

Some people are talking about not going, still clearly upset about the military’s execution of those two homie spies. I’m embracing my neutrality, not convinced either way whether traitors should be killed or locked up. No one’s really qualified to answer that. My new friend Ray or Roy or Brad or Barry said it best today:

“It would be easier if they weren’t just mole men, but something completely alien. Like Martians or something. Those people are just people though. And when you have to fight against an enemy that looks just like you, you might as well be fighting against firemen or librarians.”

It sounded a lot more logical and optimistic when he said it.


Dear Planet Earth,

We drove all through the night, heading in a single direction to find our missing companions. It was a long shot, even by global mole men invasion standards.

We started having real conversations about what could have happened. Sure, mole people could have kidnapped them, but why? Why leave us? Why use ninja-like skills to take everything but my broken walkie talkie, but keep us alive? Did our friends leave on their own? It seemed like we were all getting along just hunky dory, all things considered. Yeah, the army guys made all the major decisions, but no one seemed to complain about it.

The word “tyranny” came up. Along with “abandoned,” “suicide,” “spy.” “Rapture.”

I was squashed in the back seat next to Maria. Our bare arms touched each other several times during the bumpy trek, and I felt like I was back in middle school, wondering whether the contact bothered or excited her. Portly Private Linares crushed me on the other side. He didn’t smell nearly as good.

Then we saw it — 90 to 100 miles away on the horizon. The rising sun illuminated its silhouette, instilling an otherworldliness that it already had enough of on its own. Our first Californian drill.


Dear Planet Earth,

It was an uneventful couple of days if you don’t count the homeless army slowly amassing outside the base’s perimeter.

I’ve been spending a lot of time catching up on cartoons on YouTube. I’d been surprised that people weren’t uploading their own news reports about what going on, until someone here pointed out to me the now obvious fact that since the media blackout started, no one’s been able to upload any new content to the site. Regardless, YouTube remains an unfathomably large library of our culture to the point of October 23, 2011.

A couple hours ago I heard some screaming going on, and when I poked my head outside, I could see a group of soldiers forcing someone into my former interrogation cell. I caught Lieutenant Christiansen walking past and asked him what was up.

“We caught one,” he said. He let it sit like that, and gave me a smile and a wink before following the others into the tent.

“One.” It echoed in my head and formed a dozen different images I would have considered fiction before October 23, 2011.

It still echoes. I don’t whether to think they grabbed one of the homeless mercenaries or if there’s an actual living, breathing extraterrestrial 20 yards away from me right now.

Judging by how easy it was to get Christiansen to spill some beans, I’m sure I can get the full story from Eimer when I see him next. Until then, I still have plenty of cartoons to keep me busy.


Dear Planet Earth,

The plot thickens. Dr. Eimer revealed some more details to me about the ominous drill. He seems to think that it might not be a drill at all.

It turns out the radio signals I was told about before aren’t what you and I know as radio signals. The object is giving off incredibly fast vibrations to send out messages. Through the ground.

He calls it seismic communication and it’s used by some animals like elephants to speak to each other. This could make much stronger signals, conceivably from one side of the planet to the other. The only problem is this takes a lot of energy, more energy than any current country could utilize for this scale. On Earth, at least.

The strangest thing the good doctor told me was that he doesn’t think this is the first time we’ve been visited. He said the army brought him here to consult about his theories of past visitations from these kinds of objects spanning back to the dawn of mankind.

I’m going to let that one sink in and drink some more of his whiskey for the next several hours.

The Drill

Dear Planet Earth,

The sky’s unusually clear today and the dust from the quakes is finally starting to settle, which gave me the perfect opportunity to examine the mysterious object that people here are calling “the drill.” It’s easy to see why when you’re this close. This is nothing like the alien spaceships Steven Spielberg promised us.

Dr. Eimer says the mountain surrounding it is entirely new and it continues to grow a little more each day. This thing is coming out of the ground, and when it’s done, we’re done. Or at least that’s the theory I’m flying with.

The R&D department is supposedly planning on getting closer to it with all kinds of fancy equipment that your average Joe Taxpayer could never dream of. I’m not regretting my decision to stay here, but I am reaching a whole new level of anxiety that I thought I already passed. This drill is poking its way up to the surface of my psyche, constantly citing my own mortality.

My Regards

Dear Planet Earth,

Old habits die hard, and apparently my habit is getting easily kidnapped. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad and terrifying.

I made it to the giant cone late last night, assault rifles in hand and vengeance on the mind. I followed the swarm of other cars heading there, at least three of which had bumper stickers that read, “My other car is the Millennium Falcon.” I could barely make out any of the features of the space ship/time machine/zombie containment device in the moonless night, and the dust from the quake was still out in full force.

Our caravan eventually hit a perimeter of numerous gates topped with barbed wire. We followed these around to a single entrance, where it looked like people were getting turned away by a detachment of military personnel. I waited in the Hummer for a few hours, listening to radio static and trying to think of a clever witticism to say when I finally had my revenge on those I deemed responsible for Diana’s death.

“Give my regards to Hitler, dirtbag!”

“Suck my Glock, motherfucker!”

“ID, sir?”

I stared at the flashlight outside my window — and the heavily armored young soldier behind it — in confused terror. “What?”

“Can we see some ID, sir?”

I came back to reality some moments later and slowly handed him my learner’s permit. He gave me a similar look of confusion after inspecting it.

“How did you get a hold of this vehicle, sir?”

I laughed. “I stole it from a homeless guy.”

Apparently those were the magic words, because two minutes later I found myself thrown face down in the sand surrounded by the cast of Battle: Los Angeles. One of them screamed, “Are you Scott Arthur Panus?” over and over, and when I said yes, they put a bag over my head and brought me to this canvas tent cell.

It would be funny.