Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Aboard My Train Of Thought by Scott C. Endsley (10 ebook reader .txt) 📖
Download in Format:
- Author: Scott C. Endsley
Book online «Aboard My Train Of Thought by Scott C. Endsley (10 ebook reader .txt) 📖». Author Scott C. Endsley
lot of coaxing, but jokingly suggested that the U.S. government ought to rent a Ryder truck, load it with ammonium nitrate, and send it destined for the trouble making planet.
-------------------------------------------
(Episode 9)
Deep in the desert mountains of Southern Nevada, there lies a small community that everyone and his dog is well aquainted with, that being of course, Area 51. But across the alley there stood what most thought was a group of section 8 low-income apartments, or government projects for those below the poverty level. It was actually that of Area 51 & 1/2 (and in case you've forgotten, it was so secret that even the aliens kept at Area 51 didn't know anything about it).
Despite its deceiving appearance on the outside, Area 51 & 1/2 was actually very plush in its interior and a place only for 'significant' occupants. Upon stepping inside, it still held a dismal appearance; but once the proper password was givin to the front desk teller, you would be escorted to the combo garbage-shoot/elevator and lowered downstairs, where the privileged few controlled the world's banking, political, commerce, stock market, elections, weather, and sewage systems, from underground.
There were 367 occupants at Area 51 & 1/2. Most notable were 56 of the 127 extraterrestrial aliens from all over the universe who were in complete collaboration with the World Trilateral Commission, and just like every other conspiracy, the CIA was revamping the original Area 51 into an amusement park, to sell it to Disneyworld.
The local folk in that particular neck of the woods caught wind of the plan and took up a petition to stop the measure, complaining they didn't want to move their tourist trade to Florida, because of the extreme humidity. At the time of this writing, both the World Trilateral Commission, and the CIA were taking their concern into serious consideration.
On the nicest floor underground lived an old Apathonian drude named Derf Enotstnilf. As you remember, he and his crew, and a human passenger whose name he couldn't remember, crashed into an army weather balloon, leaving them marooned in the New Mexico desert in 1947 and eventually captured. Derf had excelled to the privileged ranks in the last two decades. He was responsible for numerous inventions that had helped the United States win the cold war, not to mention the first Kitty-Kat-Pooper-Scooper which he was most proud of.
On the third floor below at Area 51 & 1/2 were the new aliens who hadn't as of yet converted over to capitalism. In Cell Block 34 Second Hand-1st Door To The Right #12 Blue 72 Red 25 Wide-Left, lived an alien brought back by Oliver North from Saturn's moon Titan, on the brief visit you read about earlier in this story. Zolo, as he was known, had come a long way since the 80's, although he hadn't been totally reformed quite just yet... He loved to hand make gloves for the other captives, as well as the guards; but he still refused to sell any of them because he despised Capitalism. It's sad to say, but it didn't look like Zolo would be transferred to Disneyworld any time soon.
But the sector described above was NOT the most classified secret at Area 51 & 1/2. On the 5th floor down, you could find a workout gym, a Burger King, an arcade room full of video games, and a tennis court. Every morning around 8am you could find Jim Morrison playing tennis with Mayor Jimi Hendrix, as both worked up a healthy sweat. Jimi could still do all those great licks that used to drive the fans wild, as long as he was wearing his dentures.
Janis Joplin owned a flower shop, Jimmy Hoffa made doughnuts to pass the time away, and grunge rocker, Kurt Cobain, stared at the television all day. He was known to throw the furnature around when 'The Price Is Right' didn't come on when it should've.
Yes, you too can purchase your own death certificate, move in, and watch all the money come pouring in from fan clubs, memorial funds, biographies, movie re-releases, tribute concerts, and sudden through-the-roof record sells since your 'death!'
------------------------------------------------
(Episode 10)
On Apathonia, Queen Irol's captive audience had become restless in the last few days of incarceration, so much so, that she had already 'Picassovited' one third of them for getting out of line and asking for too many favors. The new 'Picassovites' had to be put in a separate encampment of their own, on account of the violent behavior they instinctively displayed once transformed.
Because of their violent behavior, they had to be seperated from the others. A scuffle would break out as one would elbow the other with his forehead, and get a bloody nose just below his buttocks, or a herniaded eyelid, in return. The rabid Picassovites demanded their immediate release and threatened to start procreating, but the Greatest Of Greats had needn't to worry... most of them were so altered, they couldn't locate their genitals if they tried.
Word had not as of yet met Irol's ear about the fact that Sir Elvis Holyfield, the beast, had been slain; and nobody volunteered to be the bearer of bad news. The Apathonian Secret Service all drew straws, but as always, whoever would end up with the smallest one would renege.
Finally, they all agreed to give the job to the janitor boy who happened to be mopping at the time. Mij was a young 18 years of age, and soon to be wed to a sweet little prude who was with child... though he was not the father. They promised him the day off to take care of wedding plans if he'd oblige. Mij thought it was no big deal and accepted.
"Well, good morning there, sweetie poo!" Irol bid the good natured adolescent drude, "How's the little pregnant prude doing, hmmmmm?"
"Oh just fine!"
"So is this your first child, hun?" her Greatest of Greats begged to know.
"Well, it's my prude's first anyway," he blushed in return.
"Now Mij, you know it takes two to tango!" She giggled and winked.
Mij in his usually wise-cracking manner jested, "Yes that's true, but I didn't meet her until after the dance!"
"Oh aren't you the clever one?! Is there something you need, sweetie? Nobody usually comes around just to say hello. What is it I can do for you, hun?"
"Well, the guys at A.S.S. wanted me to tell you that Sir Elvis Holyfield kicked the bucket a few days ago, that's all." Mij chuckled goofy-like. "Say, I've been meaning to talk to you about my vacation..."
"WHAT?!?!" Irol bellowed before coughing up an enormous fireball that totally engulfed the harmless little guy , "KRAM, GET IN HERE!!!"
"Yes, your majesty!?"
"First, clean up these ashes," she demanded, "Then run all 144,000 humans through the Picasso factory, and I don't care HOW long it takes! Do I make myself clear?!"
"But, excuse me, Your Majesty..."
"I just did! Now do it!!!" She yelled.
"Of course, your greatness... Right Away!" Kram galloped out of her royal residence to fetch a broom, as she slammed the door behind him. But as he exited, he distinctly heard the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a desperate striving-to-breathe gagging sound. He whipped the door back open and discovered Irol laying flat on the floor facing upward, with a potted begonia plant stuffed down her throat.
Shocked, Kram came to her aid, and with an abundance of effort, tried to remove the pot from her mouth, but it was too securely fit. She had no pulse. Her skin color, bleakly pale. He propped her head in his lap and couldn't decide whether to weep, or rejoice, as he took a double take and noticed a small yellowed-in circle, with a smiley face and the inscription: Have A Nice Day!... on her forehead.
Once again, the Mark Of The Anti-Beast.
As custom called for, a week later Irol's body was sealed and loaded aboard a torpedo-like missile and therewith launched toward the Flaming Moon, where other Apathonian royals and war heroes throughout the ages had been laid to rest.
Kram would have done better for himself if he hadn't fled into hiding. He was shortly caputered and wrongfully charged with the crime, found guilty, and sentenced to death by way of the atomic-egg-beater immediately after the new Greatest Of Greats, Gerg Ydarb was sworn in.
Gerg was once an Apathonian movie actor, and later a prominant member of the Apathonian Secret Service after a long military career with the Apathononian Guard. He then accepted the number two job in the government as the Mediocre Of Mediocres, with Irol's full blessings. However, Gerg was a lot more even tempered than his predecessor, and temporarily shut down the Picasso Factory while trying a more humane diplomatic approach toward the 144,000 Americans being held.
Once in office, he sent for Vice President Ross Parole, and began making plans to negotiate a peaceful settlement of the two planets' grievances against one another, by paying a visit to Earth along with Mr. Parole the following week.
--------------------------------------------
(Episode 11)
The mood in Washington on the morning of the 27th of June was as dreary as the morning drizzle. I called for a formal meeting between myself, the Chiefs Of Staff, and Mr. Ira Stippens... who had become an overnight icon since slaying the apocalyptic beast that Apathonia had unleashed on our corner of the universe. I was to utter nary a hint or clue about my first hand experience with the Apathonians in my past.
Stippens felt about as out of place as a toothbrush at a barbershop, as he twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the conference to begin. I officially opened it up by introducing him to the Chiefs Of Staff as someone who I believed could be essential in a diplomatic solution with Apathonia. Everyone in the room turned and friendly-like nodded, all except for General Higgenbotham that is, he just stared ahead and fiddled with his double chin. "Has the person in question here been through a thorough FBI background check? This is not the way we do things in Washington, Mr. President!" he chided, waving his finger in my face.
"Mr General, Sir, I'm the Commander In Chief! This is the way I do things in Washington!" I fired back. The General quietly returned to the space on the wall he'd been staring at, and continued to play with his chin.
"Now, what I was about to say was... I think Mr. Stippens here, because of his sudden prominence and popularity, should head up a committee concerning the issue; to give the American people a sense of hope in this conflict with the hostile alien government. Because we have no idea where Apathonia is, we'll have to assume they will make the first contact," I surmised. "Ira, what do you think should be our stand in this possible negotiation with the Apathonians?"
Ira blushed and slid down in his chair, and tried to downplay the suggestion he was an expert of some sort. "Well I... Uh, I never seen a UFO before... the only flying saucers I've ever seen were thrown by my ex-wife..." he joked, as most of the Chiefs Of Staff half-heartedly laughed, "but uh... I don't think I have anything special to..."
"Oh knock it off with your humility crap!" General Higgenbotham hollered. "You know you want the job... You and your cohorts are nothing but a bunch of foolish and stupid ineffectual tiddlywinks playing ignoramuses, that's what I think of you!!!"
I quickly tried to jump in between the middle of them both, but it was too
-------------------------------------------
(Episode 9)
Deep in the desert mountains of Southern Nevada, there lies a small community that everyone and his dog is well aquainted with, that being of course, Area 51. But across the alley there stood what most thought was a group of section 8 low-income apartments, or government projects for those below the poverty level. It was actually that of Area 51 & 1/2 (and in case you've forgotten, it was so secret that even the aliens kept at Area 51 didn't know anything about it).
Despite its deceiving appearance on the outside, Area 51 & 1/2 was actually very plush in its interior and a place only for 'significant' occupants. Upon stepping inside, it still held a dismal appearance; but once the proper password was givin to the front desk teller, you would be escorted to the combo garbage-shoot/elevator and lowered downstairs, where the privileged few controlled the world's banking, political, commerce, stock market, elections, weather, and sewage systems, from underground.
There were 367 occupants at Area 51 & 1/2. Most notable were 56 of the 127 extraterrestrial aliens from all over the universe who were in complete collaboration with the World Trilateral Commission, and just like every other conspiracy, the CIA was revamping the original Area 51 into an amusement park, to sell it to Disneyworld.
The local folk in that particular neck of the woods caught wind of the plan and took up a petition to stop the measure, complaining they didn't want to move their tourist trade to Florida, because of the extreme humidity. At the time of this writing, both the World Trilateral Commission, and the CIA were taking their concern into serious consideration.
On the nicest floor underground lived an old Apathonian drude named Derf Enotstnilf. As you remember, he and his crew, and a human passenger whose name he couldn't remember, crashed into an army weather balloon, leaving them marooned in the New Mexico desert in 1947 and eventually captured. Derf had excelled to the privileged ranks in the last two decades. He was responsible for numerous inventions that had helped the United States win the cold war, not to mention the first Kitty-Kat-Pooper-Scooper which he was most proud of.
On the third floor below at Area 51 & 1/2 were the new aliens who hadn't as of yet converted over to capitalism. In Cell Block 34 Second Hand-1st Door To The Right #12 Blue 72 Red 25 Wide-Left, lived an alien brought back by Oliver North from Saturn's moon Titan, on the brief visit you read about earlier in this story. Zolo, as he was known, had come a long way since the 80's, although he hadn't been totally reformed quite just yet... He loved to hand make gloves for the other captives, as well as the guards; but he still refused to sell any of them because he despised Capitalism. It's sad to say, but it didn't look like Zolo would be transferred to Disneyworld any time soon.
But the sector described above was NOT the most classified secret at Area 51 & 1/2. On the 5th floor down, you could find a workout gym, a Burger King, an arcade room full of video games, and a tennis court. Every morning around 8am you could find Jim Morrison playing tennis with Mayor Jimi Hendrix, as both worked up a healthy sweat. Jimi could still do all those great licks that used to drive the fans wild, as long as he was wearing his dentures.
Janis Joplin owned a flower shop, Jimmy Hoffa made doughnuts to pass the time away, and grunge rocker, Kurt Cobain, stared at the television all day. He was known to throw the furnature around when 'The Price Is Right' didn't come on when it should've.
Yes, you too can purchase your own death certificate, move in, and watch all the money come pouring in from fan clubs, memorial funds, biographies, movie re-releases, tribute concerts, and sudden through-the-roof record sells since your 'death!'
------------------------------------------------
(Episode 10)
On Apathonia, Queen Irol's captive audience had become restless in the last few days of incarceration, so much so, that she had already 'Picassovited' one third of them for getting out of line and asking for too many favors. The new 'Picassovites' had to be put in a separate encampment of their own, on account of the violent behavior they instinctively displayed once transformed.
Because of their violent behavior, they had to be seperated from the others. A scuffle would break out as one would elbow the other with his forehead, and get a bloody nose just below his buttocks, or a herniaded eyelid, in return. The rabid Picassovites demanded their immediate release and threatened to start procreating, but the Greatest Of Greats had needn't to worry... most of them were so altered, they couldn't locate their genitals if they tried.
Word had not as of yet met Irol's ear about the fact that Sir Elvis Holyfield, the beast, had been slain; and nobody volunteered to be the bearer of bad news. The Apathonian Secret Service all drew straws, but as always, whoever would end up with the smallest one would renege.
Finally, they all agreed to give the job to the janitor boy who happened to be mopping at the time. Mij was a young 18 years of age, and soon to be wed to a sweet little prude who was with child... though he was not the father. They promised him the day off to take care of wedding plans if he'd oblige. Mij thought it was no big deal and accepted.
"Well, good morning there, sweetie poo!" Irol bid the good natured adolescent drude, "How's the little pregnant prude doing, hmmmmm?"
"Oh just fine!"
"So is this your first child, hun?" her Greatest of Greats begged to know.
"Well, it's my prude's first anyway," he blushed in return.
"Now Mij, you know it takes two to tango!" She giggled and winked.
Mij in his usually wise-cracking manner jested, "Yes that's true, but I didn't meet her until after the dance!"
"Oh aren't you the clever one?! Is there something you need, sweetie? Nobody usually comes around just to say hello. What is it I can do for you, hun?"
"Well, the guys at A.S.S. wanted me to tell you that Sir Elvis Holyfield kicked the bucket a few days ago, that's all." Mij chuckled goofy-like. "Say, I've been meaning to talk to you about my vacation..."
"WHAT?!?!" Irol bellowed before coughing up an enormous fireball that totally engulfed the harmless little guy , "KRAM, GET IN HERE!!!"
"Yes, your majesty!?"
"First, clean up these ashes," she demanded, "Then run all 144,000 humans through the Picasso factory, and I don't care HOW long it takes! Do I make myself clear?!"
"But, excuse me, Your Majesty..."
"I just did! Now do it!!!" She yelled.
"Of course, your greatness... Right Away!" Kram galloped out of her royal residence to fetch a broom, as she slammed the door behind him. But as he exited, he distinctly heard the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a desperate striving-to-breathe gagging sound. He whipped the door back open and discovered Irol laying flat on the floor facing upward, with a potted begonia plant stuffed down her throat.
Shocked, Kram came to her aid, and with an abundance of effort, tried to remove the pot from her mouth, but it was too securely fit. She had no pulse. Her skin color, bleakly pale. He propped her head in his lap and couldn't decide whether to weep, or rejoice, as he took a double take and noticed a small yellowed-in circle, with a smiley face and the inscription: Have A Nice Day!... on her forehead.
Once again, the Mark Of The Anti-Beast.
As custom called for, a week later Irol's body was sealed and loaded aboard a torpedo-like missile and therewith launched toward the Flaming Moon, where other Apathonian royals and war heroes throughout the ages had been laid to rest.
Kram would have done better for himself if he hadn't fled into hiding. He was shortly caputered and wrongfully charged with the crime, found guilty, and sentenced to death by way of the atomic-egg-beater immediately after the new Greatest Of Greats, Gerg Ydarb was sworn in.
Gerg was once an Apathonian movie actor, and later a prominant member of the Apathonian Secret Service after a long military career with the Apathononian Guard. He then accepted the number two job in the government as the Mediocre Of Mediocres, with Irol's full blessings. However, Gerg was a lot more even tempered than his predecessor, and temporarily shut down the Picasso Factory while trying a more humane diplomatic approach toward the 144,000 Americans being held.
Once in office, he sent for Vice President Ross Parole, and began making plans to negotiate a peaceful settlement of the two planets' grievances against one another, by paying a visit to Earth along with Mr. Parole the following week.
--------------------------------------------
(Episode 11)
The mood in Washington on the morning of the 27th of June was as dreary as the morning drizzle. I called for a formal meeting between myself, the Chiefs Of Staff, and Mr. Ira Stippens... who had become an overnight icon since slaying the apocalyptic beast that Apathonia had unleashed on our corner of the universe. I was to utter nary a hint or clue about my first hand experience with the Apathonians in my past.
Stippens felt about as out of place as a toothbrush at a barbershop, as he twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the conference to begin. I officially opened it up by introducing him to the Chiefs Of Staff as someone who I believed could be essential in a diplomatic solution with Apathonia. Everyone in the room turned and friendly-like nodded, all except for General Higgenbotham that is, he just stared ahead and fiddled with his double chin. "Has the person in question here been through a thorough FBI background check? This is not the way we do things in Washington, Mr. President!" he chided, waving his finger in my face.
"Mr General, Sir, I'm the Commander In Chief! This is the way I do things in Washington!" I fired back. The General quietly returned to the space on the wall he'd been staring at, and continued to play with his chin.
"Now, what I was about to say was... I think Mr. Stippens here, because of his sudden prominence and popularity, should head up a committee concerning the issue; to give the American people a sense of hope in this conflict with the hostile alien government. Because we have no idea where Apathonia is, we'll have to assume they will make the first contact," I surmised. "Ira, what do you think should be our stand in this possible negotiation with the Apathonians?"
Ira blushed and slid down in his chair, and tried to downplay the suggestion he was an expert of some sort. "Well I... Uh, I never seen a UFO before... the only flying saucers I've ever seen were thrown by my ex-wife..." he joked, as most of the Chiefs Of Staff half-heartedly laughed, "but uh... I don't think I have anything special to..."
"Oh knock it off with your humility crap!" General Higgenbotham hollered. "You know you want the job... You and your cohorts are nothing but a bunch of foolish and stupid ineffectual tiddlywinks playing ignoramuses, that's what I think of you!!!"
I quickly tried to jump in between the middle of them both, but it was too
Free ebook «Aboard My Train Of Thought by Scott C. Endsley (10 ebook reader .txt) 📖» - read online now
Add a comment
Comments (0)