The Monkey’s Cup
Batter my brains out, I don’t care. I come from the gut. I come from Alabama with a long rifle and a five-string banjo.
My papers are in disarray but my reflexes are good.
Aliens have been landing and taking off in Colorado and Montana for over 10,000 years now. They don’t want to sit down and negotiate. They don’t want to show us the way back to Eden or drag us off to their salt mines. What’s a salt mine to these wisps of cognizance that have no concept of eyes, hair or kidneys? They have no concepts period. They come from the far side of The Big Bang and the gap between us and them is so great they don’t realize we’re here.
You may wonder how I know all this, a man with broken fantasies and guts for brains, clinging to his banjo and rifle, riding out of Alabama with out-of-state plates.
It’s a long story, but if you’ve got the time, I’ll lay it out for you. But first put some change in the monkey’s cup. You didn’t see the monkey, did you?
Think of me as an old wooden bridge over a yawning chasm that you need to cross. Listen to the wood creak and the cables hum.
You see now what you’ve let yourself in for.
Don’t look down.