What I’m going to do now is introduce Aliens—yes, Aliens—into my otherwise workable but intolerable book about racism in America. About the Bad Cop. About me, who embodies that bad cop. About the Map Collector within. About the pyromaniac. And now, as well about the Alien Conspiracy Theorist. It all relates I promise.
I am frightfully obsessed with Aliens—frightfully. About their weird looks, long heads and pointy fingers. About their history-inverting power, the power to invert our STEM-learning individuals—to stand them on their heads—with the first look of those foreigners.
And I’m obsessed with their religion-changing capabilities. The ability of our Christian nation to be overturned nightly by Alien marauders raping our women—raping our men!—performing invasive experiments on us for what can only be seen as an evil purpose.
I believe in aliens—this is certain. Forty years ago they were just hieroglyphics on the side of a pyramid in Egypt, pored over by my ten-year-old fingers at my grandparents’ house in El Paso. It was a book of strange phenomenon, a group of books. There was a book on snakes—or strange creatures. A book on apes. A book on the pyramids. And not exactly a book on Aliens, but the Time/Life logo that was drawn on their covers had a slant to it that looked Alien-like. The whole thing was propaganda for kids who wanted to believe in Aliens.
I was curious. I had the itch. That itch for a ten-year-old child to explore, to question, before he settles down for life, into a life, into a wife and child and the work of being a Christian man in Our World. Being a cop. Bringing order to the streets so my kid can live a safe life. Not a great life—an orderly life. The life of a cop’s daughter. Secure. She’ll make it to her wedding night without being raped—or otherwise the guy who does it to her will end up with his tongue down his stomach. Belie’ that.
So I tore open that book—literally—it still had the silver wrapping on it. Put it sloppily on the table before me. Opened the cover, turned a page. Ate it, from the spine on out. The pyramids were all covered with writing, but—get this—the original pyramid was built with no writing on it—no hieroglyphs. Doesn’t that suggest it was built by Aliens, that the writing was supplied later by Human authors who built the secondary pyramids? At the very least it raises the question, Why was this pyramid built anonymously? Did they not need writing to explain it to them? Were they uninterested in explaining to others (us) what they were doing? I had read all the theories and I liked the power plant one. That this whole thing was a power plant build by stranded Aliens to get themselves home.
But that didn’t make sense, see? This super-powerful demonic race of Alien beings got here and didn’t have gas for the way back? What kid of super-intelligent being miffs that calculation? Fucks up the pencil scratch, ends up on Earth with an empty tank. Some dumb fucking Aliens, if you ask me.
No, the actuality was much worse. (Much worse for people like me.) The actuality was that Aliens do exist, they’re being hidden by world governments, they don’t have good intentions toward us! Hello! Is anyone listening? They don’t have good intentions toward us. They’re evil. Reptile-looking, scale-covered motherfuckers gonna have good intentions toward us? What do you think about that, little son?
My hand covered in yours, Mexican maid. Your name has escaped me. More as a matter of intention than anything else. Your imperfection has escaped me. Your ability to do one thing and say another. I always wondered, when you weren’t looking and Dad wasn’t looking and I wasn’t looking—who was looking after myself?
Mexican maid. Mexican maid. A Mexican maid brings me soda and champagne in the Four Seasons penthouse. Busts it out in one of them Mexican maid outfits, white little tassel swinging, breast milk leaking out her Mexican titties. This maid is the Alien. She is literally an Alien. And she is the Alien to me. I mean underneath that costume of a maid—underneath that maid skin, maid hair—is an Alien. Dyed in the wool. Honest to God. Mu’fuckin’ Alien, Jeeves. And figuratively (outerneath that costume) the solitary otherness THERE IS BOTH YOU SEE RIGHT THERE IN THE RETICLE you’re bursting on the scene! Bragging into me a stack of credentials an inch thick. She’s inside the maid and outside the maid. When you turn her over, you see the Taiwanese writing explaining voltages and charging requirements. In the future, see, they don’t have things that charge. We’re almost that way now, with radio batteries and CIA technology that is basically an eternal charge from energy available anywhere in the universe. There are telekinetic relays in your brain. But anyway, anyway, what I’m saying is there’s Otherness on the outside and there’s Otherness on the inside—
“An Alien-ness to her because she’s an Alien?” Sheth asks this.
“She’s a Mexican, yes. But she’s an Alien! She’s literally an Alien, so I’m saying when I talk about the Alien (within) or the Alien in races, I am actually talking about an Alien. In fact.”
“An Alien.”
“In point of fact, yes.”
Sheth and I are at the gymnasium now. We’re leaned up against the glass windows watching girls play soccer.
“See that?” I say.
“Where?” Sheth says.
“That girl, there. White girl. She caught sight of you. Now she’s nervous. See what she’s going through? That twitch there. That tug of her short strings. She’s hot. She’s bothered. Did you see her?”
“Man, that girl scratchin’ an itch.”
“No, man. No. That girl’s crotch is hot for you and you’re missing it. Know what she’s thinking right now? She’s like that biggie-big Blackro Niggar over there looked at me! Ooo-oo! Is my hair straight? Is my panties in a bunch? She’s thankin’ about bonin’ your punk ass. That’s her life. From now until dinner that bitch gonna have bees between her toes to get off to you! But hold up, hold up. The point of this is she’s human—that’s the sort of thing she worries about. You just gave her hours of humanistic activity, dog-brain idiocy—you’re God, punk—the Alien—outside the window, across the gym floor, here you are, temptation, a fellow youth-god, tantalizing that soccer-playing goddess in there. She’s your Alien. You’re her Alien. But there are real Aliens in the world, and that’s who I think we’re playing out in these fantasies with, of this versus them and me versus you, the law versus lawlessness, control versus oblivion, Indian versus Black versus Mexican versus Chink.
Versus whoever. I wish I didn’t have to explain myself to this kid. The simple idea that what we perceive as an invading force is actually the cause and source of our Life here on the planet. We’re a Petri dish—surprise!—and the scientist has come home to stir the pot. Actually they never left. Our multi-generational, soulless biology experiment—not a soul to my God! Not to my King! I believe in something called the Bible and my literal interpretation of this 2,000-year-old text is what scares me. That’s what scares me at night. Underneath the covers. I’ll peek under there and there will be one of them Grays looking up between my legs and I’ll be like whaat??! screaming Get me out of here! and How the fuck did this motherfucker get in here?? like This motherfucker has got some nerve! and all This motherfucker has got another thing coming!!! Blow me the fuck away! There’s a Gray Niggar underneath my bed looking me in the eyes! And that’s what this world does. We’re like one of those paintings on the wall of the Chinese restaurant with the waterfall and it has these things behind the canvas and it cycles, it cycles continuously to make the waterfall move. And some couple is sitting there waiting for their dinner and she looks at the piece on the wall and says, “Beautiful” and most of us never even think about the fact that she’s sitting there, and the night is young, and this is us. It’s a night in another universe (multiverse) so why would anyone here give a fuck?
You know, Sheth, my niggardly sidekick, my young love—I’d take you right here in my cosmic mind (it can’t be any different from fucking a woman’s ass). I would. I would love you if your Niggar spirit was reincarnated in an impish White woman’s body. Someone small, blonde, tight, sudden.
Suddenly here, suddenly bright. Suddenly mere, suddenly White.
Choosing between group orgasming (duos, trios) and solo no-touching cumming, we choose an or where an Alien civilization would choose an and—ie we would choose either group sex or the possibility that one could choose not to be touched by someone else—and the Alien version of us knows that we would pick that option where one could be touched if they didn’t have to, but the Alien version of us (choosing and instead of or) also chooses for one person to be able to make another cum. (Hence telepathic orgasms.)
That’s what you have to fear—it’s not Blackness, ultimately. It’s the eventuality of sitting in front of a machine-terminal-electronic-scanning-light geometry projection as it unfolds in infinite hell. That’s where this is headed. It’s not war—that’s what they tell you. They’re making people better. But not to live here with lawnmowers and chainsaws. It’ll be us, but there—we fucked our planet. There’s no more sense of us. Of God. Of goodness, and goodness times. The flood won’t ever be a mystery. And this terminal window—window into the reptilian god—exposure compromised due to system overload, projects us all in hologram, nightmare demon child under-sees us all.