The Color Crazy
The following article was abducted without permission from an alternative Esquire, the American men’s magazine whose Sexiest Woman Alive profiles were roundly ridiculed for having an obsessively, creepily, obnoxiously male gaze-centric slant.
PREFACE
Excerpt from the novel, BUDDHA REX
A year or so later, Nemesis was in Utah filming a new movie, MKUltra, where she played a call girl forcibly recruited as a test subject in the LSD, hypnosis, and sex experiments conducted during a lighthearted CIA mind-control project in the 1960s.
When Nemesis joined her movie crew on location at Hellwalker Ranch, Internet search engines, using logarithmic units of fame, were labeling her face one of the most recognizable on the planet, right up there with Taylor Swift, Donald Trump, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Kylie Jenner. The unidentified flying object arrived at the movie set six days later.
The Hellwalker Event was formally classified a close encounter of the fourth kind, or UFO sighting with complementary abduction. Two features made the event different from all previous extraterrestrial activity in the human chronicle.
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Firstly, no other abductee was anywhere near as famous as Nemesis Grail.
Secondly, the actual abduction was not only witnessed firsthand by dozens of people working on the film, but was also filmed under the supervision of Oscar-winning cinematographer, Tripp Hassenfeld.
That footage and subsequent video interviews of eyewitnesses showed up on YouTube, Facebook Watch, and TikTok that same evening, four hours before Defense Intelligence Agency security professionals arrived at the site in a squadron of stealth helicopters.
The following morning, the president of the United States lurched onto the screens of nearly 400 million connected devices via the Emergency Alert System, a first-ever EAS broadcast on a nationwide scale. The president called for calm and looked mortified, as if realizing too late he was the butt of a real-life trope.
Sweating ever so obviously, the president assured the viewing public a “break-in” by an extraterrestrial or hyperdimensional force had been conclusively ruled out by Space Force Intelligence, Homeland Security, NASA, the National Reconnaissance Office, the CIA, and other applicable federal bodies.
The incident was also under investigation as a potential criminal matter by select law enforcement agencies, including the FBI. The president wrapped up his telecast by calling for the safe recovery of “our household megastar.” He then idled for five seconds in glum muteness before tagging Nemesis Grail a “missing personage.”
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Pundits, talking heads, and spokespersons of every conceivable allegiance never stopped challenging the authenticity of the Hellwalker Event, stating again and again the entire episode was a sophisticated, Hollywood-engineered hoax.
Keynote envoys from all twelve of the world’s classical religions, especially the Big Five, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism, swamped the airwaves to vehemently champion “faith-minded” findings, official and unofficial, noting how falsified alien visitations were a familiar tactic used by anti-God deviants to attack theologies of any kind.
The global overkill outlets, Fox News, CNN, BBC World News, RT (Russia Today), MSNBC, Sky News, CCTV (China Central), Al Jazeera, and their ilk, did what they do best: they turned a news story into dramatic programming (with edge-of-your-seat graphics and soundtracks), stultifying the abduction’s veracity from the outset.
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Commentators vilified, distorted, and dissembled the abduction from every conceivable angle. Only the Chicago Sun-Times seemed to get it right with the second-coming headline: NEMESIS TAKEN.
Fringe watchdogs from MUFON, CUFOS, FUFOR, and NUFORC got the jump on the scouts, monitors, and taskmasters sent by media and government outfits. The UFO buffs studied the footage and interviewed members of the film crew—and they were blown away.
They later told their story to Diego Moya, a journalist on assignment for Esquire. Moya followed up with his own legwork, and his subsequent article dictated the cover theme for the magazine’s November issue, which was only fitting as Nemesis Grail had made the cover a year and one month earlier as the “Sexiest Woman Alive.”
“Where Is Everybody?”
By Diego Moya
The Fermi paradox, a thought problem proposed by Enrico Fermi, the Italian physicist who gave us our first nuclear reactor, the atomic bomb, and other items, can be stated as follows:
“The apparent size and age of the universe suggest that many technologically advanced extraterrestrial civilizations ought to exist. However, this hypothesis seems inconsistent with the lack of observational evidence to support it.”
Fermi later took a breath and put things another way, asking, “Where is everybody?”
In the aftermath of the incident at Hellwalker Ranch in Utah, USA, billions of people worldwide are holding their collective breath with one answer thumping like a pulsar in their minds: “Looks like they might be here.”
We’ve all watched the abduction a thousand times. The UFO does not fit any models derived from documented sightings dating back to phantom ships patrolling the skies over ancient Rome, sightings that now average close to 200 a day around the globe.
The Hellwalker craft is not shaped like a saucer, cigar, boomerang, obelisk, mushroom, egg, cylinder, pyramid, diamond, donut, or sphere. The craft is not a metallic glob or swarm of mystery lights. The craft is not the enormous Mother Plane slated to bomb the Great Mystery Babylon, aka America, into a firestorm that will last nearly 400 years.
The craft is not a Venusian mothership packed with refreshing Space Brother civilians. The craft is not a psychedelic hood ornament upchucking light shows, symphonic notes, and Zeta Reticulans at the summit of Devils Tower.
No, this craft is something else as in pure elsewhere, something beyond our most primitive core, something hideously worse than paranormal. We can look directly at the craft for only a few seconds at a time—the colors are irrationally unnerving, the shape too unshapely to apprehend, the sheer size and scope uncanny beyond eldritch.
We are forced to look someplace else, someplace we recognize as Nemesis Grail. Tripp Hassenfeld had the poise to go for a close-up of her face. But why did he need to focus solely on Nemesis at that exact moment? Did he absorb her emotional anarchy and know she was not gripped by conventional terror, but instead by some new, inhuman passion that transformed her beauty into a world-eating revelation?
One day after the incident, with witnesses under wraps and our God-driven authorities gibbering the party line, I was left with interviewing ufologists and conspiracy nuts from every organization with UFO in its name. But the entire ET scene from ground to sky to some extragalactic clusterfuck was never about identifying unidentified flying objects.
As a founding member of MUFON, Flint Gordon has been watching the skies and tracking abductees for 40 years. He is not obsessed with green fireballs, cover-ups, space demons, or any hypothesis that suggests our planet is an alien zoo. He is focused on proving we are not alone in the universe. He used to be anyway.
“Talk to the feds,” he told me.
“I will,” I replied. “That’s a given.”
“They’ll stonewall, give you the runaround, make shit up. They’re pros at that.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“But look in their eyes. I mean really look. Fuck, son, look in my eyes.”
I was uncomfortable, but I did as he requested.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“You look scared. You look scared shitless.”
“Yeah, that’s the truth of it. And I wasn’t there.”
“But you interviewed the film crew. You even interviewed Nick Zullen—and he never speaks to anyone outside his immediate circle.”
Gordon nodded. “We talked to all of them. They were already losing it, you know. I’ve seen it before. Dissociative amnesia. Caused by psychological trauma, otherwise known as a shock to the fucking system. Maybe they’re repressing memories from the encounter or maybe those memories are getting wiped clean. Zullen was the worst. He kept making these horrible noises. Reminded me of an infant having night terrors. Not anything you want to hear from a grown man who’s wide awake and grinning at you like a flake job.”
“What are you telling me, Mr. Gordon?”
He smiled and I saw that he was more than sick at heart. He was done to the bone. “My whole life I was convinced humans were destined to become contributing members of an invincible cosmic community. We weren’t ants or gods or suicidal pinheads—we were participants in a supreme unfolding. I believed UFOs were the skeleton key to the one answer for everything. Christ, was I some sort of butt puppet, or what?”
By the time I tracked down members of the movie crew, the amnesia reaction had jelled in place. Tripp Hassenfeld believes their shoot was immersed in a toxic fog leak from nearby Dugway, some bulk nerve agent that produces face-snatching hallucinations in anything with a neocortex. Nick Zullen is confined to a padded cell at Cedars-Sinai, his movements further restricted by a straitjacket and spit hood.
Other crew members are taking a more subtle approach, drifting through their days in a kindly stupor, thinking MKUltra was axed for financial reasons. Ditto for the supporting cast, including character icons, Paul Giamatti and Frances McDormand. Nemesis Grail had some sort of nervous breakdown, of course, and is recuperating at a connoisseur spa in Marrakech or Seychelles. In general, the cast and crew are baffled and bemused by the UFO hubbub.
The feds and peripheral functionaries are a wall of gray noise, but Flint Gordon is right about their eyes. And now that fright is in my eyes and spreading fast inside me.
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The Earth isn’t flat, scientists say, but the universe might be. But scientists are specks at sea in the eons of Big Time. What can they actually know that will always be true? We can run to Drake and his equation with all its variables and sit down with the idea the Milky Way Galaxy alone contains anywhere from 1,000 to 100 million communicating civilizations.
Now look beyond our galaxy and find another 500 billion galaxies doing fuck knows what in every plot and patch of the universe. Now look beyond our universe and find a multiverse with shitloads—no, fucktons—of other universes, and beyond that more multiverses with more universes, any number of them composed of raw materials inconceivably dissimilar to the dark matter and dark energy urped up by our own puny cosmos.
And don’t forget our Soviet-era astrophysicist, Kardashev. He was cooking with noble gases when he came up with his scale of types for alien civilizations. Too bad that scale, which is based on technological advancement, stops short at Type 3, or civilizations with the chutzpah to harness the power of one entire galaxy.
Of course, Kardashev’s early successors added Type 4 and Type 5, the latter plugged into the wall socket of one whole universe. Type 6 was later proposed to accommodate astrobiological nonlocalities.
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But what about Type 7? Or Type 70? Or Type 700? Think of a universe trillions and trillions of years old, not just a few billion like our own. Now think of a civilization that survived the Big Slurp of that universe and its surrounding multiverse, a civilization that went on to manufacture googols of extradimensional totalities of its own design.
But don’t stop thinking there.
Think Type X, the civilization that isolated infinity and outpaced eternity, but went completely mad somewhere along the way. Think of the civilization that found the means to hunt down the ultimate omnificent reality, aka God Almighty, and then opted to rip out that unlucky fucker’s throat.
I could tell you we must have something in common with these obtruders (Gordon’s word, not mine). After all, we are from the same fundamental system of somethingness, or at least from a similar core of irreducible truth, or at least from some comparable fabric of happenings all things must call existence.
Some aspect of our natures, no matter how different our natures appear at every turn, must at some point align. But you and I both know pushing that line would make me an imbecile or a liar.
Only one person can set things right—whatever that means. I want to be there when she returns. I want to worship the madness of her abduction. I want to kiss her feet and beg her to tell them. Yes, of course, yes, I mean Nemesis Grail. Only she can tell them.
Oh, please, Nemesis, I know you can hear me. You know you really do have to tell them. You positively must talk to the obtruders and tell them you are so totally fine with them taking everyone in our world, absolutely everyone…
…except me.
Crikey note: Buddha Rex showcases the adventures of a red fox named Crazy, who has a life-scrambling encounter with a shapeshifting ghost while going about his routine vulpine duties in a collegiate arboretum.
With his coat now absinthe green and his mind bizarrely humanized, Crazy exits his life as a savvy woodland rascal and plunges into the role of a mystical cryptid hunted by enforcers of a UFO religion.
Check out NOVELS on the author’s website…🍺
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