Fender Bender
I stop for a railroad crossing when something with bright lights smacks the back of my van and then takes off.
I think it’s one of those spoiled rich kids who likes playing soldier in the Humvees their oil-rich daddies by for them.
I don’t realize my mistake until I’m off chasing them to get a license plate number for the police and the damned hit and run driver takes off from the ground.
Of course, I have to explain this to the cops when they pull me over for speeding.
I get an extra ticket for trying to play the cop for a fool
I know I should forget about the matter.
Shit happens.
There’s nothing you can do about it.
But I’m soc sick with it I can’t get it out of my mind.
I run the scene over and over in my head, trying to pick up on some clue as to what I might do.
For some reason, I dream of a mountain and I wonder if it’s the local address of the alien that hit my van.
I tell my wife I’m going on a fishing trip, knowing that if I tell her the truth she’ll have me committed.
Then I make my way towards the mountain where I intend to give that goddamn alien a piece of my mind.
But when I get to the road up, I find the cops blocking it. They tell me there’s been a train wreck.
When I insist on going on, the cops tell me they’ll arrest me if I try.
This pisses me off to now end.
I hate when people tell me what I can and cannot do.
I begin to suspect a government conspiracy in regards to the aliens.
Well, where there’s a will there’s a way, and I find another road up to the site, passed the sleeping and donut-eating cops.
I’m a sneak thief from Baghdad.
I’m the invisible man.
I’m the genie without a bottle, pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes.
As I climb, I envision the look at that alien’s face when I show up and demand payment for the fender he dented.
I don’t expect to see soldiers. So seeing them scattered over the side of the mountain is a real shock.
A worse shock comes when they see me and order me to stop.
By this time I’m high enough up the side of the mountain to feel dizzy in the thinning air.
I blame the air for my not listening to the soldiers.
I’m scared, of course, and totally out of control, as if some will other than my own commands my legs and arms, and keeps me climbing, when common sense tells me I should turn back.
If all isn’t bad enough, I get over the ledge and see some space aliens and the space aliens see me.
They do not at all look pleased.
By then, the whole idea of telling them off seems ridiculous.
I am caught between aliens, cops and soldiers, being pulled each way like a tattered rag in a strange game of tug-of-war.
I decide to stay right where I am until I can better evaluate my situation.
It is clear that the soldiers want no part of the aliens.
In fact, they keep playing old Bob Dylan songs on a CD player thinking his voice will make their heads explode. The soldier seem annoyed when it doesn’t work – although I see one of the aliens admire flowers and mumbling something about the wind.
It is chilly where I am hiding, but not cold, and for some reason I don’t fully understand I am happier than I have ever been, despite the fact that the world in on the verge of total destruction
At this point, the aliens – apparently annoyed at the nose the soldiers are making with Bob Dylan – decide to give us their own version of folk music, belting it out so that rocks crack and crumble around me, not to mention what it does to my ears.
It is my brain that threatens to explode.
The military takes this as a sign of aggression and starts lobbing rockets at a mountain I happen to be sitting on at the moment.
I think the aliens feel sorry for me since the rockets come as close to killing me as ever killing them, and they decide to take me along when they leave.
Naturally, I get stuck with the same crazy alien driver who struck my van and he bumps his fuel tanks a few times trying to take off.
Anyway, life’s not so bad as you might imagine.
The aliens seem to like me.
I’ve even gotten use to their music, which is more than I can ever say about Bob Dylan.
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email to Al Sullivan 
I think it’s one of those spoiled rich kids who likes playing soldier in the Humvees their oil-rich daddies by for them.
I don’t realize my mistake until I’m off chasing them to get a license plate number for the police and the damned hit and run driver takes off from the ground.
Of course, I have to explain this to the cops when they pull me over for speeding.
I get an extra ticket for trying to play the cop for a fool
I know I should forget about the matter.
Shit happens.
There’s nothing you can do about it.
But I’m soc sick with it I can’t get it out of my mind.
I run the scene over and over in my head, trying to pick up on some clue as to what I might do.
For some reason, I dream of a mountain and I wonder if it’s the local address of the alien that hit my van.
I tell my wife I’m going on a fishing trip, knowing that if I tell her the truth she’ll have me committed.
Then I make my way towards the mountain where I intend to give that goddamn alien a piece of my mind.
But when I get to the road up, I find the cops blocking it. They tell me there’s been a train wreck.
When I insist on going on, the cops tell me they’ll arrest me if I try.
This pisses me off to now end.
I hate when people tell me what I can and cannot do.
I begin to suspect a government conspiracy in regards to the aliens.
Well, where there’s a will there’s a way, and I find another road up to the site, passed the sleeping and donut-eating cops.
I’m a sneak thief from Baghdad.
I’m the invisible man.
I’m the genie without a bottle, pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes.
As I climb, I envision the look at that alien’s face when I show up and demand payment for the fender he dented.
I don’t expect to see soldiers. So seeing them scattered over the side of the mountain is a real shock.
A worse shock comes when they see me and order me to stop.
By this time I’m high enough up the side of the mountain to feel dizzy in the thinning air.
I blame the air for my not listening to the soldiers.
I’m scared, of course, and totally out of control, as if some will other than my own commands my legs and arms, and keeps me climbing, when common sense tells me I should turn back.
If all isn’t bad enough, I get over the ledge and see some space aliens and the space aliens see me.
They do not at all look pleased.
By then, the whole idea of telling them off seems ridiculous.
I am caught between aliens, cops and soldiers, being pulled each way like a tattered rag in a strange game of tug-of-war.
I decide to stay right where I am until I can better evaluate my situation.
It is clear that the soldiers want no part of the aliens.
In fact, they keep playing old Bob Dylan songs on a CD player thinking his voice will make their heads explode. The soldier seem annoyed when it doesn’t work – although I see one of the aliens admire flowers and mumbling something about the wind.
It is chilly where I am hiding, but not cold, and for some reason I don’t fully understand I am happier than I have ever been, despite the fact that the world in on the verge of total destruction
At this point, the aliens – apparently annoyed at the nose the soldiers are making with Bob Dylan – decide to give us their own version of folk music, belting it out so that rocks crack and crumble around me, not to mention what it does to my ears.
It is my brain that threatens to explode.
The military takes this as a sign of aggression and starts lobbing rockets at a mountain I happen to be sitting on at the moment.
I think the aliens feel sorry for me since the rockets come as close to killing me as ever killing them, and they decide to take me along when they leave.
Naturally, I get stuck with the same crazy alien driver who struck my van and he bumps his fuel tanks a few times trying to take off.
Anyway, life’s not so bad as you might imagine.
The aliens seem to like me.
I’ve even gotten use to their music, which is more than I can ever say about Bob Dylan.
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