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Flying Saucers Today! The Kearnel Incident

March 30, 2017 1 comment
Edited by Graahaam Fosdick

Edited by Graahaam Fosdick

saucers

There has been so much controversy among the Lankville UFO community regarding the strange adventure of Wilton C. Bugles that we have asked for his own story. Here it is:

My name is Wilton C. Bugles and I am a grain buyer from Western Lankville. In May of this past month, I was transferred from my position in the town of Barrett to the town of Kearnel by my employer. At other times of the year, I buy grain in Eastern Lankville and still at other times of the year I buy grain in the south and sometimes a little bit southwest of there and then at other times (Bugles was asked to skip past the grain thing).

Well, the day of May 22nd was a dark and misty day in Kearnel. I was inspecting some fields of milo and corn that I had bought and some that I was considering buying. The best way to tell what you want to do regarding corn is to have a look at the husks and then (Bugles was asked to skip past the corn thing). Well, anyway, after I inspected the husks, I drove down to Kearnel where I was going to inspect another field of corn except that this field of corn (Bugles was asked to stop with the whole field of corn thing and continue). OK, well, it was probably about 2:30 PM by then and I drove to an abandoned farm just to turn around and head back home. Just as I was about to turn into the heavily-rutted drive, I saw a large flash about a quarter mile ahead of me. I figured on somebody blasting trees up ahead but I heard no report. Matter of fact, I very briefly heard what sounded like calliope music. I decided to drive ahead and see what was the matter.

I drove along the river and when I got to within approximately 100 feet of it, my truck suddenly stopped. I figured on the road having jiggled some of the wires loose. That sometimes happens when you get along one of those rutted farm roads and what you gotta’ do then is go in there and check all the wires and make sure that you don’t (Bugles was asked to skip over the wire bit). OK, well like I said the truck stopped dead. Next, I looked up, and saw what looked like a giant balloon. I got out of the truck and walked towards it and I realized it weren’t no balloon but a sort of big silvery ship that looked like it was made of polished steel or aluminum. And suddenly a door slid open and two men came towards me. They asked if I had any weapons and I said “no”, having forgotten I think in fear that I had seven pistols on me. They took the pistols and then frisked me. I asked them what kind of a blimp that was they had and they said that they weren’t leaving for another few minutes yet anyway and that I could come aboard and take a look.

An artist’s rendering of the Bugles ship.

So they led me up the ramp and into a big room with all kinds of computers and there was four other men and two ladies. Both the ladies had these silver suits on that had arrows starting at the shoulders that ended at lovely firm bosoms. The bosoms were developed in such a way that you don’t see so much on earth especially with some of the sort of hillbilly garbage that I normally encounter. The bosoms were (Bugles was asked to skip past the bosoms). OK, well anyway, they had these big pieces of paper that was coming out of this slot in the dashboard and they was tearing off the paper and then reading some of the things that was on there. And one of the ladies with the developed bosoms- well, she asked me, she said, “we would like you to look at this data and tell us if it is correct.”

They had me sit on a box- they didn’t have no chairs. The box was cardboard and on the side it was printed “irregular jeans”. But it was firm when I sat on it so the jeans must’ve been filled right to the top and packed in there pretty fair. So that’s when I look at the paper and I couldn’t cotton on to what it was trying to say whatsoever and it really was just a bunch of numbers and symbols and there was a couple pictures on there that showed a cornfield and I knew right away it was my cornfield because the picture, well, it was of a pretty good quality, not like them pictures you see in the Farm Gazette or anything but really clear, crystal clear.

That’s when one of the men there started talking about how it weren’t no good between him and his wife. And he was so frank about it that I started to get a little embarrassed a fair piece. “Nah, I can’t make nothing happen down there,” he said, in his deliberate manner. “It’s like trying to shove a marshmallow into a parking meter.” And then one of the ladies– well, she started suggesting all kinds of things he could do and I never did hear a woman talk like that, certainly not any of my three wives, god rest their souls.

“Well, let’s be off,” one of the other men said. “Lot of planets to visit. Lot of planets. We got the corn samples, we’re done here.”

The others seem to agree and that’s when they told me that I could go on back to my truck and that it would start and I could drive away.

“Whereabouts are you all from?” See, I couldn’t resist asking the question.

They all whispered to each other and seemed to be consulting some sort of electric map that was popping up on a screen on the dashboard.

“We’re from Barrett,” one of them finally said.

Well, I ain’t no professor or anything but I certainly know every soul in Barrett and I sure didn’t know nothing about them.  But that’s when one of the men, well, he started fingering a ray gun on his belt and I felt it best not to ask.

I left and walked along the rutted road back to the truck. She started right up. And that’s when the big silvery blimp or ship or whatever it was, burst out into the air faster than a toupee in a hurricane.

Make of it what you want but that’s the god honest truth. God honest truth.

Mr. Bugles is a respected member of the community. Flying Saucers Today! presents this account as a work of truth and have included it in the ever-expanding canon of saucer literature.

Flying Saucers Today! The Bud Cups Photo

November 18, 2014 Leave a comment
By Graahaam Fosdick

By Graahaam Fosdick

saucers

The Lankville Daily News is lusciously delighted beyond measure to present articles from Graahaam Fosdick’s long-running periodical “Flying Saucers Today!”.  

On April of this past year, I was walking through the woods in the hills near Bud Cups (Outer Regions).  I was just hoping to enjoy some wildlife and, of course, I was sobbing hysterically and thought it best to be in the hills. Nevertheless, I took along my camera just for appearances’ sake.  As I came down the east side of a little hillock, the woods broke away into a delightful clearing.  “WHY THIS IS A FINE SPOT FOR A PICNIC,” I declared to no one (and a little too loudly).  My eyes were drawn to the utility lines which snaked their way across this lovely spot and on down the opposite hillside.

It was about then that I noticed that the clearing had suddenly become shaded.  I looked up.

Fosdick took this photograph while sobbing hysterically.

Fosdick took this photograph while sobbing hysterically.

I got the shock of my life.

Suspended at what seemed a height of no more than five feet directly over me, with no visible means of support, was a huge, round metallic disc.  It hung motionless in midair.  Although I would not dare to hazard a guess as to how big the thing was, it looked mildly gigantic.  Like the size of a swimming pool flotation device crafted into the shape of an amiable dragon or perhaps the undercarriage of a small automobile.

Very slowly, then, the disc began moving up and away from me, towards the North.  The bottom seemed convex and the upper surface reached up to form a glowing orange dome.  The object again hovered briefly over the hills.  I vomited immediately and then began crying again.  But just before it moved out of eyesight, I was able to snap the photograph which you see today.

Immediately, the thing took off.   It made no sound and elicited no exhaust or smoke of any kind.  It was simply gone in a brilliant flash beyond the horizon.  My body was trembling violently and I vomited again as I looked at my watch.  Although the sick covered the face of the watch (and ultimately made it unwearable), I was able to discern the time.  It was precisely 3:58 P.M.

It was about four o’clock of the same day in another part of Bud Cups.  A fat newsboy named Dronald Rutherford was, as usual, fatly peddling his bicycle down Lankville Rural Route 221- to make some deliveries in a distant part of town. He stopped before the Schantz residence, adjacent to the highway in the open countryside. Mrs. Schantz was puttering around senselessly in the yard beside the house. Mr. Schantz was up on the roof, removing an errant beach ball.  It was, in fact, noticing Mr. Schantz struggling with the beach ball that caused the newsboy to look up. In the blue sky above, he saw what he later described as looking like the bottom of a flying saucer.

“Hey,” he said in his lardass way of speaking.  “LOOK AT THAT!”

Puzzled, Mr. Schantz fell off the roof and died.

Puzzled, Mr. Schantz fell off the roof and died.

Puzzled, Mr. Schantz fell off the roof and died.  Mrs. Schantz followed the newsboy’s corpulent finger as it rose towards the sky. They caught sight of the thing as it remained in the air. After a short while, it took off, to quote the plump whale of a newsboy, “faster than any jet, straight for the Outlands!”

After a short while, it took off, to quote the plump whale of a newsboy, “faster than any jet, straight for the Outlands!”

Later (I was still ignorant of this incident), my photographic print proved that what I’d witnessed from the hillside had not been an outlandish hallucination, but an outlandish fact.

I was, of course, most enthusiastic about my flying saucer and I immediately stopped sobbing.  The first person with whom I shared my experience was an island friend, whom I shall call “Prance”, who came over to my apartment in East Lankville for dinner one evening. He was seated on the little green hassock, I on a chair.  After some small talk, which I angrily kept to a minimum, we sat in complete, frightening silence for a few seconds while I collected my thoughts. How should I tell him about the saucer?

At length I blurted out: “Do you believe in flying saucers?”

“Of course,” replied my island cohort in his booming foreign voice, as though I’d asked him whether he believed in the Sun or the shocking rise of “Challenges” in the Lankville area.   I was stunned. I had certainly never believed in flying saucers myself before this revelation and of all greasy islanders I have known,  I could not have visualized my friend as a “saucer enthusiast.”

“Stay here,” I commanded, leaving the room in an excited rush. I returned with my hill picture, shoved it violently into his palm and sat down on the hassock next to him before realizing that the hassock was really too small to contain the bodies of two men.  The hassock was, point of fact, really too small even for my friend but I liked offering it to people despite the fact that there was a perfectly comfortable sofa nearby.  I liked the power, I admit it.

“You don’t seem at all surprised,” I said after I related my account up in the hills.

“I’m not,” he said loudly. “I’ve seen hundreds of these things.”

“Hundreds?” I was astonished.

“Yes,” he said. “They come in many colors.  Plus, I’ve been shot with a ray gun.  That’s why I have trouble driving.”   He stared at me with a crazed look in his brown, normally empty island eyes.

We have not seen each other socially since.

Nevertheless, I present my story to you, dear reader, as pure unadulterated fact.  It was, indeed, a flying saucer that I saw.  It was a flying saucer that Dronald Rutherford and Mrs. Schantz saw.  And even my former friend “Prance”– he too saw a flying saucer although I certainly don’t believe that rubbish about the ray gun.

Flying Saucers Today! ABDUCTION, 2014

March 12, 2014 2 comments
Graahaam Fosdick

By Graahaam Fosdick

Five minutes ago, I said goodnight to Terry, the office girl (and occasional lover), who all day saucershas been busy answering angry, threatening letters from folks who have ordered the Graahaam Fosdick Book, “FROM OUTER SPACE TO YOUR YARD”, and are wondering when they will receive it. They won’t receive it, of course, since we’ve been advertising a book that I have no intention of ever writing but by that time I will have switched offices. Anyway, my point really is that today Terry received a rather unusual letter. It was from a man who called himself “AN AGGRIEVED SAUCERER” and bore a postmark from the Southern Lankville Plains.

“Dear Mr. Fosdicks [sic],” the letter began. “They’ve found the two women. They were in a deep creek just the other side of the Vitiello Decorative Ham factory. The police are saying that the women were driving their late model Tippett and that it skidded off the road and into the river. However, it was not a Tippett that the women were driving, Mr. Fosdicks. It was a saucer.”

I dropped the letter. Terry bent to pick it up and her round behind bumped into my groin and some funny business ensued. But after that, we examined the letter again.

“These women are not the only ones,” I commented, as I retrieved my pants which had somehow ended up on top of the window dressing. “After all, there HAD been the case of Olive Kernels, who I spent a great deal of time tracking down. Ms. Kernels, in December of 1889, went out to the well for a bucket of water and never returned. It was clearly a case of a saucer abduction.”

Terry made some notes.

“I think we should go over to the river,” I decided. “I am concerned about the Case of the Two Women.” I asked Terry to take note of that title.

We made it over in record time. I was disappointed to see that the wreckage had been cleared away.

A guard was standing along the banks languidly. He tried to stop us.

“I’m Graahaam Fosdick,” I stated forcefully. “Editor of Flying Saucers Today!. Where are the bodies?”

“Down at the morgue,” he said. “But you can’t…”

I knocked him flat on his ass. This was too important a case. I’d pay for it later, I knew– I had some friends on the Police Auxiliary, after all.

I told Terry to drive and made some notes on some scrap paper. I pretended to be so engrossed by my work that I failed to notice a pen falling out of my shirt and landing in my lap. Terry, ever efficient, went to remove it. Some funny business started again then and we ended up getting a hotel for the rest of the night.

But the next morning, I showed up at the morgue. O’Talbot was there and he let me see the bodies.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking Fosdicks [sic],” he said. “Look at the damage to their skulls for Chrissakes. Look at the hunks of broken windshield sticking out of their foreheads. Look at the mark left by the steering wheel on the driver. This wasn’t any kind of abduction– it’s plain to any idiot that it was a run-of-the-mill, everyday car accident.”

“What’s Pondicherry saying?” I asked. I stared him down.

“Pondicherry? What the hell does he care?”

“Exactly.” He started to speak but then he thought better of it and shut the hell up.

Terry was waiting for me in the parking lot. “I called his bluff,” I told her. “They’ve not been successful in silencing all witnesses and sources of information. So much of this is of a startling nature. But I’m ready to call it. It’s an abduction. First one of 2014.”

Terry nodded. Man, I was ready to get all over that again.

It’d have to wait.

The world had to know first.

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