My name is Lammar (two-ems) Nuthatch and I may be crazy ( which sure I am) and I may have told a stretcher now and then (well I’d be poor company if I hadn’t) but there’s nothing in this story that glorifies me, and the facts of it are nothing that, for shame, I would want you to see; but after so long, the ever-swelling truth is literaly (as you will learn) splitting my head; it must come out, and believe you me, it’s all true, or my name’s not lammar Nuthatch with the double ems.
In a nutshell : I shot the sky, and the sky fell.
It happend a long time ago and it’s the reason I always wear this rag on my head..
Come nineteen sixty, when I was a young man just old enough to drive a car and hunt small game, there was a special season for hunting Rabbits at night during the full moon of February, because Rabbits are mostly nocturnal, so , with the full moon, and always (in those days) snow to amplify its light - the chances were pretty good for bagging a few bunnies, and it’s less likely that a guy might mistake another hunter or your Cat for a Rabbit then: that is, unless the sky is clouded and everything is not so bright.
But there was no regulation in the law saying that it holds only on clear nights, and I was not so bright at age sixteen, and my parents wre very permissivve, so one sort of cloudy night during the full moon of Beghruary circa nineteen fiffty eight, I took the family car, and the double barreled sixteen gauge Fox shotgun that I inhereited from my Grandfather and went a hunting out by the Tompkins county airport, across the road , about where a huge Borg Warer factory was built years later, and may be still there, I haven’t been by there in many years, though when it was new and partnered with Alan Pike, using a Kelly Croswell paint spraying machine to stripe parking lots with fast drying (and toxic) paint, we actually painted stripes on the concrete floor of the Borg Warner Plant, as stupid as that may have been, considering what those naptha fumes can do to your body, your lungs, and probably your head.
Before the striping years and any perceptual problems resulting to that, I was still, if not the birightest kid, still clear sighted, and still don’t wear glasses, even for teading, but on the nightt we are speaking of now, was not particularly clear, out there by the airport. For nminutes at a time, the big old moon hung there like somethng painted on a back drop, thjen it would go racing through a flock of clkouds, or would seem to, as the clouds raced by the moon: seeming to be trooping trees, ghost herds , schools of fish,, groups of fat laddies,, random objects, mountain ranges, cigars.
Plenty of tracks in the snow, but no Rabbits ….not even spectoral ones hopping across in the sky…. and the sky was getting all my attentions.
One of those luminous cigars, a lone cigar after a fleet of shiip clouds ahd gone by from North East to south west, one of those luminus cigars, a lone one, was not moving in that direction and maybe the wind was shifting….everyting did all of a sudden seem very different in every way….one of those cigars tilted up about thierty degrees annd then, as it slowly levele3d, int….not so slowly began growing LARGER, and as it grew largeer the cigar became more of an elipse…growing largerr and faster until when it was right over me, I could see that it was actually a dixc shape….unless it was a globe like the moon, until it hovered right over my head.
To my ever lasting shame, I shot at the fiucking thing, both barrels at once, just as I had too often done when startled by a grouse bursting out of a tree, or a rabbit from a snowbank.
Number six bird shot pellets from a couple of sixteen gauge shotgun shells should not be expected to bring down an aircraft, and maybe it didn’t but the doubleblast not only shattered the silence, but the sky itself, as if it were a dome of thin ice with bright lighting cracks fractalling all all over it, the pieces parting, falling slip slidey, fracaling into white, ash, ashes to dust, dust and I whited out, coming back into consciousness, flat on my back in a fog so thick I had to feel around to find my shotgun, but couldn;t find my hat , but my head hurt hard and with my hand ungloved I could feel the wound, such as it was, bloodles, as an ancient scar, raised fleshy lips, like a mouth on top of my head.
I felt great shame for shootiing at whatever it was. Always after that I wore a rag or a hat or both on my head, so as not have to explain, and never…..until now when I am old and out of the way…have I mentioned it to anybody.
And of course my experience doesn’t answer any of the usual questions about U.F.O.s., but I by now, after a big stretch of time during which I have matured someqhat, t, persued indepenent and guided studies, and have somewhat, oversome my childish shame and shyness, Ihave a better idea of what to make of the incident, but I would not be coming forth with this, had not te erie ips of the fleshy scar atop my head had not begin to part, which made bad fudge in my pants, as I expected blood, guts, or what was left of my brain spill up outt of there, but only a faint windy wistle at first, but then a voice in a language I didn’t understand, but then I did, and though I can’t call it up now, or at will anytime, I recall what it said, and I believe what it said, that voice in my headwind, but. It is clear to me now not just from that ongoing voice, and this may be born out by the expereiences of citizens unlucky enough to have been taken aboard UFOs, that the typical, large-brained, big-headedd beings who capture them have, during their own evolution, developed huge brains, due not to it making them any smarter, but just due to the haphazard evolution of the brain in their species, as in ours, it is an overlarge organ with many cobbed togather chambers and later-day lobes, which nature has not yet integrated in a compact version, though a good enginer COULD, and which in the meantime, and time can be a mean sort of prison, makes the process of giving birth: passing thjat huge headout of the womb through the limited portal of our, oand more so with their hips ( for have you ever heeard of a one eyed, big-headed, wide-hipped flying green alien;
These…..people…. are here to fuck with us. They want to implant their outer space sperm in the wombs of our women to spare themselves the unbearable pain of childbirth, to abourt the progeny at a late stage and finish them in some kind of world wide womb industrial complex. I don’t care of you believe it or not it’s the straight truth right off the top of my head, and you can believe me or my name isn’t Lammar Nuthatch, with the double m.
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