BALLS- A Short Tale of The Alien Gray Invasion, And The War That Follows


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All rights reserved.

The Labyrinth

I hate it down here!
Cold and damp in the labyrinth.
live-off rats;
who feed-off corpses;
who fed-off rats before:
they died.

Been a brutal conflict.
Alien Grays have been ruthlessly hunting-down,
the last remnants of free man,
the Furai,
many-long years.
Jungles of South America,
Grays hunt Furai:
day and night.

Tonight’s different though.
we get to punish these motherfuckers;
we get to eat meat,
real meat.

A Gray Warrior’s small,
about four-and-a-half-feet tall,
very formidable,
even without its energy-shield.
Chorded muscle,
highly intelligent.
Gray Warriors only weigh about 80-pounds,
but so does a pit-bull.

Daley will kill 4 Grays;
public display:
hand-to-hand combat.
His men,
and the men of several units,
will witness this bloodlust.
There will be:
and violence.

When the games are over,
man will dine on Gray flesh.
Grays are tasty.
Grays can be eaten rare or even raw;
its biology immune to Earth bacteria.
Dead Grays are slow to rot,
(not that any have ever been given a chance to rot.)
No bones!
Eat the whole-fucking-creature!
80 pounds of pure joy!

How to Kill a Gray

Daley’s the first-known man to actually kill a Gray;
the first to eat one.
Killing a Gray is difficult.
Three obstacles to overcome when killing a Gray:
1. Its energy shield.
2. Its networked brain.
3. Its rail gun.
You can hit these motherfuckers with atomics!
A Gray will emerge unscathed from an atomic blast,
looking to kill,
but unharmed.
Gray’s eyes even,
unscathed by the brightness of an atomic blast.
Any man would-be blind that close to an atomic;
human eyelids are ineffective,
in shielding the brightness of an atomic,
in close proximity.
Daley’s retinas have-suffered irreparable damage from these experiments,
in atomic counterattack.

At the beginning of the war,
man tried everything we could think of.
War implies two-sides engaged in combat;
not a war,
a mass-slaughter.
It made sense to try and nuke them at-the-time.
Grays are impervious to chemical weapons,
to biological agents;
nothing works;
nothing designed by man can penetrate Gray energy-shields.
Nothing but goop.

Someone came up with the idea:
maybe we can incapacitate a shielded Gray;
wait for its shield to run out of juice.
A Gray energy-shield had to have a battery,
Grays transmit energy through the air,
the way humans once broadcasted radio signals.
incapacitate one,
a week later its shield’s still on;
it’s just pissed-off.
Grays are a hive mind,
networked organism:
trap one;
it tweets all its little buddies for help.
we still use that fucking-word.
Hasn’t been:
a Twitter for a long time;
electricity for a long time,
at least on the battlefield.

To capture a Gray:
incapacitate it with goop;
block its energy reception;
block its distress call,
(unless you want to catch a bunch of them.)
Furai developed goop guns.
We call them GVANs;
I have no-fucking-idea why.
GVANs come in several-different varieties,
and sizes.
They are manufactured up-north someplace;
smuggled south,
through networks of tunnels,
spanning North and South America.
No idea how that smuggling-operation works;
it’s not my AOR.

The most effective GVAN:
the GVAN Mortar.
GVAN Mortars:
a three-foot-long plastic-hollow-tube,
a bore of 2 inches;
a perfect guerrilla-warfare weapon against these animals.


GVAN Mortars fire a two-inch-diameter projectile;
looks like a giant superball.
Program the superball by squeezing it.
One squeeze turns a GVAN superball on,
a nano-tech AI-smart weapon.
LED display illuminates.
Then tell it,
this superball,
what to do,
in plain English;
it responds in plain English.
Daley: “See those 4-Grays over there?”

Superball: “Yes.”

Daley: “How do we incapacitate all of them?”

Superball: “Set-up 5-mortars;
drop 5 of us,
(meaning 5-superballs);
then leave.
How much time do your men need to escape?”

Daley: “Give us 30 seconds.”
we set 5-tubes in the ground;
drop 5 of these superball-marvels into the tubes;
then scram.
GVAN mortars are controlled by the superballs.
The mortar automatically:
inclines at the correct angle;
waits the right amount of time for us to escape;
then fires.

Once in the air,
these superballs can redirect and self guide,
on even a fast-moving target;
they never miss.
Once a superball gets close enough to the little Gray-bastards;
it explodes in the air.
The chemical,
contained in a superball,
expands rapidly;
when the chemical’s exposed to air.
After the superball bursts:
a deluge of sticky mess rains down.
One of these amazing superballs,
creates about thirty-gallons of goop.

When a Gray’s encased in goop;
it gets pissed.
It always sees the superball coming;
its reflexes are very good;
it fires its rail gun at the launch-source.
The mortar-launch-tubes,
and an area about the size of a city-block around the tubes,
are annihilated;
but then The Grays are done.
The Grays are stuck.
Frozen statues of what looks like Styrofoam.

Encased Grays:
can’t move;
can’t shoot;
can’t Tweet for help,
goop is infused with lead and metal blocking both:
energy reception and distress signal.
A Styrofoam-Faraday cage.

In about 8 hours,
Gray shields run out of juice.
we carry these poor,
out of the area quickly;
bring the Grays to our labyrinth;
in eight hours we have,
“dinner and a movie.”
The men get to watch Grays fight to the death;
have tasty-food during the spectacle,
and a feast afterwards.

It’s not a fair fight;
more like a bull fight.
We are men;
Grays are animals.
We get to use tools;
Grays do not.

A Gray Warrior’s mute,
no vocal-chords,
but I’ve witnessed terror in its eyes,
the moment right-before the coup de grace.
Gray Warriors are noble,
in a way;
until that last moment.
Grays are not prepared for death;
they never see death coming.
I don’t care how brave a creature is,
at that last-moment when it sees death’s unescapable,
it will be afraid.

Death Match

Gray-arena-death-matches aren’t just food and entertainment;
they’re also part of a psychological-warfare campaign,
and scientific research.
We’ve shipped many captured-Grays up-north.
We don’t know what man will learn by studying these things;
we’re trying to understand the Gray.

There is no currently-known-way for man to communicate with Grays.
Ask them,
“What the fuck are you doing on Earth?
Why did you kill 5-billion humans on a Monday?
Do you hate fucking-Mondays?
Why have you fuck-wads enslaved most of humanity?”

As far as PsyOps go,
the Furai have a new-weapon against these bastards:
a “thought box”,
is what we grunts call it.
When we kill one of these motherfuckers,
the Gray transmits a signal;
its last thoughts into The Ether.
We capture these thoughts of terror,
in a “thought box”;
then store them:
the last few-minutes of a Gray’s life,
in an Ether shielded room.
We can’t allow these thoughts to escape into The Ether yet,
or we’d be swarmed with Grays.

I don’t kill the Gray quickly.
I chop an arm-and-both-feet-off with my katana;
leave one good-arm to be sporting;
then throw the Gray’s detached-appendages in the deep-fryer,
for snacks during the spectacle.
Grays smell so savory when cooking;
deep fried;
sautéed in animal fat.
Grays seem to be pre-seasoned.
No salt or pepper needed:
so tasty!
Gray flesh tastes like it was pre-salted.
Maybe God made the Grays for man to eat?
Maybe that’s why they are here?
Maybe the Grays knew:
they’d end-up like every other fucking-tasty-animal on this planet?
Food for man!

The Grays’ last hours of terror are recorded in a “thought box”.
we bring the “thought box” to the surface,
release their thoughts into The Ether.
every fucking-Gray knows what it’s like,
to experience the terror of death.
Every fucking-Gray knows what its like to lose an arm,
both feet,
watch them get deep-fried,
and consumed by a roomful of cheering men.

“Get the fuck off my planet!” I yell,
as I beat this motherfucker with my fists.
The Gray tags me with its one-remaining-arm,
as it tries to fight,
on its footless-stumps.
I headbutt the Gray;
armlock it;
break its boneless-arm,
(like a broken penis.)
I start eating its exposed-hand alive;
can’t help myself.
Others join in;
three-men on each leg-stump.
These things have no sex-organs;
no balls.

For a moment I wonder,
“is it a male or a female?”
Would I care if it was a cow or a bull?
Especially not now;
I’m so fucking-hungry.
I hope the “thought box” is recording all this,
I want every creature,
in man’s galaxy to know,
what will happen to it if:
it challenges man.
I’ll bring this “thought box” to the surface;
set a timer;
release the dying-thoughts of these four-delicious-Grays.

For a moment,
I wonder if the thought-box is recording my thoughts?
As I kill the last of the four-Grays,
(after chopping off its arms and legs;)
I pick up its appendage-free torso,
by its bald-fucking-head;
right before I break its neck;
I yell into its terrified eyes,
“You don’t belong on God’s Earth!
Man are the image of God!
Everything else is a-fucking-animal!”

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