It had been forty three days since the Orion collection ship had entered the Earth’s atmosphere. It had almost been three weeks since their successful strike on the National Guard Armory. In those stressful days that followed, Orion shock troopers also carried out successful raids on Brewers Air Force base, as well as the State Police barracks. With the aliens first three targets neutralized, and with the first three stages of their mission now complete, it was time to move on to phase four.
. . . Shawnee County was now prime for the taking.
It was a warm spring night in early April, when Brett Johnson drove his 72’ Chevelle out of Silver Lake and headed west towards Rossville. There wasn’t much activity outside of town at this late an hour, save for the occasional tractor trailer that would pass on U.S. 24, or the sporadic burnout by some restless kid in a fast car. However, this trip wouldn’t involve street racing his souped-up Chevy against some other bored hot shoe. Tonight, the Barclay Bears starting forward was out on a date with Pamela Andrews, who was also home for the Easter break, from Barclay College.
Now Pamela Andrews looked like the perfect blend of a small town cutie and a tempestuous porn-star. From her sun-streaked hair, to her deeply tanned skin, the nineteen-year-old looked more like a California beach bunny, than a farm girl from central Kansas. At five feet eleven, she was taller than most other girls, and sported an all-natural figure that was total perfection. But Pamela’s most appealing feature of all was her adorably cute face. She had these rounded cheeks that dimpled whenever she cracked a smile from her full and luscious lips. Her nose was sharp and slightly upturned, while her big blue eyes were framed by thick long lashes.
Pamela had decided to let her long golden tresses down tonight, and they dangled upon her shoulders in a rather playful manner. Up on top the gal touted her school pride, by wearing a sweatshirt with the ‘Barclay Bears’ logo on front, while a pair of faded denim shorts hugged her bottom just right.
. . . In other words, she was lookin’ reeeeal good!
The couple had just finished a fulfilling Easter dinner at Pamela’s parents house. Brett decided to take full advantage of the lovely weather, by inviting his girlfriend out for a ride. (His ulterior motive was that he’d also be able to take full advantage of young Pamela, who’d gotten a little tipsy, from her grandfather’s home-made wine!)
With her hand lightly rubbing her boyfriend’s thigh, Pamela stares out the window with noted curiosity. It isn’t long before she asks, “So where are you taking me?”
Her boyfriend replies, “It’s a surprise babe . . .You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Now every restless farm boy from here to Topeka knew that if you wanted to go parking with your date, you headed out to Woodridge Road. The secluded Woodridge hilltop was the highest point in Shawnee County, and it provided a romantic view of the flat and seemingly endless Kansas landscape. Lovers had been doing it for generations, and tonight would be no different.
…So, with his hopes up high, Brett headed westward out of town until he reached dirt covered Woodridge Road. The young man steered past the gates that had been crashed and then tossed to the side, nearly twenty years ago. He drove up the long wooded road until reaching the top, eventually pulling into a grassy meadow. Although it was pitch dark in the nearby woods, the field was brightly lit by the full moon directly above. Knowing that this was the perfect spot, the college freshman shifts his car into park and turns off the ignition . . .
The sudden lack of mechanical engine noise is replaced by the sound of thousands of crickets, now chirping intermittently. The man stares out across the field before asking, “Well . . . here we are darlin’ . . . So what do ya’ think?”
Pamela admits in her Kansan accent, “It sure is pretty, Brett . . . But it’s kinda out har in the middle a no-whars…”
Her boyfriend admits, “Well that’s kinda the whole point, darlin’ . . . Now we can finally spend some time alone.”
Pamela briefly scans their wooded surroundings and quietly considers; Bad things always seem to happen in isolated places like this . . . drug deals, rapes, murderers dumping their victims bodies!
The young woman finally finds the courage to ask, “Can we go someplace that’s maybe a lil’ more…well… populated?”
“Come on, babe . . . I drove all the way out har so we’d have us some privacy…Aint nobody gonna bother us out har.”
“Yeah, but what about the coyotes n’ the war-wolves?”
A shit-eating grin begins to form over Brett’s face. “Shoot, thar aint no coyotes or war-wolves out har . . . Ya’ll been readin’ too many o’ them thar ‘Twilight’ books!”
Brett squeezes his girlfriend tight in reassurance, as Pamela cuddles up beneath the safety of his big arms. As she places her head upon his shoulder, she feels that there’s no safer place to be . . .
The couple sits there in the front seat for a good thirty minutes, content with just watching the stars. At one point, a group of deer cautiously step out across the spacious meadow. They stand there peacefully in the moonlight; perfectly content and occasionally dipping their heads into the long blades of grass . . . Well, at least until an unseen disturbance causes them to run off into the woods . . .
That’s when Pamela points off into the distance and asks, “Hey, what’s that thar smoke comin’ from?”
Brett leans forward in his seat. From his viewpoint above the dash, he can clearly see steam emitting from one of the smoke-stacks at the factory below.
“Huh! . . . That thar’s the old meat-packin’ plant . . . Last I knew, that place was boarded up n’ locked down.”
“So if its shut down, why would thar be steam comin’ out of it?”
“I don’t know babe,” confesses the boy, before theorizing, “Maybe some comp-ny bought it ta’ refurbish.”
Pamela nods her pretty head in understanding. With her doe-like eyes now looking up into his, the girl whispers, “I love you Brett Johnson . . .”
“I love you too, babe.”
. . . The basketball player leans forward to steal a quick smooch from his girl. Just a second later, he returns for a second kiss, with Pamela’s lips now reacting slowly against his. With a soft sigh, the young woman wraps her arms around his wide shoulders, before accepting his probing tongue into her opened mouth . . .
In the abandoned meat packing plant that’s an eighth-of-a-mile below Woodridge, critical eyes stare at the monitor before them. Someone had trespassed on the outer parameter of the grounds, and security had taken notice. These very same eyes have been studying the pair of thermal images, ever since the intruders had arrived.
As a fourth figure enters the chamber, the other three quickly arise from their seated positions. Although none of them physically speak out loud, there is a telepathic greeting, followed by a quick bow in respect. The fourth figure ignores the show of consideration from his underlings, and immediately studies the monitor. Now showing a look of disapproval, the superior goes on to project:
- How long have they been here?
. . . Over a half an hour, Sir.
- Has our presence been detected?
. . . Not as far as we can tell, Sir.
The second in command of the ship, studies the monitor in deep reflection. The captain then projects, - Our presence must not be compromised this early in the mission. Immobilize the suspects and bring them here.
. . . We already have some trackers at the edge of the woods, Sir.
- Very well, then. I’ll notify the princess. . . . And with that said, the captain turns abruptly on his heels and exits the room.
Meanwhile, the two lovers continue with their passionate kissing; pausing only long enough for Pamela to pull her sweatshirt up over her head and off of her arms. The young woman quickly tosses the garment to the floor, where it lands beside her boyfriend’s discarded flannel shirt. She then repositions herself in a straddling position atop her lover’s thighs, so that she can face him directly.
The basketball player returns his attention to his girlfriend by licking a straight line from her bare shoulder, clear up to her neck. Pamela lets out several playful giggles in return, as she struggles to unclasp her lacy black bra.
. . . Brett eases up before letting out an appreciative snicker.
Now lowering her bra from each of her shoulders, Pam slowly unleashes her glorious breasts. (The bountiful globes bounce freely in place once she tosses the foundation over her shoulder). With her nipples distended and with her curves now highlighted by the glow of the moon, the nineteen-year-old looks like a sex-kitten that’s ready for action!
Brett can’t look away from Pamela’s breasts; they seem to defy gravity as they lightly jiggle upon her torso. When the young man finally forces his lusty stare from her rosy crests, he finds his girl looking directly at him . . .
“Baby,” Pamela murmurs, before linking her hands within Brett’s. She then moves his hands up over her tummy to her burning breasts and asks - no - make that breathes the words, “Please . . . touch me.”
The basketball player happily accommodates; first cupping her plentiful mounds to appreciate their weight, then squeezing and rotating them around within his enormous hands. Pamela’s tits have a nice full shape and are capped with large areolas and pebble-like nipples that beg to be sucked. Never one to hesitate, Brett tweaks both of the little knobs between his fingertips, before lowering his mouth to the right breast. He draws the tip in between his front teeth; playfully batting it about with his tongue, before sucking it out to a wet and rigid point. A moment later, the boy repeats the routine with the opposite breast.
Pamela moans at the pleasurable advances, and with the sudden realization that Brett’s growing hard right there beneath her. She starts to purposely grind her crotch against her boyfriend’s bulge. (The constant friction causes Brett to bite down on her nipple and the young woman let out a squeal in delight!) …In a bold move, the blonde yanks her boyfriend’s head from her breasts and moves his mouth to hers; this time claiming her lover’s tongue for her own.
Once again, Brett reciprocates by kissing his girlfriend long and hard; his tongue enthusiastically tangling with hers. Pam feels so damned good in his arms, with those bare breasts impacting into his own bare chest . . . He couldn’t possibly imagine her being with anybody else.
“Mmmm…Uhhhh!”
. . . More heated murmurs of delight! Pam is literally breathless at this point, and has to break away just to get some air. With her chest noticeably heaving, the young woman takes a couple of deep breaths and laughs at her temporary fatigue. She praises, “Damn you’re good!”
Brett tries to catch his own breath, before returning the compliment. “You must bring it out of me…”
Pamela is smiling down at him now; her face flush; her parted lips all supple and wet. Her golden-blonde hair was already tangled and tousled about - just the way she usually looked after a night of some serious screwing. Just the sight of it made Brett’s cock twitch with anticipation . . .
“Come on, let me take care of you,” Pam urges.
Now if there was one thing that Pamela Andrews was known for, it was giving great head. In fact; it was one of the thing that Brett loved most about her . . .
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, not at all,” assures the girl while letting out a playful laugh. “I actually like doing it!”
Without hesitation, Brett lowers his back onto the bench seat. . . . Pamela rises up slightly and . . . ZiiiiiiiiiiiiiP - the fly on her boyfriend’s Wranglers are easily undone. (The blonde raises up on her knees even further, allowing her lover to kick off his jeans in hasty fashion).
Once Brett is situated, Pam wiggles herself out of her cut-off shorts and tosses them at the pile of discarded clothing. Now wearing nothing more than her silky black thong, the blonde settles her ass back onto her lover’s thighs and pulls back the band of his underwear. Pamela takes out his penis and studies it for a brief moment; taking time to appreciate its girth within her fingers. She then gets to work and starts stroking his ever-hardening cock within her willing hand. Once it reaches its full length, the young woman bows her head forward, letting her blonde hair spill over her boyfriend’s washboard abs…
“Unnnnnngh!”
. . . Brett immediately lets out a deep moan, as the heat and wetness of his girlfriend’s mouth, slowly encircles his penis. Pamela starts out at a slow pace. She eventually bobs her head up and down into a carefully timed rhythm, stopping only occasionally to lick around the tip of the cock, or even the length of the shaft in its entirety!
“Oh…Uggghh!”
. . . Pamela looks up at her man with hungry eyes, while continuing her oral ministrations. (At one point, she even brushes her hair back over her shoulder and out of the way, just to give her man a better view!)
Her boyfriend scolds, “You’re such a bad girl!” . . . (A second later, the guy lets out another indebted groan).
“Unnnnnngh!”
. . . Brett’s voice was starting to get a little strain to it, and it made Pamela smile around the head of his dick. She always loved to hear her boyfriends moaning like that, and it only made her head bob that much faster. With her supple lips rolling back and forth over the length of the athlete’s penis, the nineteen-year-old farm girl manages to mumble, “Ong-ly fwerb you, bwaby…”
The forward splays his fingers across the back of Pam’s head, and presses her down even further. Understanding his cue, the young woman began to take him in faster and deeper into her accommodating throat. With all this tension building in his unit, and with his girlfriend’s cadence now at it’s peak, Brett felt that he would come at any second!
Sensing that her boyfriend was about to unload a mouthful of cum, Pamela raises her head and clamps her hand around Brett’s straining rod . . . She quickly warns, “Oh no you don’t!”
The irritated forward lift’s his head, only to see his dick now throbbing with impatience. His confused gaze wanders up to his girlfriend and he questions, “WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” in frustration!
Pamela has a cruel, and yet kinky expression on her face. (The tease was obviously getting off on her ability to control her boyfriend, and knowing that she would determine when he’d be allowed to come!) . . . By now, Brett’s knee was already parting the blonde’s creamy thighs, and it was quite obvious by the dampness of her panties, that she was more than ready to go . . .
Pamela rises once again to arrange herself into a straddling position. The young woman reaches down between her legs, peels the lower strip of her thong off to the side and then leans in towards her boyfriend’s ear. She then erotically whispers, “Baby, I’m gonna ride ya’ like there’s no tomorrow!”
Brett’s breath is hot on the back of his girlfriend’s neck, while his cock was burning hot between her legs - already searching for her all-important-entry. (Pamela herself was already reaching beneath her thigh and struggling to move a hand toward it, just to help him find his way inside). …The young man slides his hands up her slender waist and surrounds both breasts; squishing and squeezing them more aggressively than before.
. . . Pamela shifts the weight of her hips; …she’s now patiently waiting, but with baited breath! When Brett’s shaft finally enters her passage, his girth spreads her wide while his length fills her entirely. The nineteen-year-old allows an abrupt gasp to escape from her lips, followed by a grateful, “OH YESSSS!”
Pamela began bouncing up and down on her boyfriend’s unit; riding him like a pogo-stick. (With her long blonde hair dancing wildly upon her bobbling breasts, the young woman actually looked like a cowgirl riding a horse!)
Brett’s powerful hands had already strayed from Pamela’s chest, and moved on downward to her waist. There they clamped onto her flexing hips, his cock slipping and sliding within his girlfriend’s slick pussy. Pam was softly whimpering now, in an attempt to answer his husky moans . . .
“Uh-uhhhh!”
“Mmmmm!”
“Ohhh!”
“Uhhhhh!”
. . . The passion continues to build with each passing stroke. In a fevered rush, the lovers’ lips have somehow fused together again, and Brett’s kisses seem to be getting even deeper than before.
. . . Pam thinks to herself, Whoa! . . . It’s never been this intense with anyone else, before! - Not ever!
. . . And then, Pamela’s humping intensified all at once! The young woman knew her sensitivity was high, and that her boyfriend’s actions were pushing her to the limit. But what she didn’t expect, was that her orgasm would hit her so fast! She suddenly screams out loud,
“Oh God Brett! . . . OH GOD YESSS! . . . GIVE IT TO ME HARD, BABY!”
. . . Pamela arches her back in total ecstasy; her body jerking with the spasms of her climax. As she writhes around in elation, Brett’s dick twitches and pulses within the clinching walls of her vagina - his hot cum now exploding deeply inside her. She continues to bounce on top of him as they climax together, his hips thrashing beneath her like a bull trying to throw a seasoned rider!
“YES!…YES!…YES!…YES!…UH!…YES!…UH!…YES!”
The couple’s heated climax is so intense, that they completely fail to notice the onlooker’s just outside their car. One of them raises a hand-held flash grenade and activates the charge . . .
The compact and yet powerful weapon, is carefully tossed through one of the opened front windows. The moment the gadget lands, a brilliant white flash illuminates the interior of the car, (as well as a considerable amount of the surrounding field!). There would be no loud explosion, nor any fragments of smoldering steel flying about. Yet the device’s effects would be immediate and direct.
Still caught up within the throes of ecstasy, Pam’s hips continue to buck against her boyfriend’s straining rod - her own body betraying her, even as her vision was suddenly blinded by some powerful source of white light. As her memory began to cloud over, her very existence seems to swim in and out of focus and importance.
Watchful eyes study the female’s movements from outside the car window. As her full-body spasms eventually slow to a halt, the watchers nod their heads in approval . . .
Meanwhile, from inside an observation room that’s almost an eighth-of-a-mile away, even more watchful eyes observe the Woodridge location across several flat-panel monitors. Their vision, (now being provided by a special pair of goggles that each of the trackers wear), gives the superiors a first-person-view of the unfolding scene.
. . . On monitor one, the camera pans around the exterior of the car. (Because of the steamed up windshield, one can only conclude there has been some heavy-duty snogging going on). …Except for the distant sound of a howling coyote, and the hundred-or-so crickets that are chirping in the surrounding woods, silence prevails at the vehicle. The tracker reaches out into the night air and plucks a moth that was seemingly suspended in time. They hold it up to the lens for a better view for all, before setting it back on its frozen flight path.
. . . On monitor two, the camera shows the view of approaching the driver-side door. A gloved hand reaches down to pull at the chromed handle, before swinging the car door wide open. One sees the steering wheel first, before glancing downward to see the head of a reclining brunette male. The victim’s face is frozen in rapture, his hands gripping the thin waist of the female seated atop him.
. . . On monitor three, yet another view shows a shock trooper approaching the passenger-side window. Again a door is opened, and the view scans over the bare back of a female. The camera leans in for a closer view, and one briefly sees the side profile of beautiful blonde. Her blue eyes are wide open and unblinking, her mouth hangs slack. The view pans lower to her once heaving breasts, which are now frozen in mid-swell and capped with erect nipples. …A gloved hand reaches out to grope the breast, appreciating its firmness. . . . (The lens eventually bobs up and down in approval).
. . . On monitor four, a gloved hand pushes monitor number three out of the way. We see the helpless female once again. Her sculpted back is deeply arched and her neck is craning too; so much so, that her long blonde locks hang loose from her head. One of her hands is braced against the dashboard, while the other clutches at her boyfriend’s chest. The young woman’s hips are thrust forward and impaled on the male’s appendage. Her juices are flowing with his, and together they are one; frozen in a blissful moment of never-ending coitus.
. . . A hand held scanner reaches out and makes a few passes over the suspended female’s body. The device snaps to life and emits an eerie crackling sound as it continues to rate it’s intended subject. (This whole while, the human female stares up eerily at the vehicle’s headliner, without producing so much as a sound or even a blink . . .)
The gloved hand raises the scanner to read the results, before the camera lens bobs up and down and gives a “thumbs up” in approval. The view looks down to change a setting on the scanner, before leaning further inside the vehicle to look around. The scanner rises into view yet again, and that’s when the shock trooper projects, - I’m picking up the scent of feminine musk . . . a human woman in heat, that is. . . . This one looks like she’s a definite breeder . . .
That’s when all four trackers receive the same signal, - Excellent! . . . Bring her back to the base. She’ll be an excellent subject to start out with!
Monitor one questions, - What should we do with the male?
The leader directs - You must bring him back as well. We can’t afford to leave any evidence behind. Bring their vehicle too…
With the latest commands projected, the superiors continue to watch as the trackers carry out their orders. They look on with satisfaction, as the human female is carefully removed from the vehicle. Still frozen in her “forward facing cowboy” position, the helpless Pamela stares up blindly at the stars; legs rudely parted; her bare breasts thrust outward, as she’s placed on the grassy field below her. A naked Brett would join her on the ground, just a short time later. Unfortunately, any romantic relation that either of the lovers may have, is surely about to end . . .
It was about 1am, and Bruce Miller and Vincent Trillo were working the midnight shift for Trademark Security. The men were on radio-dispatched-motor-patrol, just outside of Silver Lake Kansas, (which was almost twenty minutes from Topeka). The two had just finished their nightly rounds at the railroad yard, and were heading up to Rossville to check up on an old meat packing plant. The two are making conversation as they drive up U.S. 24 . . .
Bruce Miller probes, “So what do you think of the job so far?”
“Yeah it’s alright,” admits the rookie. “I mean; I’ve only been on for a couple of weeks, but…”
“Bah,” scoffs Miller. “Easiest fuckin’ job in the world, kid! Drive around on their gas, in their car…Checking locks and watching for worthless punks . . . Easy money, kid, very easy money…”
The radio suddenly crackles to life. It’s an urgent message from their dispatcher:
SSSKRSHTT
Attention all Trademark Employees;
. . . State Police are on the look out for a red, Chevrolet two-door hardtop. 1972 model. Plate number THX-1138. Occupants: one Brett Johnson; male; aged 19; brown hair; brown eyes. One Pamela Andrews; female; aged 19; blonde hair; blue eyes. Disappeared from the Silver Lake/Rossville area on April fourth.
. . . Authorities are seeking any information on their whereabouts, and are asking for full co-operation from all agencies. Anyone with any information is urged to contact Kansas State Police immediately. Vehicle is not stolen - I repeat car is not stolen.
SSSKRSHTT
“Wow - still looking for those teenagers, huh?”
“Yeah, probably just some love-struck kids…Probably ran off to Vegas to get hitched or somethin,” theorizes Miller. “Speaking of which; so how are things goin’ with your new girlfriend there?”
“Which one is that, bud?”
Miller pokes, “Oh, listen to Romeo over here!”
The young rookie brags, “What? … (Chuckles out loud)…So I get bored with one and just move on to the next!”
“Ok smart ass, then the one that you were telling me you were so in love with, just a few days ago.”
“Ohhh, you mean the Asian one?”
Bruce replies, “Yeah, the one with the funny name and the tight little ass.”
“Her name is Chi Lin . . . Great girl…Sexy too. Problem is: she has one of those high-pitched, whiney voices. It’s like talking to a little girl or something.”
“You mean like she sucked helium from a balloon?”
“Exactly! . . . Plus; I can’t get any damned sleep whenever she’s around.”
Miller jabs his partner in the side and presses, “So she’s a real wildcat, eh?”
“Yeah, she’s a total nympho. Plus she has this thing about roll playing and dressing up.”
“Oh yeah? So what did she dress up as last night?”
Vincent confesses, “Last night, we played good cop/bad cop.”
“Good cop/ bad cop? . . . What the hell is that?”
“Chi Lin pretends that she’s a stranded motorist, and I pull over to help her out . . .”
“Wait, don’t tell me you slap the cuffs on and bend her over the couch!”
“Yeah, why?”
Bruce exclaims, “Oh shit, Vince! - This is too damned good!” He then pries, “So what happens next?”
Vincent starts to look a little embarrassed and says, “Alright, I’m not going to give you every sordid detail.”
“Oh, come on!” pleas his partner. “For Christ’s sake, I’ve been married to the same broad for over twenty years! …Ya’ gotta give me some sort of juicy details!”
“Nah, I can’t,” says Vincent before he asks, “Say…isn’t the turn up here someplace?”
“Yeah, yeah; next off ramp, half mile up on the right,” advises his partner. “So is it true about the inverted pussy thing?”
“Say what?”
“You know: the whole deal about their pussies being sideways . . . Is it true?”
Vincent gets a confused look and says, “Man, that’s an old sailor’s tale!”
Bruce disputes, “Hell, that’s no sailors tale . . . My grandfather told me that story, and he was in the Marines!”
“Alright, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” advises the driver. “Is this the off ramp right here?”
“Yeah sure, right here and up that hill on the right,” instructs Bruce. “And by the way; this little conversation about the fundamental structure of the Asian pussy, aint even close to bein’ over yet, buddy . . .”
Sigh - “Whatever man,” says Vinny, before he pulls the Crown Vic sedan up close to the eight foot high, chain link fence. He then manipulates his spotlight around, so that its beam is affixed on the huge padlock.
. . . Or at least where the padlock used to be.
“Oh shit!” exclaims Vincent. “The damned lock is gone!”
“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch!” returns his partner. Bruce then advises, “I better get out there and take a look.”
. . . The elder, more experienced security guard exits the vehicle. Bruce studies the burnt latch on the fence for a moment, before swinging the two halves of the gate wide open. (It was only then when he notices the singed remains of the padlock, lying on the ground beside his feet). The man returns to the passenger side of the vehicle, drops in the seat and then pulls the door shut behind him . . .
“Take a look at this shit,” the guard says, before turning on the Ford’s interrogation light. Bruce holds the melted padlock up beneath the light, for a thorough examination.
“Whoa!” exclaims Vincent. “It looks like somebody torched the damned thing in half!”
“You know what kind of heat it would take, just to melt some metal that thick?”
With a confused expression, Vincent comments, “I don’t know, but who would drag a set of torches all the way out here?”
Bruce suggests, “They could have had a utility truck with torches on the back…Maybe even a plasma cutter.”
Vincent offers, “Regardless, this doesn’t look like your typical crew of high school kids just looking to throw a beer party . . . Should we call it in?”
Bruce rubs his chin in thought for a moment. He then suggests, “Let’s do a slow lap around the parameter of the building, first.”
Vincent steers the Crown Vic through the parted gates and into the factory parking lot. Bright headlights scan across the asphalt surface ahead, which was old, crumbled, and with blades of grass sticking up through its cracks . . .
Slaussen’s meat packing plant was a 71,000-square-foot, hulking structure of concrete. Located just three miles outside of Rossville, the facility sat on two hundred acres of land, and had been used for the processing and storage of meat, for nearly three decades. However, back in the early nineties, the owners had decided to relocate the business. The plant was soon shut down: its many employees were permanently laid off; the heavy processing equipment removed; and the few glass windows were eventually boarded over. Although the county ordered the place locked up, the big empty shell has been a magnet for vagrants and partiers alike, for nearly two decades . . .
The ‘Trademark Security’ Ford crept slowly around the facility, with its regulation spotlight continuously searching the grounds. The halogen beam scans over a myriad of spray painted graffiti; some featuring caricatures, initials or gang signs, while others were blatant obscenities.
Vincent asks, “What kind of idiot would want to break into this place?”
“I’ve chased everything from drunken teenagers to crack heads out of here,” brags Miller. “…Even caught a few hookers screwing their johns in this dump!”
“This place even gives me the creeps!”
“Bah!” scoffs Miller. “Circle around the other side and we’ll see what’s going on out back.”
Yet, before they could manage to drive around to the rear of the building, they spot a vehicle just up ahead . . .
Trillo questions, “What do we got here?”
“Looks like an old 72’ Chevelle . . . One just like my buddy had back when we were in high school,” evaluates Miller. “Pull up so I can check the tags…”
The Crown Vic pulls up, it’s spotlight trained on the Chevy’s rear license plate.
“THX-1138,” reads Miller aloud. The security guard furrows his eyebrow for a moment in thought. He then suddenly recalls, “Whoa! . . . THX-1138? Isn’t that the plate number on that missing Chevy?”
Miller assures, “That’s the same plate alright!”
“But why would somebody abandon such a beautiful car, out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“I don’t know, but we’re about to find out,” advises Miller, before swinging the door open to step from the vehicle. (Trillo shifts the Ford into park and exit’s the vehicle to join him, just a moment later).
The first thing the security guards notice is a low-pitched humming sound. It throbbed within the ground beneath their feet, and nearly rattled their teeth. The sensation was similar to that of a passing vehicle with a powerful sub-woofer, yet this wasn’t as distinct.
The two men looked around in the darkness, before the rookie Trillo asks, “Do you feel that vibration in your feet?”
Miller cocks his security hat on top of his balding head and suggests, “Bah, probably some punk-assed kid, going down 24 with one of those damned high-dollar stereos!” …The security guard then turns on his flashlight and orders, “Come on, Trillo - we got us more important business to deal with!”
Indeed, the red Chevy muscle-car was in pristine condition. Miller himself was quite surprised to find the doors unlocked. The pair scan the interior with their flashlights, until the elder security guard reaches down towards the floorboards to retrieve something.
Miller recovers a lacey black bra and holds it up in front of his flashlight. “Heh-heh-heh-heh…I told you they were lovers!”
As his partner admires the delicate structure of the brassiere, Trillo continues to scan over the vehicle. He finds the keys still inserted into the ignition. “Something isn’t right here, Bruce . . . Maybe we better call in the plates, eh?”
“Nah, I can handle these two by myself,” answers Miller. “They must be hidin’ out somewhere inside that building.”
Trillo jabs, “You think so, Sherlock? . . . Then what’s our plan of attack going to be?”
Miller orders, “We’re going to split up, and then we’re gonna search every square inch of that Goddamned building! . . . And if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll walk in on em’ just as their doin’ somethin’ naughty!”
That’s when Trillo teases, “Wow Bruce, you really are bored with your marriage, aren’t you?”
Bruce Miller creeps along the front facade of Slaussen’s meat factory. It isn’t long before he comes upon a large entry door. The guard scans his flashlight over the lock, only to find that it has the very same “singed-black” appearance as the gate out front. (There had literally been a hole burned clear through the heavy-gauge steel door). The security guard pushes the door open, before proceeding with caution . . .
The sixty-year-old processing plant was the kind of place that some filmmaker would die for. It was certainly the perfect location to shoot a horror film, with its eerie dripping sounds, dangling cobwebs and industrial surroundings. Yet, as Bruce Miller creeps along in the darkness, he’s a bit surprised. This wasn’t the first time that he’d stepped into the factory, yet he could clearly recall the thick wads of pigeon droppings that covered nearly everything around. Usually the floor was littered with empty beer cans, liquor bottles and other assorted trash. Yet the place was surprisingly clean and up-kept.
. . . And then there was that annoying humming sound. It rattled his teeth and numbed his feet. Within Bruce’s ears was the sound of constant white noise . . . The man likened it to an industrial air conditioner, (which it could have been, considering how much cooler the temperature was in here). . . . Whatever the sound was, it surely got considerably louder once he crossed through that doorway . . .
Meanwhile, Vincent Trillo is poking around in the darkness on the backside of the building. He’s drawn to another loud noise; this one sounding like a large electric transformer. And he can almost taste the electricity in the air. …Vincent side-steps a massive steel pillar, before continuing further into the darkness. The guard can’t help but feel as if he were walking beneath a huge canopy; one that was designed to keep multiple tractor trailer trucks out of the rain . . .
SHOOOOM! . . . HISSSSSSSSSSS!
- A sudden blast of steam emits from something just above his head! The young man yells out,“Shiiit!”just as he dives to the ground for cover! With his heart nearly pounding out of his chest, the security guard immediately covers his face for protection. A cloud of smoldering steam tumbles across his prone form!
- What the fuck was that?
. . . Vincent waits - lying facedown - as the steam slowly dissipates from around him. When the security guard is finally brave enough to rollover and reopen his eyes, he’s truly startled at what he sees . . .
“What… in the hell… is this?”
. . . At first, I didn’t quite believe my eyes. What I had thought was a huge metal canopy, was in fact, not a canopy at all. Near as I could tell, I was looking at the bottom of some sort of ship! . . . I just lay there on the crumbling asphalt for a moment, staring up at the mysterious vessel in total awe . . .
Still in disbelief, I somehow manage to drag myself up off the ground and scan my flashlight to and fro. This mysterious craft was simply tremendous, being nearly the scale of an actual high-school football field. And what I had originally mistaken as support columns for the canopy, were in fact, large landing struts that extended to the ground and supported the mass of the ship!
Still looking upward, I could see that the ship’s lower belly was about twelve feet above my head. There were jets of steam that would intermittently blow out of various ports on the ships undercarriage, making me flinch with each unexpected release. I then walked out past one of the landing struts, to get out from beneath the great craft. I scanned my flashlight upward, to reflect a beam of light off of the ships metallic surface. It was only then, that I discovered that the upper flight deck rose another forty feet higher. I scanned my flashlight down over the nose of the vessel, seeing that it came to a sculpted and gradual point.
. . . I decided to take the long walk back beneath the belly of the mysterious ship, (the whole time being careful to avoid the hot discharges of steam). There seems to be some separation lines in the undercarriage of the craft, which suggest a receded loading ramp, or some sort of payload doors. Continuing my way onward, I eventually find four spherical engine pods at the far end. They immediately bring to mind those giant propulsion units that are mounted on the back of the NASA space shuttle.
Although I wasn’t quite sure of what this mysterious ship was, (or even why it would be hidden here), I couldn’t help but feel intimidated by it’s sheer size and it’s mysterious nature. I quickly concluded that this was not only a grim looking-machine, but most likely an efficient one as well . . .
. . . It was around this time that I decided to reach for my two-way radio. I pressed “speak” in hopes that my new partner didn’t laugh at my unexpected discovery . . .
SSSKRSH - “Bruce, you got a read on me?”
. . . The man stares at his radio while waiting in silence for a reply.
SSSKRSH - “Bruce are you out there? …Come on.”
. . . The radio remains silent, before a grungy feedback noise crackles from the other end.
ssskrsh - “This is Bruce, over”
SSSKRSH - “You aren’t going to believe this, but I think I’m standing beneath some
sort of spaceship!”
ssskrsh - “A what?
SSSKRSH - “Yeah, it’s a frickin spaceship man! I’m looking up at the damned thing,
right as we speak!”
ssskrsh - “Now let me get this straight, you think you saw a UFO?”
SSSKRSH - “I DON’T THINK I SAW ONE, I’M STARING RIGHT AT THE
FUCKING THING!”
ssskrsh - “Alright Trillo, just settle down out there.”
SSSKRSH - “I’M NOT GOING TO SETTLE DOWN! . . . NOW I THINK SOME
SERIOUS SHIT’S ABOUT TO GO DOWN, AND WE NEED TO GET
THE HELL OUTTA HERE, ON THE DOUBLE! . . . DO YOU HEAR
ME BRUCE?”
ssskrsh - “Hang on, Vince . . . I think I see some light beneath the door up ahead.”
. . . Vincent presses the ‘speak’ button attempting to reply to his partner, but all he hears in return is:
ssskrsh - “I can’t hear you Vince…You’re breaking up…Wait, I think I see
something emerging from the doorway ahead . . . I think . . .OH SHIT VINCE! - OH MY GOD! . . . NO!…NO…PLEASE DON’T---”
. . . It was at that point that Miller’s radio went deathly quiet. Fearing for his own life, Vinny Trillo turned to run for the car, only to bump into the unseen figure just before him. By the time Vincent had the sense to react; the hooded alien had already raised his concealed weapon and aimed it at the security guard. The weapon - (which was part light-saber / part clear cylindrical tube) - would emit a brilliant flash that was a hundred times more powerful than the brightest of human-made flashbulbs!
CHOOVE - CHOOVE - CHOOVE - CHOOVE - CHOOVE!
. . . A brilliant burst of energy surges from the weapon, immediately engulfing the young security guard. Without so much as firing a shot, Vincent was immediately frozen in place; his arm still locked in position as it reached for the weapon in his holster . . .
The hooded figure raises the clear, cylindrical tube that has subdued his foe, and adjusts a dial at the head of its grip. The alien then passes the wand over the human’s petrified form, scanning him from head to toe.
Inside his suspended body, Vincent can feel the wave of energy passing over his frame. He wouldn’t know it, but the invasive weapon was recording important information, such as his measurements; his weight and other vital data that would be useful to the Orions.
A few moments later, the hooded alien was joined by others. The helpless security guard, (still stiff as a board), would be hauled inside the former meat packing plant, where he would eventually rejoin his equally frozen partner . . .
Within a former processing room of Slaussen’s Meat plant, a handful of Orion scientists have gathered for a group session. Some are reviewing various charts, readouts, and samples. Still a few select others were now listening to yet another one of their comrade’s, “Did you ever hear about the stupid human?” jokes. Their light-spirited session is interrupted however, when Princess Theramea bursts through a set of swinging aluminum doors and enters the room.
“I hope this is worth my while,” warns the female in a critical tone. The pompous female flips her feathered boa up over her shoulder, before stomping her high-heeled boots forward in an arrogant manner.
“Greetings your highness,” welcomes one of the lab-coated males. It was Kiyar; the princess’s second in command on this particular ship. “I’m quite glad you could join us, Theramea. Please come and observe our latest specimens.”
The pretentious female steps forward to where two human males hover several feet above the floor. The men had been stripped down to their underwear, and their bodies were covered with various wires and electrodes. Both were suspended in body harnesses, which were made up of a series of durable, double-stitched straps. These nylon harnesses include: a belt that encompasses the waist; shoulder straps that wrap underneath the armpits and connect across the chest; and a set of elastic leg loops that encircle the upper thighs, just beneath the crotch. All of these straps emerge together into one main belt that runs up the back. This main belt connects to a spindle hook that’s bolted to the ceiling, allowing the victims to both hang and rotate freely.
To most, these restraints would appear to be something a rock climber might wear. To a few select others, it could bring to mind something that might be seen in a bondage shop!
Princess Theramea approaches the nearest human, with a noted look of disgust. The man was six feet tall, appeared to be in his forties, and was noticeably out of shape. The unfit human had a double chin, along with a beer gut that was creeping over the distended waistband of his boxer’s. His hair had thinned out into a wispy halo, and his bald dome seems to nearly gleam beneath the bright halogen lighting.
The arrogant female shakes her head in disgust and assesses, “A population of millions, and this is the best that you can do?”
Kiyar nervously answers, “But your highness, you’re merely judging the book by its cover. What is most important is what they can do for us…”
Theramea had already moved on to the next specimen. This one appeared to be in his early-to-mid twenties, and in contrast to his partner, had a much more muscular physique.
The male appeared to be of Italian descent, judging by his dark skin tone and thick black hair, (which was neatly shaved around the edges). He had a handsome face that hinted of a days growth of stubble, while his dark eyes, (much like his partner’s) stared intensely at the wall opposite.
Theramea reaches out to run a hand over the male’s bare chest, admiring his well-built pectorals, (all the while, being careful not to disconnect the electrodes that covered his nipples). Thoroughly appreciating the view before her, the alien allows her hand to wander further, running her fingertips over the bumps of his well-defined abs.
“When will they be ready?” the princess inquires with a noted sense of interest.
Kiyar replies, “As you know, level 2 reprogramming requires a minimum of twenty four hours. However, they should be nearing completion within the next few hours, or so.”
Theramea gives the ship captain a somewhat disappointed look. “You mean to tell me, that with all of this technology at your hands, you can’t give me a more precise answer?”
Kiyar abruptly snaps his fingers. One of his underlings jumps forward in haste and announces, “three hours; eleven minutes; twenty two seconds; and counting, your highness.”
In time, the technician’s estimation would prove to be precisely correct. However, his prompt reply would only fall on deaf ears. The princess seems to have already occupied herself elsewhere…
Theramea was now tracing the faint line of hair that ran from her captive’s navel, and disappeared down beneath the band of his athletic briefs. (The light gray drawers fit snug throughout the crotch, and the contours of the fabric clearly define the male’s thickness and length). The unorthodox leader cracks a deliciously evil smile, as she outlines the male’s sizable lump with the tips of her blood-red nails. It wasn’t long before she was compelled to pull back the waistband for a better look . . .
The trace of black hair that covers the male’s stomach was thicker and bushier, once it disappeared into his briefs. “Hmmm...” Theramea contemplates. The female continues to hold back the waistband with one hand, allowing herself free access with the other. The princess maneuvers her fingers around in his shorts, until his penis flops into view.
Mmm-hmmm, there it is…
Theramea assesses the weight of the human’s cock within her hand. It doesn’t take her long to make a judgement . . . Hmm not as has hefty as an Orion male’s - That’s too bad. The alien then bounces the appendage up and down within her palm a few times, before reaching in even deeper to cup his balls. She rolls them around within her fingertips, before finally concluding. I suppose he’ll have to do . . .
The female leader lets the unit drop back in place, before releasing the waistband. The stretched elastic immediately retracts with a crisp snap!
. . . Theramea abruptly turns, leaving Vincent Trillo swaying eerily about in the background.
“I want the younger one sent to my sleeping quarters, once you’ve finished,” advises the leader. “I want to give him a trial-run before we put him back on the street…”
Kiyar assures, “We’ll be sure to clean him up and send him over, your highness.”
Then, just as the princess is about to pass through the doors, the captain unexpectedly asks, “Your Highness…”
“Yes?” replies the princess before urging, “Quickly Kiyar; I have much business to attend to, and must teleport back to the mother ship!”
“The boy from the car that was in the field . . . Was he not good enough?”
Theramea pauses in thought for a moment, recalling the basketball player’s sexual performance. Then in a rather indifferent tone, the princess reveals, “Perhaps . . . But the female was far more giving, than he. …I trust that they’ve been dealt with by now?”
Kiyar assures, “Oh yes, your highness: the young male has been teamed up with the delivery van driver, while the blonde female has already been tanked.”
“Very well . . . As you were, gentlemen.”
As the double-hung doors swing closed behind the princess, Kiyar picks up his clipboard to finish comparing notes with the waiting technicians. In less than twelve hours, they would send former security guards Bruce Miller and Vincent Trillo, back out on the streets in a brand-new state of mind. But for now, they hang side-by-side in the background, with Vincent swaying eerily about, in slow semi-circles . . .