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A classified FBI file recently obtained by Recoil appears to verify what suspected alien life form and cultural icon Dick Bill has claimed for nearly a decade: that he was in fact abducted by an alien spacecraft after passing out in a Marne, Mich., cornfield trying to finish the keg from a bonfire party during the summer of 1995. Among the documents and photos constituting the dossier is a 10-page journal penned by Dick that documents his seven-day ordeal. Though a great portion of the journal remains illegible even to the author, excerpts of the account have been printed below along with a shocking photo that goes a long way toward backing up Dick's story.
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Experts are widely disputing the authenticity of this photo of Dick Bill (right) and what appears to be an alien being outside the 4 Queens Hotel in Las Vegas. Skeptics argue that the photo can not be real because Dick Bill is pictured without a beer in his hand.
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DAY ONE
Woke up not knowing where I was this morning, which in itself is not all that alarming, but it seems that whatever I did last night has resulted in my either being abducted by aliens or having joined the strangest road band I've ever been in. Well, second strangest. When I came to I was stark naked with a needle in my arm (again, not exactly a rare occurrence). I eventually realized that visitors from another planet had strapped me to a bench and were trying to drug me, bless their little green hearts. The injections stopped after seven or eight hours, unfortunately; seems their chemistry team was unable to find the right combination of drugs that will paralyze me so they can get their probe on, so to speak. (Finally, a plus side to having developed a tolerance for every known chemical!) I told them that if they want me numbed up and unable to walk they could just drop me off at Mulligan's for an hour with twenty bucks and I'd take care of it myself, but they seem to want to do things by the book around here. After my sticking session a handler escorted me into a holding cell not entirely dissimilar to Kent County's accommodations, but they did let me keep my shoelaces. These laces may come in handy, because if these squares can't jam a better concoction up my arm pretty soon I may break down and try to smoke the goddamned things.
DAY TWO
After wrapping up another unfruitful eight-hour injection session, my handler was escorting me back to my holding cell when I asked him about his tattoo (a Star Trek emblem on his left pec). We got to talking and found out we actually had a lot in common. Turns out my handler - whom I've nicknamed "Joey" because his thin body style and leather jacket-like skin reminds me of Joey Ramone (and because I kept mispronouncing the fourteenth syllable of his real name) - plays nuclear bass guitar for a post-punk death ska band called We've Come For Your Water. Good name! I told him I could probably get them booked into the Intersection on their next intergalactic tour. We ended up going back to his quarters so he could get me a demo, where I took the opportunity to ask him why Steve Vai's Flex-Able album is constantly being blasted at top volume over the ship's sound system. Joey told me that although the ship is outfitted with intergalactic satellite radio and a 5,000,000-CD changer, nobody really understands how to work the system, so they've just been putting up with it for the last 400 years (they think somebody accidentally hit the "repeat" button while trying to realign the main sensor array shortly after takeoff from their homeworld). I suggested that Joey replicate us a case of Labatt Blue Light and whatever martian party favors are currently in fashion and we go have a look at that system because, really, you can only hear "Little Green Men" so many times, you know. We spent the next few hours on the bridge, throwing back beers with the rest of the crew and fucking with the ship's wiring. I eventually located the CD changer and discovered the problem (it contained 5,000,000 copies of Flex-Able), drawing great praise from the crew. We quickly voted to spin GWAR's Scumdogs of the Universe and increase our rate of alcohol consumption to a level far beyond normal parameters.
DAY THREE
We must have partied pretty hard on the bridge last night because when I woke up this morning I was behind the wheel and Joey and the rest of the crew were passed out on the ceiling. We also appear to have landed on Fremont Street in Las Vegas. This can only get more interesting...
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