Jay Jones: We’re back and taking your calls, here in the no-spin zone, on the Jay Jones show, midnight till dawn. This segment of our program comes courtesy of Brad Gashler Motors, where every day is deal day, and every month is sale month. As we take your calls, remember: there are no outer limits, just limits to vision. Brad Gashler agrees. Our first caller is Wayne. G’day Wayne…Wayne? Hello, Wayne? Wayne seems to have gone. Next, we have Gav on the line. Evening, Gav.
Jay Jones: You’re on air, Gav.
Gav: Oh! right. Good evening. I’m a first-time caller, but I’ve been listening…
Jay Jones: Gav, I can tell it’s your first time. You’ve got your radio running. We can’t talk till you turn it off, or right down.
Gav: Oh, sorry…Is that better?
Jay Jones: That’s fine, Gav. Now, what would you like to discuss this evening?
Gav: It’s in reference to that other caller, the one who was on about aliens…
Jay Jones: That could be one of a number of callers this evening.
Gav: I mean the bloke who rang in about the Roswell cover-up, and about that military officer who left a death bed confession…
Jay Jones: That was Rod, one of our fine regulars, who called in on that subject. Is there something you would like to add, Gav?
Gav: Well, the officer – I don’t know his name – says he saw bodies, alien bodies, as well as flying saucer debris…
Jay Jones: You’re talking about the late Lieutenant Walter Haut, who was the public relations officer at the Roswell base in 1947. And he saw a lot more than debris. He testified to seeing an entire vessel, in one of the hangars at Roswell.
Gav: Well, whatever. Now, two things I’d like to say. First, this officer was only a lieutenant, right? Secondly, if he was doing public relations out in the middle of nowhere, he was probably the type who wasn’t good for much…
Jay Jones: There’s no basis to those assumptions, Gav. I think you might be attacking the man not his point. But is there a point you wanted to get to?
Gav: Only this. There was a cover-up, but not of aliens. Because there are no such things.
Jay Jones: Okay, here in the no-spin zone we’re open to all opinions. Even though the rich and detailed literature concerning Roswell would seem to contradict what you’re saying. Anyway, Gav, enlighten us about this so-called alternative cover-up.
Gav: Well, it’s pretty straight forward. The aliens the lieutenant reckons he saw were just test dummies. The Americans made up a story about a crashed weather balloon to cover up something that went wrong with testing of some weaponry. There were some explosions that called attention to a sensitive project. Then a few nutters started up rumours about aliens. So the military covered up everything with a lame story about a weather balloon crash. Cold War was going on, right? This PR officer wouldn’t have had a clue. He was low rank, and good for latrine duties and form-filling. But your caller, this Rod bloke, and all the unemployed insomniac sheeple who listen to this program…
Jay Jones: Afraid I had to cut you off there, Gav. We don’t mind so much that you’re contemptuous of some very fine people, but if you can’t even bother to study the subject or even get a little basic information before launching your verbal attacks, then we can’t afford to sacrifice valuable air time for you. We’ll go to our next caller, who is Tibor. G’day Tibor.
Tibor: G’day, Jay. I’m a bit nervous, but I’ve been wanting to ring in for a long time. Firstly, I love your show.
Jay Jones: Why, thank you, Tibor.
Tibor: When I came out from Hungary, thirty years ago, I used to listen to you when you were on the other station, and I loved you then.
Jay Jones: That’s very kind of you.
Tibor: I learned English listening to you. Your voice is very clear. Many new migrants like certain personalities on radio because of their voices. It’s the clearness…or the…I can’t think of the word…
Jay Jones: Diction?
Tibor: That’s it. Diction. But I listened always to you because the topics were interesting, and you have deep understanding of history and how things work under the surface. Anyway, I got your book, and I was reading the bit about how Pope Benedict, or maybe someone soon after him, will be the second last Pope, because Peter the Roman will be the last, and then the New World Order…
Jay Jones: Oh, you must be on a mobile there. The signal is breaking up, I’m afraid, Tibor. We’ll put you back to the switch and see if we can’t get you a better line. The book Tibor mentioned is Templars of the Third Millennium, available now on Kindle. Glad you’re enjoying it, Tibor. Meanwhile, I think we have Wayne back on the line. Hello, Wayne?
Wayne: G’day, Jay. Are you there?
Jay Jones: Yes, Wayne. Go ahead. What can we do for you?
Wayne: I want to do something for your listeners. I want to set them straight about aliens. I want them to know, because it’s urgent. Aliens don’t look like…you know…small, skinny, bald people, with bulbous craniums…
Jay Jones: I hope you’re not going to say they’re big with tentacles and scaly skin…
Wayne: That’s beside the point, Jay. All that appearance stuff is missing the point. You need to hear me out.
Jay Jones: I sense you could be a bit, shall we say, tired and emotional, Wayne. Why don’t I pass you back to the switch and we can get your full contact…
Wayne: No way. I’m on a public phone. No contacts, no addresses. And Wayne’s not my real name. But please don’t cut me off!
Jay Jones: Well, Wayne, why not tell us your actual name, at least. That way, we’ll both feel more comfortable. And I won’t cut you off. You have friends here in the no-spin zone, people with open minds.
Wayne: I can’t identify myself, Jay. I can’t let them know where I am or who I am. I know I’m a bit drunk, but that’s part of the story…That’s the mistake they made: me being a drunk. Promise you won’t cut me off! I won’t swear, or anything like that.
John Jay: We have to take a message from our sponsor in a few minutes, Wayne; but we’ll listen till then. Tell us what aliens look like and how you know.
Wayne: Aliens look like me. I am an alien – or was meant to be.
Jay Jones: You’re an alien? Or someone who was meant to be an alien? How can that be, Wayne?
Wayne: Because aliens are body snatchers, to use a popular term. And I’ve been snatched. Like a lot of other people. Right? Are you hearing me? I don’t care if people are laughing, so long as someone is hearing me, and not just hearing, but listening.
Jay Jones: We are hearing and listening. And nobody is laughing at you, Wayne. This is the no-spin zone: minds are always open here, but we only have limited time. If I could just put you back to the switch and get your contacts…
Wayne: No! But do you know what a body snatch really consists of?
Jay Jones: Why don’t you fill us in, Wayne?
Wayne: After we called attention to ourselves, starting in Alamogordo in 1945, certain very advanced life forms have been installing their minds on top of ours…or meshing them…or…Look, it’s like an operating system on a computer. You uninstall Windows and install Linux. The computer is the same, the software is completely different.
Jay Jones: So, you’re saying that the victim’s mind is simply wiped, like a hard drive?
Wayne: It’s worse than that…more sophisticated. The original mind is still needed, obviously, with all its acquired memory, personality, education, traits, habits and so on. But it’s in a partition, for reference. It’s just file storage! The person is effectively dead. The alien is alive, and moving with a purpose, along with other aliens.
Jay Jones: Wayne, we barely have a minute. It’s clear you need a bit of assistance, so why not…?
Wayne: You know about the F-S Scale?
Jay Jones: The what scale?
Wayne: The Friedlander-Sarbin Scale: the old testing scale for hypnosis. The more suggestible and responsive you were, by twelve strictly defined criteria, the higher you went on the scale. The aliens turned our own science on us. Or tried to. You see, in the very beginning, they had to take what they could get, to establish some kind of base. It’s not like in the old black and white movies where the aliens just take over: there’s huge variation in subject suitability. So their invasion was a messy affair, like most colonial thrusts: they abducted at random because they had no choice, no critical mass of bodies to facilitate more takeovers. They had to discard most subjects before they could even make a start on them. Finally, they had some luck with good hypnosis subjects, who had been participants in one of those hypnosis shows which were popular in the sixties. So the alien researchers worked out that F-S might be a reliable basis for selection. Then came the rush: aliens got hold of medical hypnosis files, the best source of registered hypnosis subjects. They paid burglars, made out it was for blackmail and so on. No commonsense! It never occurred to them that most of us were patients: addicts, compulsives, people with mental and nervous problems. They thought they were picking from the top, they were picking from the bottom. They got my file from an alcohol detox, of all places. I was a twelve out of twelve on the F-S Scale; my high IQ made me even more suitable. But I was an alcoholic!
Jay Jones: So why are you telling us this now? One would assume aliens weren’t keen to reveal themselves, go public in this fashion, whether or not you are alcoholic…
Wayne: Because I’m defective. In the early days, the technology was too raw. Alien scientists are like human scientists, always claiming to know more than they do, always wanting to get published. Selecting and reprogramming were being done according to psychological testing worked out by humans back in the 1930s, and for a completely different purpose. There were stuff-ups galore, but, after all the academic fuss over discovering the value of F-S records, their experts kept insisting they knew what they were doing! The aliens actually worked on me while I was drunk!
Jay Jones: We have only a few seconds left, I’d love to pass you to our switch and get your contacts…
Wayne: They’ve improved the snatching technology out of sight. It’s near perfect now. But the old, early snatch jobs were done without taking into account things like…well, like alcoholism. I’m still alive as a human, while the alien stuff is is afloat in my brain. I have some of their knowledge and awareness, but my own original consciousness. It’s hard to explain if you’re not in my skin, but I know far, far too much. People like me, the faulty ones, have got to be rounded up, cleansed…
Jay Jones: Come now, Wayne, if anyone wanted to invade our planet – and here in the no-spin zone we don’t deny that possibility – it wouldn’t be by such a tedious process, surely.
Wayne: They’re aliens, Jay! Utterly different life-forms. Utterly! Forget carbon, forget organs as we know them. Intelligence is the only marker they have in common with us. This is the only way for them. They can’t just roll up in their space vehicles like the Jetsons. For God’s sake, they’re the size of microbes!
Jay Jones: Wayne, why not let us help you? I’ll put you back to the switch and our friendly staff can take your details…
Wayne: Why do you want my details, why do you want to contact me?
Jay Jones: To help you, Wayne. Because you’re a human being, you’re one of our valued listeners and you’re clearly distressed.
Wayne: You normally just cut people off. Why are you letting me talk and talk? Why do you want my contacts? Unless…unless you…
Jay Jones: Looks like we’ve lost Wayne. If you’re still listening, Wayne, you have friends here in the no-spin zone. We’d love to hear from you again, help out any way we can…Meanwhile, our friend Tibor is back – on a better line, I hope. Hello again, Tibor. Whoops, it seems I lost track of time. I’ll have to put Tibor on hold while we listen to this important announcement from Brad Gashler Motors.
“So, Kyles, what did you think of the night’s show?”
The sun was peeping through the curtains of the 2WK boardroom, as Jay Jones and his producer, Kylie Crane, sat enjoying their traditional Saturday morning beer. It was, after all, the end of their working week.
“It was great. Only…you did go on into advertising time with the drunk. What went wrong? You’ve never missed a cue in your life, as they tell me.”
“Ah, I’m mellowing. I really did feel for that Wayne guy. And he seemed fairly articulate, fairly intelligent, in spite of the booze.”
“You get those people all the time, Jay. You’re an expert at losing them. We had to run a Brad Gashler commercial out of whack. It’s just as well Brad never listens.”
“Don’t worry about Brad Gashler. I’ll get him some Tina Arena tickets from Sony. A rugby playing car dealer…bound to be gay.”
“Anyway, we’re still rating well enough, which is the main thing. Another beer?”
“No, thanks. These dog watch shifts kill me by the end of a week. It’s age, Kyles. I’ll see you Monday.”
“See you then, old feller.”
Jay made his way out to the secure parking. The guard who worked all Jay’s shifts, by special arrangement with management, was waiting out by Jay’s Lexus.
“How did the night go, Max?”
“Good. All good. Thanks to you taking some extra time on a call, our friends were able to trace a certain person, then settle a certain matter.”
“I knew they would. Sorry I had to do it that way. Normally we stop those callers at the switchboard, but this guy was smart, insisted on going to air and staying anonymous. I couldn’t afford to lose him. Never mind what he said on air about the F-S Scale – it’ll get more of them calling in. With luck, most will just keep on giving their contact details at the switch. At least, that’s the plan.”
“Well, you did right.”
“Max, is this security work getting you down?”
“It’s not my favourite job. But it’s what I signed up for. You probably don’t need guarding, but it shows how important you’ve become, that someone senior like me is on your tail at all times. How do you feel about your job, Jay?”
“It’s what I signed up for. And it’s an ideal position to do what needs doing. Where else could I get them to come to us?”
“How many of them are left out there, Jay?”
“Far too many. Thousands of alcoholics and compulsives, some of them drunk or high when reprogrammed, still largely human, with tendencies to drift between addresses or go missing…what a mess! Our early colonists were a staunch lot. But whoever came up with the idea of using the bloody F-S Scale for something as tricky as selection for reprogramming would have to rate as the biggest short-cutter in the history of science. How scientific do you need to be to realise that humans with extensive records of medical hypnosis are people with big head problems? I mean to say…
“Weren’t we supposed to be the bloody advanced species?”