GONZO REPORT: The Dairy Farm Slayings… [Updated, edited…]

NOTE: As editor of Hyannis News I must warn my readers that what you are about to read is the work of reckless clowns. I affectionately refer to them as the “Hyannis News Gonzo Team,” since they loosely remind me of the late great Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, at least to the extent of them being perpetually past deadline, often sending in scribbling on torn notebook pages… In my opinion, their latest past deadline report is complete rubbish, but I still have to honor our contract and publish this malarkey. My apologies in advance. Please read the following at your own risk. ~ Robert Bastille, HyannisNews.com

I. Day one: The summons.

We owed Hyannis News a “Gonzo Report,” since I vaguely recall concluding some terms while drinking with its editor sometime this past winter.

Calling us “Gonzo” was his idea. While Bastille, the HN guy, considers me a freak of nature, I actually consider myself a rather levelheaded mainstream freelancer, albeit my style tends to be breezy… I’d hardly classify myself or my partner as “out there” in terms of content or style.

Whatever. It’s a gig. I came here looking for work and I’ll leave looking for work, that’s my philosophy…

Lets meet the “Gonzo Team,” shall we? Shasta, my partner, was recently released from a high security lockup for the criminally insane – Okay that’s not completely accurate, it was just a thirty-day drug rehab, from which she walked away after the first week. I was waiting in a getaway car down the street. The entire escape went as planned, however I couldn’t help feeling she maybe should have stuck around for at least another week or two in order to benefit more from the program. But, according to her, she had already accomplished a great deal of inner growth.

Shasta claims to be completely cured. She professes to be totally off needles and only occasionally sniffs pills for purely recreational purposes.

She looks good and seemingly has her act together this time. Shasta now meditates daily and yearns to reach a state of total enlightenment.

Before rehab, Shasta tried to reach enlightenment the hard way, with 5 or 6 Xanex and wine cooler chasers… which landed her in the back of an ambulance with a nostril full of Narcan. Followed by an investigation and arrest which eventually led to her aforementioned trip to rehab…

But aside from all that, Shasta now possesses a bear-trap grip on reality. It’s amazing what a little bit of court adjudicated therapy will do for those who really want it.

Shasta’s my closest friend. She’s 5′ 4”, thin, long jet black hair, and a ball of non-stop energy. A friend once described her as the product of two daily packs of smokes, with perpetual black coffee refills on an empty stomach. Thin, edgy, a raspy voice and the vocab of a trucker… Prime real estate, once pale white skin covered with serpent tattoos… Her tattoo sleeve covers an entire bony right arm… She swears my name is in there someplace, although I’ve never been able to make it out, she still promises it’s in there…

Shasta has my back. Although, I doubt we’ll ever get married and ruin things like most people…

… she just showed up one day and started hanging out… and has been around ever since… and she seldom natters about stupid stuff like most women… I love that about her.

Anyways, that’s Shasta… she’s pretty cool.

We were past our deadline, driving through the sand dunes on our way back from Race Point the other day, where our editor, Mr. Know-It-All, assured he’d be waiting with further instructions concerning our next assignment – Shasta was bull-[bleeped] because we should had been there the day before – when all of sudden all hell broke loose!

II. The sighting…

Shasta was viciously stabbing me with her Iphone, screaming “WHAT THE [BLEEP]” after I suddenly slammed the brakes. Luckily for me, she had been texting on a relatively dull device… had it been any sleeker or sharper, I’d be a goner.

The rear view mirror reflected two hairy primates holding hands. They had been hitchhiking while wearing nothing but matching hot-pink neon Speedo bathing suits… and were now walking in our direction. Shasta couldn’t believe her eyes.

They were burly primates, over six feet tall, and bearded. Were these runaway misfits from the cruel backroom monkey experiments I’ve been hearing so much about in recent years?

Rumors of cruel diabolical experiments and terrifying sightings of deformed monkey-like humanoids in the dunes surrounding Provincetown and North Truro…

Up until now there hadn’t been video nor photographic proof…

Shasta instinctively grabbed her camera and stumbled out onto the pavement, squinting, trying to get a clearer look despite the blinding midday sun. She managed to quickly snap a few shots. Shots most likely washed out by the position of the sun…

I grabbed a baseball bat in case they became violent.

Precious, our tormented doberman pincher, was oblivious in the back seat, growling and gnawing on a dead seagull he found when Shasta jumped out and threw up back near exit 9. He nearly bit Shasta when she reached to grab it from him. I wanted to fight him and impose my will, showing him who was the Alpha in our small pack, but Shasta stepped in and stopped me from pummeling him to death over a rancid dead bird. It was another stupid move on her part because now Precious was completely preoccupied with his road kill and useless to us as a vicious guard dog. (Women, they always side with the dog… it’s her fault he’s now ruined…)

The hitchhiking primates approached and began speaking in what sounded like high-pitched English…

… upon closer inspection, I learned they weren’t deformed monkeys, but instead a bear-like gay couple on their way back to Commercial Street.

I quickly tossed the bat into the back seat, accidently hitting Precious and drawing a foamy snarl… I didn’t want the couple to think I was planning to use the monkey bat on them. I don’t think they noticed, or at least they tried not to show it.

You can imagine my utter disappointment at no longer having a freaky photo op…

“Dammit Shasta, they’re just humans. Get in… let’s go!”

Shasta didn’t listen, which is not unusual.

III. All aboard, next stop, P-Town…

“Hi!” Shasta staggered towards the lovebirds with open arms, embracing both like long lost buddies. “Oh my gawd! You guys! Out here hitching wearing banana hammocks! Too funny! C’mon, hop in… there’s room. Oh don’t worry… that’s Precious, he’s sort of friendly, just don’t make any sudden moves or touch his seagull…”

Jerry was the talkative one, but it was David who captured my imagination, after learning he too had heard monkey rumors… He wasn’t from the area, but he did know of one guy who might possibly be able to tell us more.

Somehow, by not meeting our fearless editor-in-chief, we lucked out and managed to find a new purpose, an assignment with cataclysmic possibilities. Nothing gets readers more excited than a good full-blown cataclysm.

Jerry and Dave refused troubling us with driving through the miserable Commercial Street fleshpot of pedestrian traffic… so we dropped them at a nearby grocery store, several blocks from their hotel. Dave needed to stock up for a 24-hour Doctor Oz fruit cleanse. Jerry was more concerned about wine and took off running toward a nearby package store, after pledging to “friend” Shasta on facebook…

I was briefly curious how Dave and Jerry were going to pay for their new provisions and was about to ask since they only had running shoes, Speedos, and the burdens of life’s mortal coils… On second thought, I decided to not to ask, realizing a person like Dave would definitely have a credit card tucked away someplace… and where David hid his plastic instruments of monetary exchange was really none of my concern.

I was closing in on a story and couldn’t care less about the habits of two typical P-Town tourists…

We said farewells, and Dave pointed us in the direction of Luke, the man who might know more about the monkeys.

IV. Luke the biker…

We found Luke under a camper in North Truro. He was busy removing rusty leaf springs and needed an out-of-reach grinder he was using as a “poor man’s” cut-off tool. I reluctantly got my hands dirty and handed him the grinder. Luke wasn’t about to talk about anything until he finished…

Surprisingly, the grinder worked perfectly.

Luke is a giant rotund bald man with the largest forearms I’ve ever seen… ‘nough said. I wasn’t about to pressure him into talking before he was good and ready.

When finished, Luke bellied up to an overturned wooden high-tension wire spool that now doubled as an outside table with a small portable refrigerator on top. “Beer?” he offered – who was I to decline his hospitality?

Several beers later, and at least two pills for shasta, listening to Luke’s riveting tale, Shasta and I learned things – horrifying things – which cut deeply into our false senses of security. We haven’t been the same since. [Dear readers: At this point it’s not too late to turn back and stop reading… you’ve been warned.]

V. An abandoned Air Force Base…

The first thing Luke growled about was that he never EVER would go back there, and warned us not to bother asking…

Here this hulking biker, with his beer and “poor man’s” cut off tool, was shaking like a hypoglycemic Chihuahua as he told us about incredible happenings he believed ultimately led to the closing of Truro Air Force Base…

The base at Truro’s Coast Guard Beach, the outer limits of our nation, was built up during the Cold War to warn us of an incoming Russian attack.

According to Luke, the Base was once a booming microcosm, complete with it’s own baseball field and gated family neighborhood.

Rules were strict, however, and some personnel rented apartments off base in order to have more freedom on their days off. There were drinking parties where Air Force men let their guard down, broke security clearances, and told stories about things witnessed while on duty…

The average American, which included myself, has no clue about the real dangers that lurk just beyond our boarders… and not just earthly boarders, but boarders in the multidimensional, between here and outer space! The men on lookout at the Truro Air Force had seen their share…

The problems began when the men off base began sharing stories regarding UFOs and extraterrestrials. These were things they hardly understood and were sternly ordered never to divulge.

Luke spoke of an owner of small cottages on an old dairy farm near the base. The dairy farm had closed and he needed income. He rented his cottages at low prices. For the men on base, the cottages were a great deal…

The stories and recollections grew with the new freedoms found while drinking inside these small, but comfortable, dairy farm shanties. The discussions began to stimulate the servicemen’s memories. Repressed or forgotten encounters, lost time, black outs, and abduction tales where only the beginning of their troubles…

There was talk about alien trades, where the US Government traded captured aliens for abducted US citizens, some of whom were high-ranking servicemen from the inner workings of the Department of Defense!

Discussions arose regarding alien infiltration, an alien spy ring on base amongst legitimate members of our US Air Force. This was considerably troubling, officers and others on base at Truro had some of the highest security clearances in the country… the whole thing was a National disaster just waiting to happen…

The crisis came to a head in the late ’60s when the groups at the dairy farm shanties began attracting the attention of upper Air Force “leadership.” The men couldn’t prove it, but felt the scrutiny of their superiors when the returned to work. Their superiors had information that must have been leaked.

One night in particular, a highly intoxicated member of this renegade dairy farm group violently took matters into his own hands.

In those days, the Truro Police Department was lucky to have a patrolman on during the overnight, even luckier to have one actually able to leave the station and get out and patrol. Lets just say it took most of the police in all surrounding towns to handle the events of September 16th, 1968.

It all started as a memorable yet quiet Monday, the evening Richard Nixon appeared on the hit television show “Laugh-in.” The following is an actual clip of Nixon’s unprecedented appearance on the popular late ’60s comedy hit:

VI. Monday September 16, 1968…

A man named Richard Sears became convinced a member of the dairy farm group, of which he also was a member, was actually an alien spy.

The more Sears realized the truth, the more he lost the ability to trust and he eventually was unable to trust anyone at all. The penalties for divulging what he knew extended far beyond Air Force laws regarding security clearances. Sears believed this alien spy had heard too much and was reporting back to powers outside of the group. There would be consequences and he knew he would be tortured again… the flashbacks of his previous abductions became clearer. The strain on his mind was reaching the breaking point.

But Luke the biker was reluctant to describe Sear’s heightened state as paranoia…

One definition of paranoia is “the baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others.” What Sears sensed was anything but baseless. Luke believed, and in fact knew, that Sears was not battling paranoia, but rather a very real and cruel enemy.

After much deliberation and doubt, Sears knew he needed an ally and eventually confided in a close friend named Lars Anderson.

It was a move which sealed his fate.

The evening of September 16 started like most nights for the dairy farm group. Liquor was flowing, girls were called… it was a time to unwind and cut loose from the pressures of being our nation’s first alert system during the high pressure covert cold war with the Soviets. It also was a time to forget all about the aliens, our other enemies, who came and left as they pleased…

… but men being men, and booze being booze, tongues began to wag.

Sears told Anderson he knew aliens had, in fact, taken over the base; that there were spies, with at least one spy in their dairy farm group.

There’s no doubt Sears was completely blindsided by the impending betrayal. Anderson knew exactly how to play him and what buttons to push. He should know, he had been monitoring Sear’s inner thoughts and workings ever since he helped instal the monitoring devices. Sears was not suppose to have cognitive recollections of the surgeries and invasions upon his innermost thoughts and workings, but occasionally the experiments took an unusual turn. Those who had been once abducted sometimes slowly began to realize what had actually occurred, that they were in fact human Guinea pigs, subjugated and experimented on by agents from another planet.

Glitches occasionally happened, it was a situation Anderson knew all to well, and was thoroughly trained to deal with. Anderson, was a highly trained and highly skilled deep cover alien spy. His human cover and disguise was beyond reproach. Whatever hopes Sears had of exposing his captors and taking back the base ended when he trusted Anderson, a man he had thought he had known for nearly a decade. Once Sears confided, thus alerting Anderson of the full extent of the memory suppression glitch, it was checkmate, game over…

The alien forces now in charge of the base were masters at espionage and manipulation. They were mathematical geniuses, able to look far ahead of the most intelligent human beings. Their command of likely permutations and probability left them highly prepared for nearly every eventuality. The alien spy ring knew the probability of someone in the dairy farm group beginning to get a glimpse of what really was happening. In fact they had predicted the likelihood of glitches long before the group ever formed. As a precaution, deep cover alien operatives had been strategically placed as early as basic training for most of the servicemen. There’s no way to describe nor fathom the depths of thought and planning that went into maintaining complete control over their human captives.

VII. The Dairy Farm Slayings…

[Too be continued….]

The following are some photo highlights of the scene when we followed up on Luke’s testimony and went onto the abandoned Truro Air Force Base to investigate… there will be more about the slayings, what we saw, and what we learned… next time…