Future Darkly: The Ghost Rocket

Roger sits alone in the empty field, boxers and a tinfoil cap on, pounding an energy drink while he bolts his homemade antenna onto the truck bed. He's yapping into the mic on his wrist about 2006 ghost-rocket sightings that the feds keep calling bullshit on. 'Until now, you sons of bitches!' he yells, slathers petroleum jelly on his pecs, jams earpieces in, fires up the rig and points it skyward. Static screams in his head until a blinding beam slams the antenna and melts it; Roger drops like a sack. Cut to the drive home—Roger cursing, chucking the ruined antenna out the window. Then brakes squeal. A smoking-hot woman in a skintight silver suit is planted dead-center in the road, hair whipping like a shampoo commercial. She slams her hands on his window and starts jabbering nonsense. He rolls it down. She pauses, computer-brain rewiring itself, then asks in English if she can climb in his ride and breed with him. He asks who she is; she waves the antenna he just tossed. 'I am responding to your signal. Breed with a human male—are you one?' He wants proof. She literally peels her face apart, shows him something that makes his nuts crawl into his throat. He throws his hands up, whimpering that yes, he's very much a human male. She snaps her human mask back on and tells him they need a breeding chamber fast. Roger's bedroom is four UFO posters, a mountain of printouts, and a squeaky air mattress. She steps in, sniffs the mess like it's a lab experiment, and declares human males primitive. Roger clears junk off the mattress; she orders his seed to jump-start her arousal, strips her top, plants his shaky hands on her bare tits. Feels like heaven. She yanks his cock out, fingers it like she's reading Braille, marveling at 'the fascinating human penis,' then swallows it whole. After a wet, noisy suck she climbs on and rides him hard; Roger's eyes roll back like he just won the lottery—until she flips the script and it's his turn to get probed.