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Dude, Where’s My Alien? “Desert Hunt”

July 29, 2010

Sunrise slices colorful bursts across the desert landscape. A harsh breeze kicks up a patch of sand.  Beyond the swirling sand…movement.


Agent Bob emerges out of the dust, dressed in fatigues and sand-streaked war paint. He doubles over.

“Damn, I swallowed a bucket of sand! Cough. Cough.”

“Then why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” Mutters Agent Simon Sez, draped in identical guerilla garb.

“Why are we here, Simon? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I got a lead.”

“You said we’d capture drug runners.” He shakes his head. “Shoulda’ known this was about Tio Pancho. Did you bring your canteen?”

Simon slaps his hip while eyeing the GPS. No dangling canteen.

“No water? Dude, we’re in the middle of the effing desert!”

“Calm down. If Tio Pancho can survive out here, we can, too.”

Bob rolls his eyes.  “Oy.” He grabs his radio…

Simon snatches it from his hand, throws it out into the desert. SMASH!

“Have you lost your mind? I’m heading back to the jeep.” Suddenly, Bob stops, turns. “Where’d you park the jeep?”


Agent Simon and Agent Bob lay sprawled on the desolate ground, fighting for inches of shade provided by an eight-foot cactus. The blazing sun sears their skin like bacon. Bob spits out yet more sand.

“Dude, if I had the energy, I’d kick your ass.”

“My source is reliable,” Simon says with conviction, “For real, dude.”

“I don’t want those to be the last words I hear in this world.”


“What the…?”

A paletero rolls his ice cream cart forward. “Jou want ice cream, Senor?”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Bob jumps up.

BANG! BANG! BANG! Shots fired!

Simon, Bob and the paletero drop to the ground. A jeep stuffed with drug runners races towards them.

“Let me do the talking,” Simon says.

“I no tink dat a goot idea, Senor.” Paletero says.

“Listen to the ice cream man, Simon. Keep your mouth shut.”

Simon hops to his feet, flashes his badge at the approaching drug runners. “Federal Agent Simon. Stop where you are, drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

Bob and Paletero groan.

The criminals glance at each other. Laughter echos through the desert.


The trio lie hog tied on the ground beside the same eight-foot cactus. The sun continues to blaze mercilessly.  Duct tape sits strapped over Agent Simon’s mouth.

Drug runners finish off the last of the ice cream.

Bob turns to Paletero. “How long before they kill us?”

“I tink after ice cream sandweeches.”

Simon grunts. Grunts again.

Resigned to his fate, Bob scoots his body under a few precious inches of cactus shade. Suddenly, a shadow drapes over him…he squints up and sees…

The top of the cactus floats up in the air. From inside the body of the cactus, pops out…

Tio Pancho?!

Bob blinks, blinks again.

A drug runner marches towards the captives.

PLOOP! Tio Pancho disappears back inside the cactus. Cactus hat slams back on.

Drug runner points his gun. CLICK! “Who wants to die first?”

To be continued…

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