Ginnie's Visitors

I don’t know why I’m writing this all down, now, after all these years. It seems like it could cause more trouble than it’s worth to folks who don’t need that sort of trouble. I mean, official folks poking their noses into people’s business, and all those nutjobs who... well. I guess some of them aren’t nutjobs after all, but I wouldn’t be able to figure the difference between the real ones like me, and the ones who’ve had funky ‘just-on-the-edge-of-sleep’ dreams and stuff, and the ones who really are nutjobs and have made it all up in their own heads.

Some of those ones get violent if you don’t believe them, either. I went to a couple of their conventions, after it all happened, just to listen to what other folks had to say. Most of it seems to be crap, but, hey, that’s what people are like, right? I learned really fast just to smile and nod, and get away as quick as I could.

I’m glad I never told anyone the story. I see how people react to them, on TV and stuff. Even some of the ones who might be telling the truth, who just saw something are treated like pariahs, told they’re on drugs, or whatever.

But I know what happened to me. I have proof, stuff that those military guys would probably just love to get their hands on.

And I have a promise. It’s coming due, soon, too. Which may be why I’m writing this all down, so when I disappear there’ll be someone who knows why. I don’t know why I figure you, of all people, will believe me, but something tells me you’re a good choice. Especially since you’re the one who’ll come looking for me first. You’ve always been my best friend.

I’ll miss you when I’m gone, but someone has to stay to look after things. It’s all yours now. You’re a good worker, you love them, and you’re a vet, like me.

Here’s a copy of my will, by the way. It’s in this same envelope. I’ve set up a trust for you to get money now, then, in seven years, you can have me declared dead, and everything goes to you for good. Try to keep the place running, if you can. It may not be a big place, but it does a lot of good. That’s all we can do, really, is try to make the world a better place. If I’ve done it by rehabilitating wild animals, that’s my thing.

Watch out for Georgie. He still hates everyone, and will try to take your hand off when you feed him if you’re not careful. There’s a list here of who’s left - I’ve tried to get most of them out to other homes, but a few aren’t placeable, like Georgie. Even the zoos don’t want him. Not even for breeding. Can’t blame them, really. He can’t fly, he can’t hunt, and he gets his jollies by trying to get us instead.

Look. Here I’m off track again. I was going to tell you my story.

Once upon a time, I rescued an alien. Not an illegal alien from some other country, either. A real honest-to-God space alien. Here’s how it happened...

The End

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