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Don’t Really Own No Elves (standard:humor, 1991 words)
Author: Reid LaurenceAdded: Mar 28 2007Views/Reads: 2172/1360Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Just what kind of government research goes on while we're busy doing that 9 to 5? Is it a good thing, or bad? A help, or a hindrance? Read on and find out...

“Good morning Lieutenant. General Nailem said you'd give me a
demonstration today. You must know how patiently the public's been 
waiting for more information on the new unmanned drones you've been 
flying. I hear they've become real weapons of war.” 

“Now hold on sonny. Wait one minute here... You from the newspaper or
somethin'? Show me some credentials.” 

“I have clearance sir. I thought you would have been informed by now.” 

“Jus' the same, I wanna see ‘em fur mahself. Hold ‘em out, or I ain't
gonna show the crap stains on the latrines, got it. They's a big ass 
mess out there in Irune, so I gotta be as careful as a hiker on a horse 
trail, get what ah mean?” 

“I understand,” I replied, with some hesitation. Surprised that the
officer in charge had no prior knowledge of my arrival. “Here you are,” 
I continued, offering him my wallet in a gesture of respect and 
admiration for our fighting forces. 

“Hmm... says here yer Reid Laurence from ‘The Great Informant'. That

“That's right sir.” 

“You gonna take pictures?” he said, noticing the camera I wore hanging
around my neck. 

“Yes, I planned on taking some if that's alright with you.” 

“As long as ya get mah good side, yer as welcome as a chicken on a hog

“I'm not sure I understand sir.” 

“Don't worry ‘bout it,” said the thin, wiry officer named Figbee. “Jus
follow me.” And without further ado, I found myself walking after the 
man who unbeknownst to me, was about to open up a whole new world that 
I had never in my wildest dreams thought possible. Never, that is, 
until that one odd fraction of time in my life, when fact and fiction 
seemed to meld together in a great tilt-a-whirl of strange but true 
fantasy, which this day, I've written down just for you and for the 
good of all... 

“Well,” began my tobacco chewing guide, spitting and clearing his throat
before speaking the rest of his explanation. “This here's it.” 

“What? I don't get it,” I answered. “What is ‘It'?” I asked, unaware
that I was standing at the very epicenter of modern technical thought 
and contrivance. 

“This here's where we test it.” 

“Test what?” 

“The dad burn Predator ya come ta see, that's what. Less ya don't wanna
see it no more. I kin always take ya back.” 

“No, no,” I blurted out. “I want to see it very much. Where is it?” 

“Whaddaya think? In the hanger over yonder, that's where,” he said,
pointing to a large metal building not far from where we stood. “Ya 
don't think we leave it layin' ‘round in the field here, do ya?” 

“No, of course not. Hey, this is great!” I exclaimed. “I can hardly wait
to see it.” 

“Well ya don't got long ta wait then sonny,” said the Lieutenant, as he
inadvertently targeted my new shoes with a well placed splat of saliva 
mixed with tobacco juice. “There she is,” he added, as he opened the 
two large metal doors of the downsized hanger, used to house the Air 
Forces' new secret weapon; The Predator Carrera 911. 

“Wow, that is soo cool,” I said, upon seeing the bold, stylish small
plane for the first time. “What does it use for power?” I asked 

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