Playing golf with a psychic was like fumbling with an atomic bomb—if you got the football, you wanted to be sure that you knew what to do with it—otherwise, you could get buried under bodies. Gregson was in the presence of unlimited energy—a hybrid in full possession of his imagination with human nature as fickle as a feather blowing in the wind.
“Vick, I don’t know how I feel about you.”
“Most people don’t know—and they don’t know the world is going to end.”
“What?” Gregson asked.
“Tomorrow. Aliens gave me the Lazarus Vaccine, but it won’t do me any good—nuclear holocaust is coming.”
“How I see it—the President of the United States wakes up without his morning coffee. When that happens, several caffeinated members of his cabinet suggest the country is at war with China. He believes he has already been attacked, so he orders def-con 1. China sees the heat plumes coming from our nuclear submarines. They launch their orbital ICBM and destroy DC like Sodom and Gomorra. We launch, and like a fission reaction, other countries launch in exponential retaliation, until nothing breathes.”
“Can we prevent this?” Gregson asked.
“We need to talk to Cornel Weathers.”
When Gregson and Vick got to the pro shop, Weathers had already called a cab. He walked away from the pay phone, and sat in a booth.
“You don’t use a cell phone?” Gregson asked.
“Are you kidding—they can track you, if you have one of those. What are you boys still doing here?”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
With the beret off, Gregson noticed his crew cut and electric eyes. The Cornel had a scar running across his chin. He looked like Mel Gibson.
Is there a point to your visit?”
“Vick believes you can prevent the end of the world.”
The Cornel looked at the 70-year-old psychic, like he was reading his mind. They stared at each other, for over a minute.
“Can I tell him?” Vick asked.
“Go ahead,” Cornel Weathers said.
“Okay. Weathers works at Area 51. He was sent to this golf course to investigate me. Alien activity has escalated in the last few weeks—and the US Military believes, they are acting as a third party to instigate a nuclear war. If the human race is divided—we are no longer a threat. Probing has reached an all-time high. They are studying us.”
“Is there a connection between the murders in suburbia—and the alien probing?” Gregson asked.
“Yes—they want to study our motivations. They have been abducting military officials for years, but now they want to study the suburban male. He is the greatest threat.”
“Really?” Gregson asked. “All they do is watch TV.”
“Exactly—each one of them is just waiting for an alien invasion. They all want to be heroes—it’s sublimated—when the aliens come—it’ll be like a volcanic arms race. Aliens believe the suburban male has no fear. That’s why they shot that man on his riding lawn mower, and severed the vital organ on the captain of the football team. Apparently, most of male motivations come from our desire to have sex.”
“How did the aliens get close enough to kill him?” Gregson asked.
“You mean he had sex with aliens?”
“Yes—and they experimented on him, sexually—then they severed his manhood.”
Where did they take it?”
“That’s why you should always get a DNA Test before getting some strange,” Gregson said. “I thought the serial killer was University educated—and wanted to be male.
“Yes—the aliens are questioning their identity.”