Secret Identity

I have a confession to make. 

I’m not who you think I am.

I know you’ve always thought of me as mild mannered. An average homemaker. A failed farmer. Even a conspiracy theorist. A little too sensitive at times, and a bit naïve at others. Perfect. That’s exactly what I wanted you to think. You can’t have a successful psyop if everyone knows your game plan.

But in keeping with my dedication to humanity, I think the time has come to reveal my true identity to a select few. It doesn’t come without a lot of soul searching. This is a risky move. Some of you will be unbelievers and that’s okay. I can handle it. Just know I’m doing this for you.

I am the Commander of a time traveling spacecraft. Last week, during a critical and dangerous mission, my Co-Commander and I saved the planet Jupiter from certain destruction. You can see how significant to the safety of the galaxy we are. We alone are bringing you world peace. You’re welcome.

We entered a portal in my exquisitely equipped C.A.R. (Cosmic Aircraft Ride), encountered alien resistance, neutralized the enemy, safely exited the gravitational pull of the King of Planets and, most importantly, we did not die. This is a key point.

Assignments and destinations are the responsibility of my Co-Commander. Only after saving Jupiter did he inform me that the King of Planets is arguably the most dangerous planet in our solar system. Its gravity is so strong it can pull in other planets, moons, comets, C.A.R.s, and anything else it wants to, which only makes it stronger. You could say that gravity is its superpower, increasing its air pressure. Frankly, I don't know why we needed to save it. It sounds like a despot planet to me.

In simple terms, if you ever decide to go there yourself, it will turn you into a squashed pickle, my co-pilot informed me. Or a prune or a raisin, he said, or a craisin which he likes better than raisins. Also, “Jupiter possesses The Great Red Spot, a non-stop storm which has been raging for more than three hundred years. It’s so big it’s literally the size of Earth and could gulp Earth and it would be gone. The End. Kaput.”

That’s a direct quote.

I was briefed about all of this while we were enjoying a cold one from Starbucks immediately after completing our last assignment. Visiting Starbucks is the way we defuse our post-combat stress. This is no luxury. Oh, no. It’s absolutely critical for the health of our nervous systems. The expense is even tax deductible if you itemize on Schedule A. Probably. Potentially. I’ll have to get back with you on that.

After his disclosure, I turned to my associate and calmly said, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU MADE ME GO THERE! WE COULD HAVE DIED!” He only smiled, reminiscent of his grandfather whose favorite phrase in the face of potential disaster was, “It ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”

I’m done with Jupiter. Still, in the overall scheme of things, it was just another day at the office.

You’re probably wondering how we became secret agents who are indispensable to the survival of our planet. Let me be clear. We did not choose this dangerous path. No one does. It chooses you. I reference your skepticism over the entire premise. It merely proves that you were not chosen. Sorry about that.

Still, I’m glad you asked. You’re probably also curious about the identity of my Co-Commander. To the world he is but a modest thirteen-year-old boy posing as my grandson. But to the universe and beyond, he is a boy genius. More knowledgeable about space than Elon Musk. More logical than Rob McLeod. More courageous than me. Slightly. Only slightly. Actually, that one’s a toss-up.

We discovered the presence of the portal to inner and outer space quite by accident one afternoon while driving my C.A.R. through our local car wash. Don’t laugh. Superman had his phone booth. We have a car wash. But it’s no ordinary auto spa. To the uninitiated, the blue tinted suds smothering your vehicle may appear to be innocent, but the truth is those clever little bubbles are covertly stealing your memory of the entire experience. Be careful in there.

I would have never believed this prior to that unfortunate incident four years ago when I forgot to close the sun roof on my Tahoe while riding helplessly through the tunnel of terror, but now it all makes sense. Aliens made me do it, they with their memory stealing, brain scrambling, baby blue bubbles. Don Ho was right. Tiny bubbles make you feel fine. And stupid.

Anyway.

I’ve lost track of how many missions we’ve been on since we discovered the portal. But it’s a lot. We’ve gone deep into the center of the earth. Traveled to distant galaxies. Taken out aliens both inside and outside the portal. You have to. Those outside the portal may have the appearance of everyday cars and trucks, but they’re manned by aliens who know we’re there to interfere with their hostile plans.

We have weapons, of course. To the casual observer they appear to be constructed from cardboard, but if we exposed the nature of the rare earth material we use that makes my Blat Gun as light as a feather and more lethal than a Bunker Buster, then you’d want one, too. And trust me, you’re not qualified to carry one. You’d shoot your eye out.

We also have aluminum grenades that do double duty as walkie talkies, to use earth terminology. Mind you, we have to make sure it's in the correct mode of operation before we hold it next to our heads. That could ruin your day.  Recently, my Co-Commander, code name W.I.L.L. (Wickedly annIhilates Loser aLiens) designed a multi-purpose machine gun with a semi-automatic mode. Technically, it has plasma capabilities that even the American military has never heard of. I don’t know what those are, but it does have a really cool scope.

Even though we’re a great team, we’ve had our disagreements. One of the most common has to do with my vernacular. It’s not quite up to snuff. During combat, I often get terms like “interstellar” and “stratosphere” mixed up. It’s an easy mistake.

I asked W.I.L.L. about my grasp of cosmos vocabulary and he acknowledged that it’s lacking. “Maybe so,” he said tactfully. “Maybe in that specific field.” This is where the point of contention occurs, though. In the heat of battle, while alien tentacles pull us down and sublimation covers the windows of our C.A.R., all heck breaks out inside our spacecraft. There’s a lot of screaming.

But W.I.L.L. always knows exactly what’s going on. “I’m turning it on to burst mode!” he yells out. “Sublimation is occurring!”

I didn’t know what burst mode does to combat sublimation, so I broke the question down into its individual parts. “What’s sublimation?” I asked, while I obliterated another extraterrestrial with my Blat Gun.

“You’re the Commander and you don’t know what sublimation is?” he said, as he blew up an alien’s body like a child eating a jelly donut. Eww.

“Rude,” I responded. “Don’t be insubordinate. Remember your rank, Sergeant.”

That’s back when he was just a Sergeant. We had a disagreement about that, too. He insisted that he was just as important as I am and even questioned why only I was a Commander. He thought, since he sat up front beside me in the co-pilot’s chair, that he should be the Commander, too. Naturally, the logic of my response was impeccable.

“I’m the Commander because it’s my C.A.R.” I insisted.

Of course, these were top secret deliberations, but in the end I decided to promote him to Co-Commander. Because he’s awesome. And because he’s the only one who knows exactly how our weapons work.

Also, he alone has, supposedly, read the entirety of the three-hundred-chapter Commander’s Handbook. I’m still on chapter three. I’ve had other things to do. But since I’m a little bit behind, I decided to ask him recently whether or not there are multiple solar systems in our universe. I was curious. W.I.L.L.’s reaction was utter astonishment.

“Did you even read the back of the Commander’s Handbook? Did you even read the cover?”

Well, of course I read the cover. And I’ll read the back when I get there. Frankly, though, this is just more evidence of insubordination. If this continues, my only recourse will be to demote him. Privately. I might not even tell him when it happens. He intimidates me a little.

So, there you have it. The honest truth about how I spend my time now that I’m retired. I’m saving the world one extraterrestrial at a time. I’m ready at a moment’s notice to respond to one of W.I.L.L.’s unexpected text messages, “Do you want to go on a mission and kill some aliens?” 

You know I do. I’ve wanted to ever since I watched Lost In Space when I was a kid. Will Robinson was the obvious genius behind that family of astronauts. And now that another W.I.L.L. has emerged in this battle for supremacy, I’m as committed to the mission as he is. 

Just as long as we stop at Starbucks afterward. It's for my health.

With thanks to Scouse Smurf for the rare footage seen above of an undisclosed portal to outer space. Or a car wash. The original photo can be viewed by following this interstellar link: Day 299 Car Wash | Scouse Smurf | Flickr