Pig Grabbing Aliens in North Dakota!

Ken Korczak:
A fantastic UFO event is currently unfolding near the small town of Tappen, North Dakota, which involves giant 9-foot aliens stealing a farmer’s pigs — with one of the aliens being shot with a 22-caliber rifle by a 16-year-old farm boy.

The story was featured on the front page of North Dakota’s largest and conservative newspaper, the Fargo Forum, on October 28.   It’s being called one of the “most legitimate and credible” human-alien confrontation stories in decades, and the story is nothing else if fascinating and sensational. Here is what has been happening, as reported by the Fargo Forum:

Evan Briese, 16, woke early on the morning of Sept. 16 and saw something big moving among a corral where a number of very large hogs were kept — the hogs were basically family pets.  Evan grabbed a gun, thinking it might be a coyote — but what he saw in the corral shocked him to the bone!  Evan Briese encountered two creatures standing 8 to 9 feet tall that were doing something to one of the hogs. He fired his .22-caliber rifle at one creature which emitted an unearthly scream. Another creature then grabbed the boy and threw him to the ground, causing him to black out. When Evan Briese awoke, he found that Ruthy, a 450-pound sow that had been ready to give birth, was gone. The boy ran to the home of his older sister, Trista, a short distance from the house he shares with his parents.

Trista Briese made a frantic phone call to her parents and it wasn’t long before they, and later the Kidder County sheriff, were on the scene. The sheriff, Doug Howard, then left but came back the next day. He ultimately came to no conclusions about what happened to the hog, Myra Briese said. Several days later, with the help of a hypnotist, Evan Briese remembered more details.Five entities had been in the corral. Two were in the process of dragging what appeared to be a dead hog when the boy interrupted them.

As for the other incidents, one was in April when Evan and his cattle dog, Buster, were checking on cows during calving season, his parents said. Investigating a flashing glow, the pair walked over a hill and saw an object resting on the ground that appeared to be scanning a waterhole with an intense beam of light. At first, boy and dog could do nothing but stare. The spell was broken when Buster ran barking at the craft, which took off into the night, causing what amounted to a sonic boom.

“It woke Myra up,” Torrey Briese said of the sound, adding that he, too, witnessed something unusual this past summer. It happened one night in July, when he was giving a neighbor a ride into town. Briese said he and the neighbor noticed a bluish light in the sky, which stopped when they stopped and moved when they began driving.

“We spent about a half-hour watching it,” Briese said, adding that at one point the object flew so fast it went several miles in a matter of seconds. Based on the description of the object his son saw in April, Briese links the two events, adding that he’s never been given to flights of fancy.

“Evan and I are very skeptical,” Torrey Briese said. “We used to watch ‘The UFO Files’ on TV and laugh out loud.” Briese said he wouldn’t be surprised if people feel the same about his story, but he said the family doesn’t feel a need to prove anything and they’ve moved on. “We’re not out looking for aliens every night,” he said.

Brice Barnick, the mayor of Tappen — located off Interstate 94 between Bismarck and Jamestown — said visits by UFOs are the talk of the town, though he himself is not quite on board. “I’m not saying it can’t happen. But I’d have to see it to believe it,” Barnick said. At the time of the April incident, the Brieses were put in touch with Richard Moss, a UFO investigator who happened to be in Tappen for a funeral.

Moss, of Long Prairie, Minn., is the Minnesota representative of the Mutual UFO Network, an organization based in Colorado dedicated to the study of UFO phenomena. Moss, a former high school science teacher, said that in many years of investigating UFO reports, only a handful have impressed him as having the potential to be genuine. The Tappen incidents, he said, fall into the latter category.

“There are a lot of people out there who are telling false stories. The credibility of the witness is a big thing,” Moss said. In the case of Evan Briese, Moss said it was interesting to view the boy’s demeanor before and after the hypnotic regression. Prior to hypnosis, “He (Briese) had a sort of unsure look on his face. He was still really wondering what had happened. After the hypnotic regression, he knew. He was made to remember,” Moss said. Sheriff Howard was off duty Thursday and could not be reached for comment.

John Lemieux, a Kidder County deputy, said he did not believe the incident in September resulted in a written report. Torrey Briese said strange things are still happening. A relative who farms in the Tappen area recently had a sheep die, and a veterinarian who examined the animal found no obvious reason for its death, Briese said. A cause of death wasn’t the only thing missing. Someone, Briese said, removed a single testicle from the animal. It was done with surgical precision, he added.

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MINNESOTA PARANORMALA

Dream & Grow Rich — Short, short fiction

Note: Here is a short, short story by your’s truly … Ken Korczak

As soon as Mike Fykeman received his copy of “Dream and Grow Rich” in the mail, he plunged into the book and began to read, tossing aside the half dozen bills and debt collection letters that had also arrived.

Ten hours later, his mind was swirling with possibilities!

Just think of it! he thought. The book said “Satisfaction” came to Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards in a dream! The song earned millions! The vast oil fields of Kuwait were discovered in a dream by English explorer H.P.R. Dickson! And Robert Louis Stevenson got all his best ideas from dreams — including the plot for “Dr. Jykle and Mr. Hyde!”

If these people did it, I can too! Fykeman thought. At least that’s what the book says.

Fykeman prepared himself to program a dream of wealth, using the instructions of the book. The technique was called “front-end loading.” The idea was to cram your mind with the subject matter you wanted to dream about, and to do it for at least 18 hours nonstop. Then you crash exhausted into bed, giving yourself the “pre-sleep suggestion” that you will have a wealth creating dream.

If your lucky, the book said, you might experience an advanced kind of dream called a “lucid dream.” That’s a dream in which the dreamer knows he is dreaming –having conscious volition within a dream!

To get front-end loading material for his dream, Fykeman visited his library. His eyes fell upon an intriguing title: “The Wealth of Babylon.” It was about the ancient principles of creating wealth.

Fykeman checked the book out and went home to absorb it. He spent the entire day finishing all 280 pages, and went back over the book time and again. Finally with his marathon of cramming done, Fykeman fell into his bed exhausted, his head brimming with the ancient money-making secrets of Babylon!

Soon Fykeman was dreaming. He found himself standing in a congested marketplace amid throngs of strangely dressed people — most of them looked filthy. They wore drab gray-white tunics, not much more than rags hanging loose or belted at the waist with grimy ropes. Most were barefoot, but a few wore sandals. Here and there were soldiers wearing helmets and crude breastplates of armor made of hardened leather.

Fykeman was momentarily disoriented, but his dream programming kicked in. He suddenly realized he was dreaming! And not only dreaming — he knew it! With fantastic beginner’s luck, Fykeman had induced a lucid dream!

He whirled around to take in the scene. The crowded marketplace was lined with rude stands of wood or dried mud brick, displaying everything — food, bolts of cloth, raw wool, hides, bronze implements, bone or ivory fetishes. Stacked everywhere were clay pots, jars and bowls — some filled with grain, other with fruits, some with thick, grainy beer. Slabs of butchered animals and birds hung from hooks or ropes or lay piled on wooden tables. A hot sun beat down on all. Flies swarmed and buzzed.

Fykeman had little time. The book said that holding a lucid dream state was tenuous, and could abruptly end without warning, or switch to another dream. Also, a noise in his room could wake him up. So Fykeman gathered his wits and set out to achieve his goal.

He stepped up to a shanty made of sticks and reeds, where a man with a long, ragged beard and tangled hair was selling the severed heads of goats, sheep and cattle.

“Excuse me, sir,” Fykeman said cautiously, thinking there might be a language barrier, but this was his dream so the man answered him in common English.

“Sheep’s head, mister?” the filthy man said. “Only two groats!”

Fykeman gave a cursory glance of disgust at the bloody heads, swollen black tongues gaping out, eyes still staring with the shock of death, blood pooling black and congealed underneath them.

“No thank you,” Fykeman said. “I only need information … I …

“Oh, you want information,” the man said, his beard splitting in a smile of rotten brown and yellow teeth. “That’ll be three groats.”

Fykeman looked into the mans mean eyes and avaricious face. But he was ready for him. “Dream and Grow Rich” said to never be intimidated by any character you meet in a dream because, after all, this is your dream. Fykeman now employed a phrase the book had suggested: “I am the dreamer and you are the dream. Do as I say.”

With this, the greedy man behind the pile of bloody heads stopped grinning and put on a look of obedience, but also mild of contempt.

“Now,” Fykeman said feeling wonderfully confident, “tell me where I can find the richest and wisest man in the kingdom.”

With poor grace, the man said: “The one you seek is Baruk. He’s the richest merchant in Babylon. You’ll find him at the Temple of S’bell this time of day.”

The man pointed toward the center of the city where rose a truncated step pyramid which lurched sluggishly, but magnificently into the blue sky. Fykeman made his way through the throngs of the ancient city streets and presently found himself at the foot of the pyramid, climbed the steps and found his way inside. After asking around a bit, he was soon directed to where he could find Baruk, the richest man in Babylon.

Baruk was a large barrel-chested man with a rectangular-shaped beard and bushy eyebrows. He wore fine silks and a few implements of dazzling jewelry. On his feet were sandals of Ostrich leather. After haggling with an undersecretary for Baruk, Fykeman was finally granted an interview with the important man.

Baruk eyed Fykeman with a narrow gaze of guarded curiosity. Finally he said, “Well, young man? My time is precious. What are your needs?”

“Mr. Baruk, my name is Mike Fykeman. I have traveled far to seek your wisdom, and gain your secrets of wealth. Please, tell me, how can I get rich fast?”

“Ah!” Baruk said, in a thundering voice. “A seeker, a fellow entrepreneur! I am eager to help you! Let me ask you a question — do you have any gold, on hand, I mean?”

Fykeman was about to say no, but again reminded himself that this was a dream. Here, he could have anything his mind allowed. So he decided to play along. He said: “Yes, I have gold,” and as he spoke these words a large sack heavy with bright yellow metal appeared in his hands. He dropped it in front of Baruk. The gold jangled to the floor.

Baruk’s eyes lighted. “Excellent! he said. “I have a wonderful opportunity for you to triple the size of your purse, and quickly. As we speak, I am arranging for a ship to sail for Phoenicia to purchase timber. Prime lumber is plentiful there, and cheap. I can bring it back here and sell it for triple price. With your gold, we can commission a second ship, and we all profit the greater!”

Fykeman stared at him blankly, thinking. “I appreciate the offer,” Fykeman said. “But what I need is a specific idea I can use back from where I come from — in my own land. I’m seeking an idea, a universal truth of wealth I can use to profit from anywhere.”

Baruk stepped forward and fixed his powerful, oil black eyes upon him.

“Ask, and you shall receive, my friend. But such wisdom does not come without a price. Now as to this bag of gold …”

“Take it!” Fykeman said. “I give you that and more if you simply tell me an ancient truth, a secret wealth building technique I can carry with me for the rest of my life and use anywhere!”

“Very well,” Baruk said, scooping up Fykeman’s proffered bag of gold and handing it to an assistant, who bowed and took it away to be weighed on a large scale.

“If it’s unlimited wealth and prosperity you seek, then do what I have done my entire life to great profit!”

“Yes! Yes!” Fykeman said, anxious to hear the words as he felt the entire dream scene began to waver and fade as his body stirred back in his bed. “Tell me! Tell me quickly!”

Baruk stepped up to Fykeman, put both his hand on his shoulders and stared him straight in the face. He moved his face closer to Fykeman’s and looked side to side furtively before whispering in his ear: “Buy low, sell high, my son! By low, sell high!”

With that, a moment of confusion, a swirl of colors, then blackness. Fykeman awoke in his bed with the words of Baruk still ringing in his ears. Babylon was gone. Fykeman was back in his cramped one-room apartment, lying awake on his lumpy bed.

He rose, his mind dazed, and still feeling a sense of wonder, but at the same time, a profound sense of dejection. Fykeman sat down at the kitchen table still piled with credit card bills, overdue notices and a pink slip threatening to shot off his electricity. And as he stared blankly at the depressing pile, the words of mighty and wise Baruk rang in his ears:

“But low, my son! Buy low, sell high!”

He Betrayed His Love for Cold Cash

Note: The following is a true story:

By Ken Korczak

Arlo went to bed, but knew he would not sleep, not after the awful thing he had just done. Deep in his heart he felt the sting of his own cruel betrayal — and he had done it for money.

The grim reality was this: He had sold out the love of his life for cold hard cash.

As he tossed and turned, Arlo’s mind raced through his long relationship with his beloved. He recalled the first time he laid eyes on her, and how the attraction was strong and immediate. He thought of her tantalizing smell, and they way she wore leather, her grace. He remembered the time they drove cross-country together one wild spring when his life was still spontaneous and carefree.

Arlo took her home with him the same day they met. It was the beginning of a 12-year relationship that never grew stale, a relationship which retained its magic day after day.

But life can be complex. Other people in Arlo’s life were jealous, but mostly uncaring about his relationship with his beloved. These others, including his wife and children, did not understand his bond with her. As time wore on, they slowly convinced him that advantages could be gained by selling her out — that the money he could get for betraying her would be useful, and worth it.

So one day, Arlo called up his buddy, Vlad Kochski. Vlad had coveted Arlo’s beloved for many years, and had mentioned it on many occasions. Arlo told Vlad he could now have her for $6,000, cash. Inwardly, Arlo hoped this somewhat high price would dissuade Vlad, or at least cause him to dicker, but the clever Mr. Kochski didn’t blink before saying “Yes!” and took out his check book.

The transaction was eerie. It was as if Arlo was watching events from outside his body — it seemed as if his soul was displaced as he watched his empty physical body hand over the keys to his cherry red, ‘69 Camaro, with 4-speed transmission, black leather seats 350 V8, twin overhead cams, into the white, fleshy hands of the heavy breathing Vlad Kochski.

Minutes later, Arlo could see the back of Vlad’s fat head through the small sleek rear window of his ‘69 Camaro as he drove away — he could hear her smooth transmission shifting as his most precious love of the past 12 years rushed away from him from 0 to 60 mph in 18 seconds.

Arlo did not sleep that night, not a wink. He didn’t think the pain would be this bad, this deep and so immediate. The fact that he was $6,000 richer was laughable compared to the thought of Vlad’s hammy, wide posterior wearing a grove into the black leather seat of his beloved. Arlo imagined Vlad mis-shifting, grinding her gears — he screamed and jumped out of bed!

Worst of all, he was alone with his pain. His wife and his daughters simply did not understand — could not understand — the way a man can feel about a car. Women! He tried to talk to his dad, but his father was a bottom line oriented man, and tried to assure Arlo that $6,000 eases a lot of pain.

A psychologist might say that Arlo “got stuck” in the grieving process. His heart was broken. His stomach was swollen with emotion. He grew distant from his family, and spent a lot of time alone in the garage where he had kept her. The empty space in the garage now seemed as big as the Grand Canyon. Sometimes, he fancied he could still smell her leather seats, her sweet lubricating oils, the tang of her tires. At other times, he would go rushing out of the garage, just running, going nowhere.

But no matter how far he ran, he could not run away from himself. After several weeks of pain, he decided to call Vlad Kochski to buy her back. He was expecting a firm no, or perhaps an outrageous demand for a much higher price, but he never expected to hear what Vlad had to say.

Just two day ago, Vlad told Arlo in a shaky voice, he had been cruising with the Camero along the curvy lanes of Highway 11 between Greenbush and Karlstad. Suddenly a moose jumped out in front of him. He swerved. He lost control. He rolled her twice, and was brought to a crashing halt as the ‘69 Camero was stopped by the iron-hard truck of a large oak tree.

Arlo’s beloved was totaled.Repairing it, including finding all the original parts for a ‘69 Camero, was far too expensive to even consider. Amazingly, Vlad Kochski limped away from the smash-up with only a broken tibia and a fractured disk.

Arlo listened in stony shock. He felt as if someone had plunged a rusty screwdriver between his ribs. A dozen emotions rushed through him like swift storm clouds moving across a troubled sky. First, he wanted to attack Vlad Kochski and pound his corpulent body into a pulpy mound of dough. Then waves of grief whelmed in, causing him to swoon and almost lose consciousness. Finally, a gray listlessness settled in. Arlo became bland and deflated. He grew deeply depressed and soon his family was seriously worried about his shattered mental state.

Finally, his wife suggested he see a psychologist. This caused Arlo to break into a rage. He scoffed at her suggestion, and turned his fury on her with a verbal barrage: “You never cared about her! You only wanted me to get rid of her — turn her into some kind of cash cow! And, now … now! …” and with that, Arlo broke down and wept bitter tears.

Everyone was a loss. It truly seemed silly that someone could have such a powerful emotional attachment to what was, after all, an object of metal, rubber and plastic. It’s not like Arlo and his Camero had shared true feelings, as only two living beings can — or did he?

In his despondence, Arlo turned to a strange source for help. As it happens, just a few miles from his rural home lived a man, a loner, who not only generally kept to himself, but who was known to pursue, well, let’s just call them “strange” ideas. We’ll call him Smoky.

Arlo, like most people in his small Minnesota town, considered Smoky “a weirdo” — who knows what he was into? — drugs, weird cult stuff, perhaps even liberal politics.

But Arlo had known Smoky years ago when they were both children, and sometimes, certain people can hold an affinity for others, even if one of those “others” has long since dropped out of “normal” society.

Also chose another vehicle from his collection — a sky blue ‘65 Chevy pick-up — and drove over to Smoky’s cabin.

Smoky immediately sensed that Arlo was in pain, and even though Arlo had put up a thin front and started out with aimless small talk, Smoky quickly asked him to talk about the real reason he had come.

Suddenly, as if a dam had broken, Arlo gushed out his story of betrayal and loss, heartbreak and intense mental pain. Smoky listened patiently, and to Arlo’s great relief, Smoky seemed to be taking him seriously. After a long time of moaning, whining and babbling, Arlo felt spent, and even if Smoky had offered no advice or opinion, Arlo knew he would feel better because someone had finally listened to him, and did not mock him.

The mysterious Smoky had much more to offer. To Arlo’s amazement, Smoky not only validated the emotions of loss over a car, but told Arlo that his car had probably missed him as well! In fact, Smoky said, it was very likely that Arlo and his Camero became locked into a kind of mutual, psychic distress over their separation, and that the soul of the Camero after its “death” was still crying out over its unfinished business on earth.

Arlo was stunned at this bizarre theory, yet, in his heart, he not only wanted it to be true, he needed it to be true.

Smoky fulfilled this need by offering Arlo solid, scientific evidence that cars are indeed “living creatures,” and in fact, many of today’s most brilliant minds considered automobiles to be living creatures, which may even possess consciousness! In addition to scientists, many religious leaders also consider objects such as cars to not only be alive, but capable of achieving higher spiritual states of existence.

For example, Smoky told Arlo that Masahiro Mori, Japan’s leading expert on robots, thinks that machines can help human beings achieve spiritual enlightenment.

Smoky also told Arlo about the work of the brilliant quantum scientist Frank Tipler of Tulane University and his colleague John Barrow, who in 1986 published a scientific paper in which they argued that automobiles were living beings, with souls.

In his 1994 book, “The Physics of Immortality” Tipler writes:

(Cars) self-reproduce … granted, their reproduction is not autonomous; they need a factory to external to themselves. But so do male humans; to make a male baby, an external biochemical factory called a “womb” is needed, Granted, their reproduction requires another living species. But so does the reproduction of flowering plants … The form of automobiles in their environment is preserved by natural selection; there is a fierce struggle for existence between various “races” of automobiles. Japanese and European automobiles are competing with native American automobiles for scare resources — money and manufacturing ..”

The very same year that Tipler published his paper, the brilliant biologist Richard Dawkins of Oxford University made the exact same claim — that cars are alive, living beings with minds and souls.

Upon hearing all this, Arlo not only felt better — but vindicated! His emotional attachment to his car was not an aberration, it was natural! His relationship with his car was as valid as the love between a man and a dog, a horse, or even another human being.

True, Arlo still had his loss to deal with, and his grief. But now he could move on, he could work through the grieving process, knowing that his feelings were proper and defensible. Better yet, he could honor the memory of his beloved.

And best of all, the soul of his beloved could now be released from this world to pass on to its next, higher stage in spiritual development.

That night after his visit with Smoky, Arlo slept well and deeply for the first time in weeks. A few hours into his sleep, he dreamed that his ‘69 Camero was cruising the endless pavements along the marvelous avenues of heaven, shifting gears, burning rubber, engine roaring, running free.

e-mail Ken with a question or comment: writer@wiktel.com