BUGGY AT BEST, MA’AM
by Warren Jenkins
Word Count Approx. 3130
In October of 1967, two film-makers shot 53 seconds of footage on a Cine-Kodak K100 camera that changed everything. Commonly known as the, “Patterson-Gimlin Film,” the 16mm run-and-gun footage took place deep in the mountains of Northern California, and revealed a face-to-face encounter with what appeared to be Bigfoot. The world reeled in wonder, amazement, denial, and conspiracy.
The following vignette is a brief peak behind the curtain. A snapshot of alternative history. And like any great story, it begins on the bridge of an interstellar spaceship, outfitted by a diminutive fox-like race, known as the Huxian.
“I’m not saying I told you so, but... What the heck Stu?” The first officer smacked the back of the pilot’s furry head. The rust and ash colored pilot stared ahead not daring to look back. His pointed ears drew back in embarrassment. “Apologies, First Officer,” the pilot mumbled.
“Captain on the bridge!” called one of the crew members closest to the entry point. The bridge crew snapped to attention.
“At ease. What in the blasted lands of Hades happened?” Captain Fennec strode up to First Officer Glen Howlahan and Pilot Stu Barrington, baring her sharp teeth. Her olive drab jumpsuit was clean and pressed. The coveted Huxian Interstellar Ship Captain insignias shined atop each of her uniform’s epaulets.
The pilot rotated in his swivel seat at the speed of space-turtle on barbiturates, and made eye contact with Glen, the first officer. The pilot’s wide yellow eyes and raised tufted eyebrows conveyed the unspoken question, should I tell her or you?
The first officer cleared his throat. “Ahem. Yes, ma’am. A malfunction in the flight controls set us a wee bit off course. The auto-pilot,” he emphasized the word, auto-pilot, and shot the pilot a withering look, “which I explicitly told pilot Stu not to use, has been buggy as of late. Buggy at best, ma’am.”
“Buggy?” Captain Fennec shook her head like maybe she could rip the word from existence and never hear it again. “Why is this the first time I am hearing this? Wait, exactly how far off course are we?” The agitated captain paced back and forth, twitching her handsome brush of a tail.
“Well Captain, if Stu had followed simple instructions, we definitely wouldn’t be here,” Glen gesticulated to the heads-up display which showed a lapis and emerald planet with swirls of white. The captain stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the large screen. Her inquisitive eyes narrowed in displeased recognition.
“Dang it Glen, is that Earth? Please, please, please tell me that’s not Earth. Seriously, any place but Earth!” The captain groaned covering her face with her paw. She knew how simple and volatile the Earthlings were. Stupid and selfish creatures who were capable of so much more, if only they forgot about material wealth, self-interest, and conquest, and embraced the universe as a single shared organism.
“Yes, I’m afraid so Captain. We overshot the Andromeda system and the only place to refuel and make repairs is here.”
“Dang it. Alright, go ahead and set the ship down in that enormous dark area of land there,” the captain pointed at a dark patch on the North American Continent we Earthlings refer to as Six Rivers National Forest, located in Northern California. “We will be able to hide the ship and extract resources from the nearby river gorge using the Subterranean Zircon Sifter. Hopefully we will be on our way before any of the Earthlings notice.”
Under the cover of darkness, the ship nestled down in the Bluff Creek drainage amongst the giant Douglas Fir and Western Hemlock, with nary a whisper.
“Fire up the cloaking device and let’s get it done,” Captain Fennec announced.
Down in Engineering Department, a group of white-coat-clad scientists situated themselves around a wild-looking contraption. The machine labeled, “Subterranean Zircon Sifter,” shared a striking resemblance to a sinister amalgamation of the engine room from Verne’s Nautilus, and the WOPR supercomputer from War Games. Dominating one corner of the main control panel, a red light labeled, “Auto-probe,” flashed on and off.
The scientists all nodded their full heads of fur and mumbled scientific affirmations to one another as they scribbled quick notes on metal tablets.
“Captain on deck!” The scientists stopped scribbling and scowled like they smelled something rotten.
“Dr. Kitsune, what’s the hold up on the sifter?” Captain Fennec strode into the engineering sector of the ship like prize fighter ready to defend her title.
“Why, if it isn’t Captain Fennec! How good of you to join us way down here in engineering,” the doctor bowed with a sarcastic flourish.
Idiots. The captain grimaced and crossed her arms to tamp down her smoldering contempt. Feeling that the doctor’s snide comment merited no response, she remained silent for six long and awkward seconds.
“Hmmm, yes, well... It seems the sifter is having problems with the auto-probe. I don’t think we can fix it in a timely manner. Probably have to wait until we reach station five,” Dr. Kitsune made no attempt at keeping a bitter and condescending tone from his voice.
The captain levelled Dr. Kitsune with a feral yellow stare that could peel the paint off any interstellar ship in the fleet.
“Right, bloody auto-pilot, bloody auto-probe,” Captain Fennec conjured a furry grey fist in front of her with as much dramatic emphasis that she could muster. She closed her eyes and knocked lightly at the bridge of her short muzzle. Tap, tap, tap. Anything so she didn’t lose her cool. She inhaled and exhaled, centered and composed herself. The wary scientists stood in a half circle of uncertain silence, readying themselves to scatter at any sign of immediate physical danger.
“So, what exactly in the name of Wepwawet, are our options?” Captain Fennec hissed through clenched jaws.
“Well, we would need a, ‘volunteer,’ to manually navigate the Subterranean Zircon Sifter Probe into place. Unfortunately, the, ‘volunteer,’ would be exposed outside the cloaking device during insertion and extraction. Statistically, in a desolate wilderness such as this, we calculate that there is a one in sixty-seven million chance of the, ‘volunteer,’ being spotted by the Earthlings.” The doctor motioned with his paws in the universal symbolic gesture of air quotes, every time he said the word, ‘volunteer.’
“Indeed,” one scientist nodded and mumbled their support of Dr. Kitsune.
“Quite right,” a second scientist confirmed.
“Hmmm, yes, I believe so,” a third scientist added for good measure.
“All right, so what are we waiting for? Let’s go,” Captain Fennec resolved.
“Ah, tut, tut, tut. Not so fast. There is one other item to consider.” Dr. Kitsune chastised.
“Methuselah’s beard! What now?”
“Well for starters, the gravity ma’am. None of the crew are physically capable of performing this action on their own. They will need to use the A.S.S.”
“Use their ass?” the captain tilted her head, puzzled. She wondered to herself, were the scientists too stuffy to say the word outright?
“No ma’am, not ass. A.S.S. Augmented Strength Suit.”
“Oh yes, of course. So, what’s the problem with the ass, errr, apologies, the Augmented Strength Suit?”
“The problem is not with the suit, ma’am. The problem is the prospect of the, ‘volunteer,’ getting spotted by one of the Earthlings.” The doctor attempted to perform the air quotes again.
“Seriously, stop that,” the captain swatted down the doctor’s paws.
“Errr, right. As I was saying, if spotted, we wouldn’t want to alert the Earthlings to our existence, our true nature, or our superior technology. We need to disguise the strength suit.”
“I thought statistically it’s a one in sixty-seven million chance? Hold up, did you say disguise?”
“Indeed. Bartleby here has an excellent idea on that. We should have it ready to go shortly. The next problem is the, ‘volunteer,’ to operate the suit,” the doctor did not raise his paws, but the captain saw him wiggle his claws in the air quotes gesture. “And captain, may I remind you that there is only one member of the crew capable of pulling this off?”
Captain Fennec closed her eyes tight and sneezed three times in a swift succession of mounting vexation.
“Yes, yes, yes. Unfortunately. You all sit tight and I’ll go get the, ‘volunteer.’” The captain threw both paws over her head in the air quotes formation with as much animated sarcasm as she could muster, and stormed out of engineering. The next undesirable order of business; compelling the Maintenance Chief to help.
Maintenance Chief Canterbury Chesterfield was an old grizzled veteran of the Huxian-Osonian War. He fought hard and earned his position in maintenance, far away from the front lines. He wore a standard issue black patch over a missing eye and showcased a solid-gold canine tooth in his perpetual sardonic smile. Beneath his work bench he kept a cigar box full of valorous combat medals. Although the crew called him, “Chief,” or “Chief Canterbury,” to his face, a more common reference when speaking of him behind his back tended to be, “Lord Chesterfield.” Clever, cantankerous, and whip-smart, the chief could also be an incredible bastard, lording petty mistakes over fellow crew members for weeks at a time. Much to the captain’s chagrin, the chief tended to be one of the only crew members that she could count on in high-stakes situations. Old Chief Canterbury, cool as a Plutonian pickle.
Maintenance door one-four-seven slid open revealing a smoke-filled hangar accompanied by blaring music. Apparently, Earth’s album The Velvet Underground & Nico held universal mass appeal. Through the thick Osonian tobacco haze, the captain struggled to make out a pair of hind paws and tail twitching to the beat and sticking out from under a half-assembled terrain rover.
“Uh, Chief? Chief? CHIEFFFFFFF!!!”
The chief rolled out from beneath the rover, wearing dark goggles on a scarred muzzle and wielded a mixed-gas welding torch like a drum stick. A rotund Osonian cigarette dangled from his jaws and smoke puffed through his little black nose.
“Are you aware that Osonian tobacco is contraband?” Captain Fennec hollered over the music. With a slight shrug and a devil-may-care attitude, the chief continued to lay on his back and nod along with the song. The captain located the music’s source, took five quick steps, and shut the power off. Silence. She pivoted and stalked back over to the chief who chose to stand and wipe off his paws. With as much sincerity as the captain could muster, she calmly stated, “Chief, you know I hate bothering you, but we have a situation...”
Back in engineering, Captain Fennec and Chief Canterbury stared in wordless horror at the steadfast hairy monstrosity encircled by scurrying scientists in white coats. They appeared to be putting the finishing touches on the disguise for the A.S.S.
“Good gawd...It’s a bloody abomination...” the chief groused, as an impossible length of cigarette ash fell to the ground.
The engineers and scientists had stitched and cobbled together a generous mix of taxidermy pelts and skins, collected from across the universe. The predominant pelts were an Osonian body, legs, and arms, and a Monchiinian chest, head and particularly large feet. (The most comparable species on Earth would be some diabolical variations of bear and gorilla.) The pelts were stretched across the Augmented Strength Suit’s titanium frame and were stuffed with padding in different areas to highlight a faux-muscle structure rather than hinges and rivets.
“Alright Chief Canterbury. Go ahead and try it on. And move around for us, so we can see if any adjustments need to made,” one of the white coats prompted.
Chief’s ears twitched in disgust and he showed his gold tooth in a sneer, as if to say, alright, you asked for it.
“Right, I’ll leave you to it Chief. Uh, make us proud!” Fennec patted the chief on the shoulder, performed a smart about-face, and marched out the door without looking back.
After what seemed an eternity of pacing around in the A.S.S. (which the cheeky chief began calling the, “Abomination Suck Suit”), the engineers and scientists were rapturous with their creation, and gave themselves a resounding round of pawed applause.
Back on the bridge, the crew readied the communications and oversight of the Subterranean Zircon Sifter operation. First Officer Glen Howlahan announced, “Captain, Lord Chest... errrr, apologies, Chief Canterbury is ready to leave the ship with the sifter probe.”
“Thank you, First Officer. Comms up?”
“Affirmative.”
“Chief, this is the captain. Comms check.”
“Loud and clear ma’am,” the chief grunted.
“Godspeed chief.”
As the massive loading dock door crept open, the morning sun peeked through the lush mixed conifer forest. Majestic Douglas Fir stood like ancient sentinels at the gateway of time itself. The uneven terrain lay carpeted in varieties of ferns and moss, while twisted and gnarled madrone found purchase among boulders, outcroppings, and steep hillsides. Big leaf maple and tan oak reached out to embrace patches of sun, and massive hedges of poison oak claimed expansive openings along the creek bank, covered in the crimson leaves of autumn.
The chief took a few lumbering steps in the hideous hide-covered strength suit, testing its movement with the added weight of the unwieldy sifter probe in tow. He performed a thorough scan of the immediate area, confident of his general safety within the ship’s generated cloaking field. “All clear.”
“Go ahead and proceed, Chief. We have a strong Zircon reading, bearing one-eight-niner. Range approximately 750 meters, just up from the creeks edge.”
“Copy that,” the chief began his brush-crashing forest journey, lugging the 500kg probe along like an unwanted suitcase full of scrap iron. The probe was tethered to the ship by an unspooling umbilical transfer tube. The chief’s ability to operate the strength suit in a fluid and effortless manner could be described as almost supernatural. Any of the other crew would have been stiff and stumbling on the uneven terrain. Making six separate movements instead of one smooth transition. With a wee bit of luck, they might limp and lurch an entire twenty-five meters, before tumbling tail over teakettle down the mountainside, and yardsaling the half-ton of Huxian mining technology into an unrecognizable twisted heap. Lucky for the crew, the chief existed.
Fifteen uneventful minutes later, the chief set up the sifter probe and started the Zircon extraction process. Imagine an oversized titanium mole with light sabers for claws, and you’re getting a pretty good idea of the speed and ease in which the Zircon Sifter Probe burrowed into the forest floor.
“Chief to command.”
“This is command. Go ahead Chief.”
“Sifter is active and mining at 100 percent efficiency.”
“Copy that Chief. We show an estimate mining time of 5-7 hours.”
“Copy. I will remain here on site in order to expedite sifter retrieval upon completion.”
“Copy that Chief. We will notify you of any updates.”
The chief fired up an Osonian smoke and settled in. He looked around the lush forest and found profound peace listening to the Earth and its variety of creatures, go about their daily routines. Chirps and chatter. Clicks and rustles. Whistles and wind. Time slowed to the speed of irrelevance.
Hours passed and without warning, the harsh metallic squawk of the radio broke the chief’s meditative trance. “Chief, we’ve got a problem.”
“Uhhhh, okay. What’s the problem?”
“Two earthlings on horseback approaching your position, bearing two-three-two at fifteen hundred meters downstream and closing.”
“Well, dang it. Alright, I’m going downstream to keep them away from the mining site. Worst case scenario, I’ll get their attention and lead them away. I’ll circle back as soon as I can.”
“Negative Chief. Do not engage the Earthlings. Pull the sifter and return to the ship immediately.”
“Uhhhh, command, you’re breaking up, I didn’t receive last transmission. Sounded like a big ol’ affirm, to me,” the chief lied through his gold-toothed smirk. He knew there were times when following an order amounted to nothing, except a convenient excuse for not doing the hard thing. The ship needed fuel, the sifter provided fuel, and the sifter needed more time. Simple. Plus, he had a deep curiosity to see some Earthlings up close. Kind of like one of those bucket-list items he had been meaning to check off for quite some time.
“Chief? Chief, I know you can hear me. This is a direct order. If you to disobey me, I will draft up such a condemnatory court-martial, your sorry tail won’t work another ship in the entire Seventh Fleet!”
“Geez, lighten up Captain. My ass is disguised, remember?” the chief joked. “Anyway, just go ahead and write up that court martial at your convenience, and if it’s not too much trouble, let me know when the sifter is complete. I will come a runnin’,” Chief laughed. Deep down, he knew the captain was bluffing about the court-martial. They both knew. Another classic chief checkmate.
“Dang it,” out-foxed, Captain Fennec dropped the microphone in disgust.
The chief negotiated his way downstream climbing over boulders, down trees, and tumbles of brush. He reached an enormous logjam of crisscrossed timber. An excellent hiding spot. Dry round stones littered the perennial creek bed and continued down and around a sharp corner, The chief could hear the distinct clip-clop of hooves and the alien bark of Earthling voices. He risked a peek and realized too late that he had been spotted. The horses spooked and the lead Earthling leaped out of the saddle and began rifling through his saddle bags. The jig was up. The chief, cool as a Centauri cucumber, strode from the chaotic scene with a calm and casual swagger. He had no worries, just kept on walking. If the Earthlings had weapons of any sort, they wouldn’t be able to penetrate the A.S.S. At one point he chanced a relaxed look over his right shoulder and saw an Earthling on its knees with what he assumed was some form of chattering visual recording device, pointed in his general direction. Stupid Earthlings. You know nothing. Follow me stupid Earthlings, follow me. The chief mused to himself.
Old Chief Canterbury ushered the Earthlings miles away on what the Huxian refer to as a quintessential, “rowdy-chicken-chase.”
After receiving confirmation from command that the sifter operation was complete, he ditched the Earthlings, circled back to the mining site, extracted the sifter probe, and marched back to the ship like a boss.
Hidden beneath the taxidermy costume of the, “Abomination Suck Suit,” the chief’s furry little muzzle wore a most triumphant grin, and a mischievous light twinkled in his good eye. He chuckled to himself and pondered, another mission accomplished, another bucket-list item checked off. Maybe a court-martial? Probably not, but one can dream.
The rest is history.
© Copyright 2025 Warren Jenkins. All rights reserved.