If you didn’t already know, Gray aliens are the future descendants of present day humanity. Not surprising when you think about it, right? Humans started as apes, then shrank into less hairy, more intelligent hominids. And they’re still evolving—they’re still selecting for increasingly complicated iterations of survivability. It’s just that at this moment, humanity’s collective perspective is far too myopic to see what it’s evolving into.
Well I’m here to inform you that humanity is evolving into me and my brethren. My name is Kentaro Weydani. I am a member of the Gray Imperium, and a far removed descendant of the one you know as Kent Wayne.
I hail from what you would call two billion years into the future, although to my people, time-space linearity is an illusion that was deconstructed over a thousand generations ago. We Grays possess the ability to operate an acausal, Bloom-shift distortion engine. A “time machine” in other words, but rest assured—that phrase barely touches upon the engine’s true potential. In order to use it, one must be in possession of nothing less than a 58th level intellect, lest the true nature of existence unravel the operator’s mind and turn them into a gibbering Gary Busey, or a raving Nancy Grace. (According to the Akashic records, the first consciousness who was able to envision the engine was Kent Wayne’s dog, a 10 lb. Terrier named Bitefighter.)
The Gray Imperium is in a bit of a zordok. I’m sorry—I think you humans would say “pickle.” A predicament, basically. Let me explain. Kent Wayne wasn’t a fluke. Nothing about him—his pringles-can-sized penis, his bean-bag-heavy scrotum, his mind-bending series of novels or his ability to speak Dog—was an accident. The existence of Kent Wayne was a deliberately calibrated ripple in the space-time continuum, a ripple ensuring that humanity will survive its follies, and that thousands of soccer moms will be impregnated by Kent’s superior seed. This in turn will pave the way for a new dawn of humanity. On the outside, he may appear to be a dithering moron who spends too much time flexing his muscles and basking in near-toxic flatulence, but at the genetic level, he’s an inadvertent savior. He was created by us Grays—your descendants—in order to ensure the integrity of hominid evolution.
Confusing, right? How could someone be CREATED by their descendants? Wouldn’t that violate the linearity of space-time?
Don’t think too much on it. As I said before: gibbering Gary Busy or raving Nancy Grace.
I’m part of a special team of Grays: the Timegineers. We travel through the fourth dimension, facilitating or enacting key events deemed critical to the course of human evolution. At this morning’s briefing, I was informed that I would need to travel to Earth’s Pleistocene Epoch and inject Kent Wayne’s long-distant ancestor with a custom-designed elixir—one that’s capable of re-engineering his DNA through a potent psychedelic experience.
Kent Wayne’s Homo Erectus ancestor is named Kunt. I’m not shitting you.
After I initiate temporal shift, I find myself walking through lush grasslands, surrounded by peaceful proto-hominids. Using my mastery of mind-to-mind martial arts, I make myself appear to be one of them. I also make it seem as if I’m speaking their language.
“Can you point me towards Kunt?” I ask the nearest female.
A Homo Erectus woman glances up from two flaps of hide she’s sewing together with a bone needle. “He’s over there.” She jerks her head left. “Don’t get too close to him—he treats his lower parts like a scratch n’ sniff lotto ticket.” (these are rough analogies; while lottery tickets haven’t yet been invented in this space-time coordinate; the equivalent concept gets processed through a psychogenic context filter and re-percepted throughout my psyche.)
I suppress a shudder. “Thank you,” I reply. I walk over to Kunt.
Even among these dirty proto-hominids, I sense that this one’s the dirtiest. He’s laying on his side, running in a circle on the ground (just like Homer Simpson), pretending that his farts are some form of elementary propulsion. All the while, raucous laughter pours from his spittle-sheened lips.
“KUNT SMELL GOOD! WHEEEEEE!!!”
I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Did I really descend from THIS? Kent Wayne was bad enough, but THIS…
This is a travesty.
But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To make sure that the potential passed down from this booger-eater is allowed to flourish into a Type IV civilization. Keeping that firmly in mind, I hold up the holy relic that I’ve brought with me: Kent Wayne’s eReader.
I open it to Echo. Magic flash.
Kunt ceases his imbecilic scramble. He throws his arms out to the sides, clutching at the air as his back seizes in a pronounced arch. Electrified jags stream across his body. His pupils and irises become eclipsed by pure white blaze, and bolts of radiance leap from his mouth.
“CYBORG-SOLDIERS! FUTURE WIZARDS! I SEE IT ALL—CROM ABOVE US, I SEE IT ALL!!!!”
Then he collapses into an unconscious jumble. Fragrant smoke drifts off his disgusting form. I probe his psyche with a telepathic probe.
Is it there? Did I successfully incept this fool with—
Yes! Deep within the causal mycelium of his consciousness, I sense the seeds of the epic science fiction novel called “Echo.”
Time to go back. But I hesitate; perhaps my meddling will have caused Kunt to become less of an idiot. One can only hope…
Kunt’s eyes fly open, both of them looking in opposite directions. He emits a blast of loud, smelly flatulence and smiles stupidly at nothing in particular.
“KUNT SMELL GOOD!” he howls. He drops to the ground and resumes his Homer Simpson scramble.
I sigh in disgust and prepare to re-instantiate back in the future.
There are some things you just can’t rush.
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