I never thought it would happen to me. But there I was, standing in the middle of a moonlit field, my heart racing as the spaceship descended from the star-studded sky. The aliens—tall, slender beings with iridescent skin—stepped out, their eyes glowing like distant galaxies.
I’ve always been a man of action. From bar brawls to intergalactic skirmishes, my fists have seen it all. But nothing prepared me for that fateful evening on the Boca Raton beach, when the sky split open like the skulls of my enemies after I land a perfect roundhouse, and I was snatched away by extraterrestrial hands.
The aliens—gray-skinned, bug-eyed, and smelling faintly of burnt rubber—dragged me aboard their UFO. I struggled, but their psychic restraints held me tight. They wanted to steal my melanin, shave my hair, and probably probe my anus. Disgusting, right?
As they strapped me to a cold metal table, I thought about my history with these cosmic creeps. Back in ’98, I’d decked a gray-skinned Roswellian who tried to steal my nachos at a UFO-themed diner. And let’s not forget the time I roundhouse-kicked a reptilian in Area 51. Yeah, I was practically a legend among the interplanetary hoodlums.
But this abduction was different. These aliens were organized. They had an axe to grind and I was the wheel. I noticed that these aliens looked familiar, a lot like the Greys I had recently rumbled with at the dojo, and they were enjoying seeing me held in psychic thrall.
That’s when it hit me—the power of hate. I focused on every alien who’d ever wronged me: the ones who broke up my marriage, the ones who coaxed me into a gambling addiction, and the ones who abducted me now. My rage surged, shattering their psychic shackles. I was free.
I leaped from the table, my karate instincts kicking in. The aliens lunged, but I whirled like a dervish, delivering roundhouse kicks, uppercut after uppercut, and even a few head butts, their giant skulls collapsing like eggshells under my savage assault. Their bug eyes widened as they fell one after the other, like pins on my league bowling night.
The UFO rocked, alarms blaring. I sprinted to the cockpit, my intuition guiding me. I’d watched enough sci-fi movies to know how these things worked. I easily mastered the controls of their alien craft, and soon, we were hurtling toward the moon. The aliens screamed, their bug-eyed expressions matching my own.
We circled to the dark side of the moon, where I glimpsed strange structures—but that’s not really relevant to this column. But I had a mission: eject the crew. I kicked open the airlock, sending them tumbling onto the moon’s cold surface. They’d think twice before abducting another Sinclair.
Back on Earth, I sold the UFO to the local scrapyard. I got a tidy sum, and the proprietor didn’t bat an eyelash. He handed me a wad of cash, and I walked away, $250 richer. As I drove home, I wondered if the aliens would return. Maybe they’d bring friends. Or maybe they’d learn a valuable lesson: Don’t mess with a double black belt in karate.
Mohammed Sinclair
