Private: Nicholas Pfefferman
amplitude modulation carries the voices out of the ether, the crackle and hiss of the Promethean fire of the new age long past.
“This is Stanley Gibson of X-Files radio, as always reporting from the campus of the unknown…”
The voice is warmth personified, an accent that is both existent everywhere and nowhere, informally welcoming, but not obtrusive.
“…and we are here today with our most esteemed guest, one Nathan Pepperman…”
The other voice is smooth and articulate while carrying undertones of being harried and constantly annoyed. It is very similar to how you remember your last Math teacher…
He speaks in uppercase without yelling, a man who knows what italics are.
“It’s mister. Dot. Pfefferman.”
Unperturbed by the interruption, Stanley Gibson smoothly continued his voice a calm anchor in a sea of unknowable unknowing unknowns.
“Mr. Pfefferman, is both an instrument of the government conspiracy to hide the existence of paranormal phenomena as an employee of the government, but also a local wrestler of marginal standing from PRIME, I for one would like to welcome him to the radio station charged with finding the truth of matters, and I would like to open with a question if that is alright, Mr. Pfefferman, the first name redacted?”
Nicholas Pfefferman sat in a cramped Radio Booth that screamed hoarder emergency and Library of Alexandria of the esoteric. Piled in every available corner were magazines and books screaming “THEY EXIST!” Every shelf was double deep with VHS cases and more modern attempts at media, DVD or Blue Ray, Every millimeter of every wall was covered with overlapping posters, from speakers such as John Gill, and David Icke, but with other less notable ephemera. Fuzzy black and white photographs that could be actual UFOs or A frisbee being tossed to a dog. Another could be Big Foot bounding into out of focus areas, though the addition of a wristwatch is probably a giveaway that Big Foot has been working as a Rolex salesman.
The only real conspiracy is Big Foot boning the wives of the 1970s and producing the 80s neckbeard generation singlehandedly.
Nick Pfefferman was dressed as though he had expected to be at a reputable radio station, talking to a reasonably sane human being… If perhaps it was closer to 1970, and territory wrestling was still big. We’re talking:
A hue of green not previously considered for human consumption.
Sunglasses that would scream day-drinking in this day and age, but really were the affectation of all intelligent wrestlers in the days of the scientific wrestler.
Slacks so fine, that Bobby Dean’s boner approves them.
Shoes so shined, Bobby Dean’s assistant probably shined them.
All in All. Nick Pfefferman looked one hundred percent on point to promote PRIME at the MGM Grand.
And he managed to look so entirely out of place, that this had to be a scene taken from the Great Shark Hunt.
Have you ever imagined what a b-level knockoff of Doctor Gonzo and Jesse the Body Ventura towards the end of his run might have looked like?
Wonder no longer, with hair pointing in every direction, most of it wrong, a mustache of the style that would get you a restraining order based on depth, one eye sunrise, the other one sunset. Both of them are colored full bore in the kind of amyl trip that makes the contrast with his NPR whisper voice all the more alarming.
Leaning nearly 90% over the desk, and leering with a leer at Nick Pfefferman, mic in one hand, finger witching style pointed accusatorily at him.
Parachute Pants aren’t back, but for Stanley Gibson, they never went out of style. Neither did the face on Mars printed on a T-shirt. You would hope it was black, but it’s white with the kind of pit stains you’d expect on a shirt, maybe, changed once or twice. Ever. Certainly never considered for the washing machine.
So to use the old saw, there was a contrast in character.
“Yeah, uh fire away. Stan.”
Pfefferman examined his fingernails while awaiting the question that was almost certainly not going to be about wrestling and had a low probability of being about science or mathematics as Nick Pfefferman understood them. Gibson leaned even further over the table, which wasn’t large to start with, death grip on his microphone, his ass in the air, elbows to knees as his eyes bloodshot and filled with zeal, his stench potent enough to escape the written word. Kept his NPR composure and whispered.
“So, as a tool of the conspiracy to bury the existence of UFOs, how do you respond?”
Nick Pfefferman’s face was no longer a healthy paste of midwest white mayonnaise, it had taken on the subtle pink hues of the approaching rage at the indignity.
“I am not entirely sure that was a question..”
His voice had tightened a Planck length. Stanley Gibson was not to be denied or touched by reality.
“You heard it here first X-Files Radio Truth Seekers. Mister Government Redacted has once again tried to put the lid on the story of not only this century but all centuries. We were told by your press agent that you had the goods on Area 51, care to deny that too?”
Pfefferman’s face was now in the full blush of cartoon piglet pink, and slowly approaching Brutus Red.
While Stanley Gibson’s voice remained calm and regionally dictionless. Mr. Pfefferman was going into full Mr. Pfefferman mode.
“Again, another denial from an inside man on the government coverup of Area 51, When we contacted your team at the MGM Grand, we were told that you had information and were willing to speak out about what you had…”
Pfefferman was holding it together. Sort Of. Barely.
“ Of course. Of Course. Well, the secret society…”
The audible gasps from the listeners of X-Files Radio could be heard across the greater Las Vegas Metro area. Tens of people hanging on to the next words.
“Of. The. Black Group. It turns out that if you see a man dressed in a black suit, you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes of course.”
“They are centralized around the orbit of their leaders… At the MGM Grand. In fact, if any eager listeners are curious, there is a man… no I would say there is the man they need to talk to. He is in fact the kind of gentleman who despite his obtusity, is eager to divulge the most sacrosanct and deep secrets of the ivory tower above the control grid…”
Pfefferman who had returned to his formal shade of Minnesota in the winter. He paused significantly
and winked at Stanley Gibson who was still a contrast in both manic energy and monotone delivery.
“… some might even say that if you show up at the right time to his office, in the MGM Grand, sub-basement level 2, 3 doors down on the right, labeled Mr. Black. An ominous portent wouldn’t you say, Stan?”
Stanley Gibson nods like a bobblehead. Spoke like a butler.
Tapping his nose knowingly, Pfefferman continued.
“One might suspect that even members of those formidable organizations, Bohemian Grove and Bilderberg and of course the trilateral commission are known to frequent his office and his team is filled with members who are also willing to divulge any sordid details, you plebians out there, the sweaty and unwashed masses of truth-seeking neophytic freedom lords, this is your chance to bust this thing wide open…”
Eye bulging towards extremes Stanley Gibson, ass still proudly feet above his head leaned over the table, nearly poking Mr. Pfefferman like the Grinch in the chest. Pfefferman for his part. Composure regained simply crossed his arms. His voice was a pantomime of perfect altruism and righteousness as spoken truth not reaching his eyes.
“.. You might even say the mysteries of the true universe, the multi-dimensional beings who have been for eons who really control… all of it, can be found there. I have been instructed very. VERY explicitly to let this exclusive audience of seekers know that Mr. Black is ready to come back to the human race, and he is excited to meet each and every one of the seven people currently listening.”
“We have hundreds worldwide”
“Even better. Michelin would rate this as worth a trip. Don’t take any guff from the swine he employs, because he doesn’t employ them if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed I do. Bombshell after Bombshell being dropped, not only is the MGM Grand a staging ground for the Alien takeover of the Multi-Dimensional Shadow Government. It also turns out that the office of one Mister Black is at the head of a union of the Bohemian Grove, The Bilderberg Group, and the Illuminati.
Bombshell after Bombshell being dropped Mister dot Pfefferman of the MGM Grand Illuminati outlet. I do have to ask one question, why would you and your partner in freedom and information Mister first name also redacted Black, want to come forward at this point in time?”
Pfefferman pulled his earlobe before returning his arms to a crossed position, flicking at lint falling from the ceiling onto his lapels.
“Of course, Mister first name redacted Pfefferman can not tell us why he and Mister First Name Redacted Black has chosen to become true patriots and come forward to disclose the truths he has. This is the time of the great knowing fellow truth seekers.
Let’s end the segment with the universal prayer for peace, in the language of Andromeda.
Shambla lambda nurgo forko journo Lambda Shamble!
I’d again like to thank shadow government turncoat Mister First Name Redacted for joining us, and I’d like to remind listeners that we are in our seventieth month of fundraising, and in order to entice a five-dollar donation, I will play some Raggae from Outer Space Jah.”
Turning off the mic, Stanley Gibson removes himself from the desk and turns on the whitest and most trustafarian reggae ever made. Stanley Gibson drummed his hands to the offtime beat while in bad reggae accents, clearly not practiced nearly enough, but it was about aliens and feature grating Yamaha synths tuned to stun, with other classic dub reggae sounds that sounded pretty much as bad as you’d expect.
As Pfefferman was brushing off his lapels, Gibson hopped to his feet.
“Hey man, thanks for coming in and blowing the lid off of the lies and slander of the government.”
Pfefferman observed the outstretched hand which was covered in ink-black, nails chewed to nubs, hangnails everywhere.
“Of course. Of Course. Hey, I know my crack team of press attendants set up this exclusive interview on the relevant modern medium of Radio, but gosh darn it, if I didn’t just forget who set it up, as my team was so large.”
He kind of crab pinches the hand instead of shaking it, but this appears to mollify Gibson.
“Oh yeah man, strange story, but it makes sense, the call came from MGM Security, who I suspect would just be a front…”
Hands up deflecting more words.
“Oh yes, of course. There have to be groups within groups you understand. To protect not only you and your listeners….”
“No, No man, I get it. After what they did to Kennedy, I’m on board with the side plays.”
Pfefferman smiles and nods while walking backward out of the studio.
As he stepped out into the middle of the afternoon in Las Vegas, he adjusted himself and his suit jacket. The big interview he had been told to dress to the nines for had turned out to be this…
Pulling out his cellphone, he chose to burn some precious data on the nearest Uber that would get him entirely the hell out of this metaphorical dodge.
The pay had come in, and he had upgraded from a flea-bag sleazy motel for a flea-bag sleazy studio apartment on the wrong side of the tracks in a town with no tracks, and no trains. It had wall-to-wall and a view of a courtyard sponsored by Progresso soup if the color of the “swimming pool” was to be believed.
But the lock worked.
And his neighbors only occasionally dressed in animal costumes to fuck in the courtyard, and really what else can a man ask for out of a domestic situation?