The Featherweight Saga

Monday morning, at ten o'clock on the dot, Paul Featherweight arrived at the office building of the National Inquirer where he worked as a cub reporter. He was precisely one hour late for work. "Morning, chief." "You're late, Paul." "Calm down, chief. I've got an excuse." "This had better be good." "I had a hot tip, chief. I got a call about two o'clock this morning from some guy at a local nightspot who claimed he had just spotted Elvis Presley working in the lounge as an Elvis impersonator." "Think it's for real?" "Don't know, chief. The truth is, the guy sounded pretty drunk. But it wouldn't hurt to stake the place out." "Could be a hoax." "Maybe. But when I spoke with the guy, he was very excited. In fact, he was almost incoherent. Now you tell me. If it was a hoax, would he call in that condition? I don't think so." "Hm... I'll have to think about that one." "Elvis sightings are up, chief." "I've noticed that myself." "Elvis was no dummy, chief. My guess is that, after he faked his death, he hired a small army of Elvis lookalikes to travel around the country getting themselves spotted on purpose." "I get it. Sort of like using chaff to confuse enemy radar." "That's it exactly. Chaff, chief. He knew full well that reporters would soon get tired of investigating these reports. If anyone ever did actually spot him, the report would just get lost in the shuffle." "You may be right, Paul. Elvis had a shrewd mind." "They didn't call him the king for nothing, chief." After a short pause in the conversation, the chief got down to business. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?" "I plan to spend the rest of the morning working on my feature article for next month's special edition." "You mean you haven't finished it yet?" "The rough draft is finished, but I want to polish it a little more. To be honest, chief, I think I've got a shot at the Pulitzer with this one." "What do you mean, polish?" "As you will recall, chief, my thesis is that the lost city of Atlantis is located somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I believe the original city to be in ruins, but the literature suggests that alien beings from the planet Neptune have established a base underneath it by tunneling into the sea floor." "Why Neptune?" said the chief aloud to himself. Paul didn't hear the question and continued. "I was thinking of beefing up the section concerning Atlantis. I thought I might give a more detailed account of the ancient lore on the subject." "I don't think that'll be necessary, Paul. It's perfect like it is." "I would also like to relate all this to a recent trend I've observed." "Oh? What's that?" "Alien abductions are up, chief." "Paul, how many times do I have to warn you not to jump to conclusions? My own view is that alien abductions are occurring at about the same frequency today as in years past, but that nowadays people are less reluctant to report such incidents, thanks in part to the trail-blazing articles that have appeared in this journal. There used to be a stigma attached to anyone who made such a claim. That is no longer the case." The chief returned to his office and Paul went to work on his feature article. He was deep in thought when a noise at the desk next to his disturbed him. "Dammit! Where did I put those pictures?" Rita Skylark, a staff photographer, rummaged through her desk. She was in a hurry as usual. Her bleached blond hair was cut short and choppy, tinted purple at the temples, and swept back in waves. She wore a peasant blouse, a leopard skin miniskirt, and red go-go boots. Contemplating her from a distance, she had always seemed to Paul a being altogether too lofty and high-minded to be approached by someone as low on the totem pole as himself. But today he gave it a shot. "Rita, I was about to get some lunch. Wanna..." "Not now, Paul, I'm busy." "Oh, OK." Paul ate lunch alone at a cafeteria near the office. At the register, he ran into John Rider, a reporter for the Miami Herald. "Seen any UFOs lately, Paul?" "Don't smirk, John. It doesn't become you." "You don't really believe all that garbage, do you?" "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your crappy philosophy, Jack." "Face it, man, you're wasting your life away." "Oh yeah. So what are you working on that's so important, Mr. Big Shot?" "I'm doing a feature article on the O. J. Simpson trial." "Ugh!" said Paul, shaking his head in disgust. Just after lunch, Paul drove across town to the Stardust Motel, to keep an appointment. Before getting out of his car, he spoke into the tape recorder he carried with him. "Note to myself. It's a quarter after one. At 1:30, I have an appointment with a Mr. John Doe. (I assume this to be an alias.) Mr. Doe claims to have obtained an exclusive interview with Bigfoot." At 1:30 on the dot, Paul knocked at Mr. Doe's motel room door. Mr. Doe was nervous. His large frightened eyes blinked at Paul as he handed him the manuscript with trembling hands. "W-w-w-what I w-w-want," said Mr. Doe, "is for you to l-l-l-look it over and get b-b-back to me. I'm s-s-s-sort of in a h-h-hurry." "I certainly will," said Paul. "I have a question though. Why didn't you just mail it in?" "I-I-I wanted to put the m-m-manuscript into your hands, p-p-p-personally. I'm a-a-a great admirer of your w-w-work. You're a true believer. Not a sc-scoffer like so many of the others." Paul spent a few more minutes browsing through the manuscript. After discussing a few points with Mr.Doe, the two shook hands, and Paul said goodbye. He then returned to the office. Sitting at his desk, Paul was about to read through the Bigfoot interview, when the encounter with John Rider recurred to him. At that moment, the editor-in-chief approached. "Anything the matter, Paul?" "No, nothing, chief." "Then why are you frowning?" "OK, OK, you got me, chief. I ran into John Rider at lunch." "Ah, a respectable journalist. I know him well. Let me guess. He ragged you a little." Paul nodded. "They don't respect us, chief." "Don't let that bother you, Paul. Don't try to compete with them. Find your own niche." Paul brightened a bit. "Right, chief." "So, what did Mr. Doe have to say?" "It's a heart-rending story, chief. It seems that Bigfoot is actually just a very tall, scraggly mountain man who was separated from his family when he was just a baby. He was raised by bears who found him wrapped in swaddling clothes beneath a tree in the forest." "How does he know all this?" "The bears told him. He speaks their language, chief." "OK, that's logical." "When he reached maturity, Bigfoot decided to visit his own kind. He gave each of his adoptive parents a big hug and set out, but things didn't work out the way he planned. Apparently,