By Gareth D Jones
“In here,” said the farmhand, a wrinkled Mexican with a toothless smile. He led the two black suited men through the sagging barn entrance to the dim interior. A peculiar and unpleasant odour filled the dust-laden air. A pair of younger farmhands stood just inside, nervously holding shovels. They smiled uncertainly as the agents passed.
At the back of the barn, on bales of straw, sat a startlingly unlikely trio. To the left, a farmer, moustachioed and muscular. To the right, a grey, slimy figure, a creature almost man-like. Its violet eyes were far too large for comfort and it seemed to be the source of the smell. It emitted a series of whining noises that grated against the ear.
“He says hello,” said the young girl who sat between the two.
“My daughter, Rosetta,” said the farmer, standing to shake their hands, “she’s the only one who understands him.”
The agents looked at each other speculatively, then settled down onto bales to begin the interview.