PTERANODONS, NAZIS, AND

     YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK!

submitted by Harrison Campbell, Col. USA (ret.)

Palo Alto: With the recent one-two, slam-bang Jackie Chan-like succession of exposés that have rocked this northwest Iowa community in recent months, it only seems natural that further evidence of cover-ups, Government and otherwise, should be revealed.

     As this reporter has related in past issues of Third Eye Over Iowa, Cretaceous Period flying reptiles were reported to have survived the K-T extinction event until the present day (see: The Pteranodons Of Palo Alto County, March, 1997, vol. 4, Issue #3 & Mysterious Attacks Blamed On "Pteranodons", June, 1997, vol. 4, Issue #6).

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Harrison Campbell, Col. USA 9ret.)
     Not more than a week ago, while resting from another assignment too classified to relate right now, an urgent telephone call from Iowa DNR Ranger Mike Dooley summoned this reporter to meet him at McNamara's Band, where, I was told, proof positive of the surviving Pteranodons would be presented.

     McNamarra's Band is the oldest legal post-Prohibition tavern in Emmetsburg. Kevin McNamara opened it (legally) in 1934 , and it is still owned and operated by his son, Barney. It is conveniently located on the northeast corner of Broadway and 12th street, just one block north of the Gaelic Beverage Company from whence it receives most of its alcohol supplies, less the sudsy poteen brewed on premises.

     Arriving at McNamara's Band at approximately 1827 hrs (6:27 PM CST), this reporter found the tavern just beginning to fill with regulars. A small contingent of the University of Emmetsburg ROTC White Guards, led by the ROTC commandant, Colonel Bratchenko bivouacked near the bar. The stuffed Rotweiller, General Billy Sherman, stood proudly at attention on a shelf over the perennial bartender, Korvettan-Kapitain Jurgen "Eisenaugen" Wassergott, who was just warming up the regular crowd with the intro to Nietzsche's Here Come the Harlequins.

     Ranger Dooley, accompanied by his assistant Ranger, his 12 year old son Nate, were already ensconced at a table in a furtive far corner of the building near the pool tables. The younger Dooley kept glancing warily at the rest of the patrons, and I thought I discerned the butt of a Model '97 Winchester trench gun protruding from inside his Eisenhower-style Ranger jacket.

     After getting for myself four brandy and sodas and two vodka and white Grenaches (it was double-bubble), this reporter joined the Dooleys at their table, already well-littered with PBR soldiers; some quick, many dead.

     No sooner had this reporter seated himself than Ranger Dooley reached across the table, scattering several empty beer cans in the process, and grabbed the sleeve of my camel-hair trench-coat.

     "Good to see ya, Colonel," he said. "Y'got here just in time. The Krauts'll be here any time, and that's when you'll see 'em. They always come with the Krauts."

     When asked who they were, Ranger Dooley merely sagged back, shaking his head and grabbing a fresh PBR. His 12 year-old son, Nate, threw the '97 Winchester on the table, and leaning across it, jutted the stub of his Swisher Sweet upward from his mouth like the 11 inch main armament on the battleship USS Maine..

     "The aviaticus reptilicus, Campbell," he said, whipping off his mirrored RayBans. "The Pteranodons."

     No sooner had Dooley the Younger resumed his seat, when a group of nondescript individuals entered the bar. They filed to some empty tables in one corner, set apart from the rest of the clientele. They looked more like they belonged in white government lab coats and not like survivors of the Mesozoic Era. Ranger Dooley merely shrugged at this observation.

     "Give it time, Campbell. This is just the graham cracker crust. The Jello Pudding filling and Cool Whip topping are yet to arrive."

     This writer's GI issue chronometer read 1932 hrs. More patrons had arrived. Wassergott lustily hammered on the piano as the Aerodyne employees crooned a familiar tune:

     "Vor der Kasserne, vor dem Grosse tor,

     stand eine Laterne , und stehts die nacht dafor,

     So wollen wir und wiedersehn,

     Bei der Laterne, woll'n wir stehn,

     Wie einst, Lili Marlene, Wie einst, Lili Marlene."

    

     While this reporter's thoughts wafted back to a war he was too young to fight, the rotund figure of Palo Alto County Operetta Workshop tenor Tom Dunson sat down next to me; one meaty but effeminate fist clutched a snifter of Ernie & Julie French Columbard, the other he placed upon my knee. This writer quickly but politely swept it his be-ringed hand away.

     "Ah, Colonel Campbell," greeted the beefy Dunson. "Investigating us again?"

     This author has always despised individuals using the royal third person, but has to put up with it as these people are our sources. After agreeing this reporter was indeed hot upon the trail, Dunson nodded, and looked over at the Rangers Dooley, who were plainly disturbed by Mr. Dunson's presence.

     "This is where I saw the fey little things," Dunson continued, ordering a refill with a deft flick of his wrist. "Charming, they were. One could almost say cute, if that adjective applied to them."

     "Cut the fag crap and tell your story," Dooley barked.

     "I resent your tone," Dunson gasped, flipping his two chins in a show of pique.

     The reader will recall that Mr. Dunson claimed to have been abducted from McNamara's Band after meeting several Germanic types and two odd-looking , smallish individuals and taken to work in a Government operated sweatshop in orbit (see: Outerspace Sweatshops: Is the Government Responsible? December 1997, vol. 4, Issue #12).

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Ranger Mike Dooley and 12 year old son, Nate, scout for pteranodons.
     Dunson related his story, adding, "I, that is we, the rangers and myself, think that these little guys are..."

     "Bioengineered hybrids of Pteranodons and humans," Nate Dooley cut in. "This ain't one of your operas for the bladder impaired, pansyman. Cut to the chase."

     While the Dooleys and Dunson disputed political correctness, I mulled over their story. If the so-called bioengineered Pteranodons did indeed exist, as was claimed, then perhaps this writer would be in a good position to verify this fact, or to once and for all time prove it preposterous.

     Ignoring the open hostility between the Dooleys and Dunson, I prepared to ask the latter a question, when another person materialized from out of the cigarette smoke next to me at the table. This individual, just over four feet three inches tall, wore a trenchcoat and fedora. His hands and upside-down pear-shaped head were swathed in bandages, save for two eye openings and one lower down for his mouth. In his right hand he carried a pint glass filled with a mixture of MD 20/20 and mint Jello. In his left he carried a 9x11 manila envelope, which he placed on the table top. It was "Joe Three", one of my primary contacts at Aerodyne.

     At that moment, Nate Dooley hurled a full can of PBR at Dunson, which glanced off his thick actor's skull. He shrieked and dramatically grabbed his forehead.

     Fearing an unwanted confrontation, I looked around in alarm. I needn't have worried: the tobacco smoke haze and distracting mixture of Clancy Brothers and Aerodyne voices raised in Die Wacht Am Rhein, effectively obscured the fracas.

     "Hiya, Harry," Joe Three croaked. "Got your identity for next week. You here about the reptoid invasion?"

     "No," I replied. "Pteranodons. The Dooleys said I might see 'em here tonight."

     "Joe Three" watched Barney McNamara apply a pressure bandage to Tom Dunson's cranium. "Yeah, this is their night out." He drained his glass, readjusted his fedora. "Well, back to the salt mines." He flicked what passed for his right index finger to the brim of his hat in salute, and sauntered out.

     Fortunately Dunson swished away in a huff after his disagreement with Nate Dooley, and things settled down. Kapitain Wassergott and the group from Aerodyne were belting out a stirring version of Tomorrow Belongs To Me, the resident Joel Grey impersonator mugging approvingly. Suddenly, Ranger Dooley's hand again shot out, pointing toward the back of the bar.

     "There!" he hissed in as surreptitious a manner as possible, "There they are!"

     I followed his finger. Walking toward the Aerodyne group were six crew-cut blond titans from the Rhine, all clad in black. Amidst the Teutonic escort three smaller figures in black trenchcoats waddled to the Aerodyne table. In the dim light of the bar, obscured by clouds of tobacco smoke, it was hard to tell whether they were human. A closer look was called for. A much closer look.

     Making my way as unobtrusively as possible through the crowd toward the Aerodyne corner, I took up the surveillance from a much better vantage point between the waitress station and the entrance to the Men's room. I observed nothing out of the ordinary; Aerodyne engineers swinging impressive beer steins, some right arms lifted in the forbidden salute, voices lifted in sentimental Germanic melancholia.

     Suddenly, a figure arose from the large Hofbrau-style table, and waddled toward the Men's room. It was just under five feet tall, by my best estimate. I hurriedly picked up a handy copy of The Fortean Times and furtively watched as it went into the restroom. As nonchalantly as possible, I followed.

     Hearing the stall door close, I quickly positioned myself in front of one of the three massive urinals, and idly whistled Panzerlied. Judging that the time was right, I stepped away from the urinal just as the stall door opened, and I was face to face with...

     "Bud! Bud!" it croaked, the top of its head slapping the bare bulb that dangled from its cord and lit the room.

     Five feet tall, wearing a black London Fog raincoat, the shoulders of which were oddly pointed. Though covered by a hood, the top of its head was shaped like an Indonesian kris . Two intense, super-intelligent eyes regarded me with cold suspicion, while the rest of it's beak-like face was lowered to it's chest.

     "Bud! Bud!" it croaked again, more insistently.

     I apologized for not having any Anheiser-Busch products with me, for want of anything better to say. Then, sensing another presence in the room, I jumped back, barely avoiding the syringe wielded by the tall blond giant at my elbow. I drew my M1911A1 Colt and pressed the muzzle into his chest.

     "Was gibts?" he demanded, indignant at having been caught out.

     "Back off, Herr Mac!" I stated, cocking the hammer on the .45.

     At the same time I had the unpleasant feeling of the cold, round certainty of the Glock .9mm jammed beneath my left ear.

     "I am so sorry, Herr Oberst Campbell," the second Teutonic knight hissed sadistically. Concealed in another stall, I had missed him. "You have come too close to something that even you were never meant to know."

     I felt rather than heard him pull back the Glock's slide.

     Herman number two grunted suddenly, and the pistol pressing at my head vanished. I jumped back and beheld Nate Dooley, the barrel of his Model'97 Winchester 12 gauge trench gun jammed into the second German's solar plexus.

     "Like he said, Sauerkraut. Back off."

     The second German looked even more outraged than the first. He dropped the pistol to the linoleum floor.

     At that moment came the sound of bolts cocking on automatic weapons. The Men's Room was suddenly very crowded with black-clad Aryans carrying Mac-10 submachine pistols, all pointed at myself and the younger Ranger Dooley.

     "It appears we have caught you napping, Herr Campbell," said German # 1, now approaching with two syringes.

     "Leave it to a Nimitski to bring a hypodermic to a blitzkrieg," came a Russian-accented voice from the door as bolts cocked on AK-74 assault rifles held by fur-hatted White Guards. Colonel Bratchenko pointed his Makarov automatic pistol at the Germans, and motioned his squad of Cossacks to cover the outwitted supermen.

     "I suggest we have a stand-off," Bratchenko continued, idly dropping the syringe-wielding hasenpfeffer against a urinal with the barrel of his Makarov. "I suggest that we all withdraw peacefully," he suggested.

     "Not until you leave!" the second Son of the Rhine retorted.

     No one dared move. No one could move. The restroom was now so crowded that weapons on both sides poked their foes. Agreeing to an order of withdrawal was difficult, neither side wanted to leave first and risk getting it in the back.

     Once outside, I inhaled deeply of the smoke-filled air. Bratchenko thrust a three-quarters full bottle of Stolichnaya into my hand. I quickly took two stiff belts, and replaced my service automatic in its shoulder holster.

     "It appears that you spoiled their evening," Bratchenko observed.

     The might-be Pteranodons and their Cherusci escort had vanished. The Aerodyne engineers were acting as they had before, only the song had changed; Kapitain Wassergott was leading them in the theme from Das Boot: The Musical.

     "I owe you one, Colonel," I told the Russian officer.

     "You have obviously gone into territory where even you were not intended to go, Polkovnik Campbell," the Afghan War Veteran replied. "I think for the time being, you would be safer at the Beloguardyetsi Barracks. And there, we will discuss swords."

     Now that my hitherto innocent investigation has taken a more personal turn, I vow that I will use all my contacts to obtain an answer to this mystery.





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