|||\\|||/ had spent their existence navigating the dense, chaotic confines of Proxima Centauri b, a planet teeming with cosmic noise and gravitational complications. The allure of Earth wasn’t just its atmosphere or resources—it was the grand spectacle of human existence, the unscripted drama, the endless contradictions.
With nowhere else to turn, they took the plunge. Earth wasn’t just a destination; it was a stage, a performance where every individual played their part. And what better way to integrate than by immersing themselves in the longest-running, most absurdly captivating reality show in the cosmos—These United States?
|||\\|||/ didn’t pick that remote spot by accident. Sure, its isolation made it the cosmic equivalent of a rundown trailer park tucked away at the edge of town—quiet, out of the way, and barely noticeable on the galactic map. That certainly played a role, but there was more to it than just avoiding unwanted attention.
The real reasons were more deliberate. First, they had a program—a plan that required a location exactly like that one, far enough from prying eyes yet close enough to execute their agenda smoothly. Second, they saw an opportunity to monetize the one thing that set them apart: their undeniable status as extraterrestrial beings. If there was a demand for the strange and the unknown, they were more than ready to supply it.
Upon receiving their coveted Grey Card from the Department of Homeworld Security, \/ wasted no time immersing themselves in the wild and unpredictable world of the Burner and festival circuit. The pulsating energy, eclectic communities, and celebration of radical self-expression felt like home. With their unique perspective and unconventional skills, they quickly found their place among the nomads, artists, and visionaries who thrived on pushing boundaries.
It was within this roaming collective that \/ turned their expertise in mycology and horticulture into something remarkable. Using nothing more than water and carefully cultivated fungi, they harnessed their knowledge to produce thriving clusters of mushrooms. The process, both scientific and deeply organic, became their signature contribution to the underground ecosystem. That’s right—\/ was growing shrooms.
|||\\|||/ mastered the art of blending in while standing out. They moved through the world wrapped in the anonymity of ‘wearing’ an alien mask, an unconventional shield against the ever-watchful eyes of surveillance. Every interaction was punctuated with the same declaration: the mask was permanent, a calculated precaution against the government’s endless reach—cameras, drones, satellites, all scanning, all recording.
To those in |||\\|||/ ‘s orbit, the choice barely raised an eyebrow. Their clientele—paradoxically chill AF and naturally distrustful of authority—never questioned the logic. If anything, it fit seamlessly into the unspoken rules of their world. The ‘mask’ wasn’t just a disguise; it was a statement, a silent pact among the wary, a badge of defiance that made sense to those tripping.
But the real kicker? Their reports weren’t just going to some shadowy agency—they were being live-streamed to an intergalactic reality show, where extraterrestrial audiences placed bets on which Burner would completely lose their grip on reality first. But, no one supposed to know about that. Crap, forget about that… we’ll talk more later.
|||\\|||/ had spent years immersed in the structured chaos of intergalactic bureaucracy, juggling diplomatic negotiations, intelligence gathering, and the occasional classified experiment. Their work was fascinating, but relentless, leaving little room for personal indulgences—like a leisurely getaway to the rolling vineyards of Earth’s Pacific Northwest. Whenever they could steal a moment of downtime, they found amusement in the absurdity of human self-help literature, marveling at the sheer confidence with which authors prescribed success formulas. One particular book had stood out, urging readers to “make their own luck” as if fate could be bent to personal will. That notion stuck with them.
So, rather than waiting for cosmic alignment, |||\\|||/ took matters into their own hands. Pitching their latest plan to Homeworld’s leadership, they framed it as a trade mission: Oregon, after all, had embraced psilocybin mushrooms at the state level, offering a legal gray area ripe for extraterrestrial opportunity. Their argument was airtight—an untapped market, eager customers, and a prime chance for cultural exchange. With reluctant approval from their superiors, they set their sights on the ideal cover. If they were going to embed themselves in wine country, they had to blend in perfectly, and no event offered greater camouflage for an alien operative than McMinnville’s annual UFO Festival & Alien Parade.
Armed with a well-researched itinerary and enough mushrooms to make Earth’s finest sommeliers question reality, |||\\|||/ descended upon McMinnville in May of 2025. The town, steeped in decades of extraterrestrial lore, welcomed costumed believers and skeptics alike, turning its historic district into a neon-lit celebration of interstellar whimsy. Among the alien masks, glowing accessories, and conspiracy theorists swapping notes over Pinot Noir, |||\\|||/ found the perfect cover. Nobody questioned their presence, their peculiar speech patterns, or even their occasional references to interstellar taxation policies. If anything, their commitment to the bit was considered admirable.
As the festival unfolded, |||\\|||/ marveled at how effortlessly they fit into this world of playful speculation and cosmic curiosity. The mushrooms were a hit, drawing intrigue from curious earthlings who sought enlightenment or at least a good laugh. For the first time, |||\\|||/ experienced something akin to human enjoyment—not merely fulfilling a mission directive, but truly embracing an adventure of their own design. Maybe, just maybe, those self-help books weren’t entirely wrong. Luck, after all, wasn’t just preparation meeting opportunity; sometimes, it was knowing where to land.
|||\\|||/ 1, Big Government 0
Instead of getting lost in the chaotic crowds or lurking in dimly lit alleys documenting the ethically questionable exchange of psychedelic fungi, |||\\|||/ opted for a more refined approach to their visit. With McMinnville boasting over 250 wineries, the choice was clear—they would indulge in the region’s finest vintages, letting the rolling vineyards provide a more palatable escape from reality.
After a long day of sipping exquisite wines and mingling with humans who spoke in tasting notes and terroir, they retreated to the pinnacle of luxury—a lavish hotel suite priced well over $1,000 a night. Of course, such indulgences didn’t weigh on their conscience, given that the entire affair was comfortably funded by the government. A cosmic expense account has its perks.
|||\\|||/ 2, Big G 0
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