My name is Miles Stone; captain (USAF). And, what I'm about to tell you is going to sound like bull manure. But, I swear it's true.
It began as just another test-flight.
For the past year, myself and four other astronaut-candidates had been undergoing a unique form of hypnotherapy. You see, we had all been selected for a top-secret project code-named "Silenus." And, as part of that project, we were each given a series of injections distilled from genetically-engineered Amanita mushrooms.
The goal was to see if we could access the unused 90% of the human mind without becoming addicted to those mushrooms. Because, NASA wanted to see if a space shuttle could be flown via telepathy!
That was why I wound up having a computer chip surgically implanted in my brain, when it turned out I had the best psychic access. Theoretically, that chip would allow me to telepathically interface with both the space shuttle's flight computer, and the Houston Mission Control mainframe.
Launch Day came, and the rocket lifted off without a hitch. And, the separation from it, once I had escaped Earth's gravitational field, was equally successful.
That's the point at which I went into my autohypnotic trance, as I had practiced so many times before. Sure enough; it worked. I single-handedly flew that shuttle to the Moon, and around it, in 25% less time than it had taken any of the three-man Apollo crews!
My good luck did not last, however.
At T-plus five days and thirteen hours, micrometeors started penetrating the space shuttle's hull! This automatically triggered the ship's alarm, which I had been hypnotically pre-programmed to regard as an emergency wake-up call.
Putting the shuttle on manual control, I tried to radio Mission Control with my situation report. But, the radio had already been made to look like Swiss cheese. So, I had to sit there, praying that someone's radar scopes would track my re-entry.
The G-forces I experienced during re-entry were tremendous. I felt like I was going to overgrow my spacesuit, like the Incredible Hulk!
Finally, though, I managed to bring the shuttle in for a crash-landing somewhere in the southern North Atlantic, between Miami and Bermuda. I didn't know the exact co-ordinates as the radio-compass had gone haywire during re-entry, as well.
The seat belts wouldn't unbuckle, so I had to slide out of my seat like one of those contortionist limbo-dancers in Jamaica. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue! But, at the time, I was too concerned with getting my self-inflating rubber life raft into the water before the shuttle went completely under.
And, needless to say, I did. The moment I climbed aboard, however, I got the grand-daddy of all migraines and blacked out!
I don't know how long I remained unconscious. But, when I revived, I found the life raft adrift near the biggest anchor chain I had ever seen. Talk about miracles!
I initially surmised that I must have been spotted by some passing cruise ship, and they had come to rescue me. Then, it occurred to me. If that was the case, why wasn't there a lifeboat parallel-parked next to my raft? Filled with people asking for my name, and if I was all right?
I shouted up towards the bow of the ship. Yet, no one answered. Could my shouts have been drowned out by the Spanish-sounding music I was hearing?
With no other choice in the matter, I climbed up the chain as if I were Johnny Weismuller, in an old "Tarzan" flick. When I got to the railing and climbed over it, I got the biggest shock of my life.
There was a radio playing Spanish music, all right. BUT, IT WAS AS HUGE AS A TIMES SQUARE BILLBOARD!!!
And, sunbathing next to that radio, was a giantess with long, dark hair...and the skimpiest white bikini I had ever seen.