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One of the greatest unsung heroes in the history of alien-killing is Randall Crate.  I wouldn’t be at all surprised if every one of those flying saucers that people see whizzing around in our skies day after day had a picture of Randall Crate posted somewhere inside, with the words “AVOID THIS HUMAN” printed under it in some kind of alien hieroglyphics.  

Randall Crate is too gloriously stupid to be affected by any alien mind control, and has no problem whatsoever with either xenophobia or killing, making him one of the deadliest enemies that visiting aliens have ever faced.  In the last ten years alone, alien abductions have decreased over 60% within a three-mile radius of Randall Crate’s house.  

Some aliens from one of the lesser-known galaxies, where word of Randall Crate’s activities has yet to be spread, came by one day recently and tried to abduct him.  They were lucky to get away with their lives, in addition to a cow they managed to snag during their escape.  The loss of Clarabelle only made Randall Crate angrier than ever, and he has since doubled his tireless efforts to kill all aliens.

I am currently working on a Randall Crate Wikipedia page so that more people will be aware of this great man.  Here’s what I have so far…


Randall Crate — a wiry, ill-humored redneck who lives in the hills and don’t cotton to all them aliens landing in his neck of the woods and abducting people and all.  So he patrols the hills in his pickup, night after night, and if he sees any aliens then BLAM!!!  BOTH BARRELS!!!  ‘Course he always leaves one alive to fly their hunk of junk spaceship off his land.  And if it’s Friday night, Randall Crate unwinds by stopping by his favorite bar and getting drunk and getting in a fight.
During a well-documented sighting of a daylight disc UFO over Texas in 1997, a photograph was taken of Randall Crate as he hooked a thumb toward the UFO and was heard to say, “They’re gonna get theirs.”
Another equally well-documented incident occured one night in the forest as Randall Crate encountered two “grey” aliens.  One of the aliens uttered “We come in peace” just as Randall Crate gave them both barrels and blew both their heads clean off.  YEE-HAAA!!!  It was a humdinger of a shot!  

Frank Hardy sprang from a clump of bushes and patted him on the back.  “Nice shooting, Mr. Crate!” he beamed.

His brother Joe, blond and a year younger than Frank, joined them.  “A double header!” he laughed.

“SHUT UP!!!” shrieked Randall Crate.  “SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!”

“Did somebody say ‘dinnertime’?” asked a stocky, freckle-faced young chap as he emerged from the bushes, eating an apple.  It was the Hardys’ ever-famished chum, Chet Morton.

Randall Crate gave him both barrels.  BLAM!!!  The blast blew Chet in half.  

“DON’T NEVER SNEAK UP ON ME LIKE THAT!!!” screamed Randall Crate as he made his way into the woods, looking for more aliens.

Joe looked down at Chet, his eyes wide with shock.  “Frank!” he gasped.  “Chet’s been…murdered!”  

Frank stared at him in disbelief.  “What do you mean, ‘Chet’s been murdered’?”

“Just look!” Joe sputtered.  “He’s dead!  I wonder who did it?  Golly, just when things start getting slow here in Bayport, another mystery falls right into our laps!”  

Frank couldn’t believe his ears.  “You wonder who did it?  Randall Crate did it, dumbass!  You were standing right there with your thumb up your ass the whole time!”

“Oh, yeah,” Joe said sheepishly.  “Gee, I guess it’s not such a swell mystery after all.”

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