Trudy Truelove. That was truly her name. What a name. She was Jim’s girl, in Roswell on July 2nd, 1947, anyway.
The couple reclined in the bed of Jim’s pickup some 35 miles north of town, giggling and kissing. A collection of empty beer bottles lay on the ground and bits of clothing were hanging randomly about; a shirt draped over the tailgate, a sock balancing on the mirror, a bra clinging precariously to a branch above them.
On the horizon, lightning flashed.
Trudy sat up and inhaled the ozone as the wind suddenly whooshed down from the sky.
“Jim, we better get the tent up before the weather sets in.”
Jim grunted and gently pulled at Trudy’s wrist, inviting her to lie back down.
“Sweetie, I’m serious!”
With a smiling sigh, Jim got to his feet. A long groan of thunder echoed through the hills and a streak of light unexpectedly caught his eye.
“Look at that!”
Trudy looked up just in time to see a fiery disk whiz overhead at a tremendous speed. A loud clap accompanied its disappearance over the ridge a mile or so away.
The lovers quickly dressed and sped off to investigate the crash-site of the flying saucer.
What followed proved to be a tangled web of deceit, fraud, and cover-ups. The government tends to be the usual suspect in these types of cases, but in this particular case the web was especially spun by the “witnesses.” (This version of) the story of Jim Ragsdale and the stories of nearly every single participant in what has become the colossus of all conspiracy theories don’t hold up to competing and contrary facts.
But that has never stopped man from believing, once he’s set his mind to it... or if there’s a dollar to be made.