The Long Claws of Saturn by Jordie Mac The year is 1963. The place, a swamp outside Dallas, Texas at the dead of night and a hundred miles out from civilization. You're walking alongside a young man from Louisanna on a solo hunting trip with his hound dog Clay, named after a famous boxer. The ground is wet and both their feet seep into the soil with each step, but it's not so bad that they're unable to walk. You see the man holster his sniper rifle, with which he is highly proficient, and unravels his shirt sleeve where he keeps his Lucky Strike cigarettes, puts it to his lips, and strikes a match to smoke. He can't see you, because all of this happened long ago, and you're watching from a time and place inconceivable by the players here today, and yet shaped entirely by them. On this day in 1963, you see a man that's twenty-four years old, has no plans for the future and wonders what lies for him in the decades to come. By this time the day after, his fate would be sealed and would play a starring role in one of the most important events of the 20th century. If it were up to him, he'd have had no part in it whatsoever. Clay heard the tires first. The man looked at his dog curiously as one spotted brown ear perked to the side, and the man assumed it must be a varmint climbing up a tree, or perhaps something even larger waiting in the bushes. Then, he heard it too. This was no animal, but something mechanical rolling through the turgid mud and over the crumbling marsh logs. He dropped his cigarette and hunched down below a moss-covered rock just big enough to hide both him and his dog. He peered into his dog's eyes and lifted a finger to his lips. Ssssssh, he said, and somehow Clay understood. A moment later, the headlights of the oncoming vehicle flickered through the thicket until coming into full view, the rumble of a gas-guzzling engine announcing its arrival. The man behind the rock could see, it was an army vehicle: Drab olive coloring with no roofing and embroidered with a white star on its hood. In the front seat sat a man in a black suit and tie, and next to him a man dressed the same. They were chauffeuring another, this one without a suit, but instead, a general's get up equipped with the full regalia of badges of medals of honor (many of which our man behind the rock recognized from his time in the war) and a stern expression across his rectangular totem face, topped with an even sterner army issue haircut. "I don't give a damn if this ain't the spot," The man in the general's get up said, speaking with an authentic Texan drawl, "My lizard needs leaking like yur Mama needs a drum stick," The car stopped its drive and the military man elbowed the car door, waddling off into the bushes and coming our way. Clay instinctually lowered his head even further below the rock, seeing his master do the same. As the general approached he unzipped his fly and let out a sigh that was both relieved, and agitated, like the last reprieve before a great undertaking. Our man tried making out what the general muttered to himself as best he could, but no word could be made out over the sound of his urination. "Sir?" The black-suited man in the driving seat spoke, his voice trembling in hushed tones, "I think you better come and take a look at this," Just above the clearing where the army jeep parked, a spinning and silent star emerged out of the darkness of the night sky, followed by another, and then another, until the celestial lights formed the shape of a spinning discus hovering high in the air. The vision became psychedelic as they flashed and changed color in rapid unpredicting spasms of strobing light. Finally, they collectivized into the shape of a pyramid, still spinning like a top, and then descending down steadily towards the earth. As it dropped nearer and nearer, the heart of our man dropped further and further into his stomach. The general peered over his shoulder, grimacing and shaking out the final drips and drops, "Well, I'll be damned," He said, "I guess we are close enough, after all," Our man behind the rock watched as the pyramid-shaped object (big enough to house a small family) landed safely on the ground and impressed itself two feet deep into the soft soil. He'd seen things like this before, in the comic books he liked to read. The kind you see on the rack at the drug store right by the candy and bubble gum. Those were fictional tales: High-minded science fiction stories written by men of whimsy for children and the young at heart. This, on the other hand, was something very real. The pyramid-shaped thing ran another show of lights, colors chasing each other up and down the spines of its vertical slant before a then unforeseen hatch door raised agape and from its mouth billowed plumes of green and yellow technicolored fog. The two black-suited men on either side of the general displayed opposing reactions- On his right, pure stoicism, and on the left, the man rubbed his hands nervously in an act of self-soothing, which the general caught sight of, and guffawed. "Well, Tommy?" The general said, mockingly pinching the suited man's shoulder, "I thought you said you were C.I.A material?" The beings which walked forth from out the fog (along with an unfurling tongue-like metal platform) were not bipedal beings like the grey-skinned, big-eyed men-of-Mars readers of this generation knew so well. Nor were they tentacled beasts of some outer dimension, or floating faceless implacable creatures so foreign and strange they truly earned the monicker "alien," Rather, they walked on all fours and came up less than a foot from the ground. Their skin was covered in fur of varying colors like red, grey, and white, on soft-footed paws of four-toed feet. With a confident and buoyant stride they approached and became visible in the headlights of the army jeep and could now be seen to have two pointed ears, green eyes with vertical oval iris, and long curling whiskers from their cheeks and brow. Cats! The man behind the rock thought to himself, I must be dreaming. Those are cats! "Well, boys," The general said, brushing off his slacks and straightening his shirt collar, "Prepare to meet your maker," The cat which appears like an orange tabby stepped out in front of his accompanying entourage (the other members being a black and white alley cat, a Russian blue, a main coon, a menacing hairless sphynx) and sat back on its hind legs, licking its paw to briefly clean its face, and then peered up expectantly at the human posse. The general stepped forward as well, cleared his throat, and lowered his head respectfully (but not timidly) before addressing the mysterious feline. "On behalf of the Amerian government and the United Nations at large I'd just like to start by thanking you and your kind for their gracious benevolence and undying generosity in our time of need. You are truly a most sophisticated civilization, and, if I might could speak from my Texan heart for a moment, I'd just like to say, ya'll fellers are just 'bout the grandest as all get out," The orange tabby narrowed its eyes, ever so slightly, perhaps in sweet reveling of the general's denial of ostentation. It capitalizes on the man's humility by lifting its hand in the air, and tilting his head to the side, testing the man. The general hesitates and then does what he must: Bending down on one knee and kissing the soft white paw as if it were the ring of a ruling monarch. Then, the orange tabby speaks. "General Sherwood, I presume?" The man meets the cat's gaze and replies. "Mister Spaghetti, it's an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance," "Much obliged," Mister Spaghetti tilted his head in a nod, and then gestured towards the four others, "Here with me are my constituents. Tuxie," The black and white cat rolled their wrist and bowed genitally, "Oreo," The Russian blue waved, "Simba," meow said the Maine coon, "And Oliver," the hairless sphynx did nothing. "Yes, it's a pleasure to finally meet you all as well. My predecessor-," "And they are?" Hairless Oliver interrupted and pawed in the air towards the two suited men, who in turn looked to their general for guidance. "Oh, please, forgive my rudeness. This to my right is agent Johnson, and to my left, agent Thomas," "Salutations," said the stoic Johnson. "Yes...Greetings," said the apprehensive Thomas, an apprehension not lost on Oliver. "If I have the floor?" The General asked as he leaned forward, "Good!" clapping his hands, "As I was saying: It's a pleasure to finally meet you all, my predecessor General Klauski told me much about you. It will please you to know that the good general is enjoying his retirement splendidly, and last I heard has purchased a houseboat along the everglades, where salmon fishing and catching up on his reading takes up most of his time," "And, he has cats?" Mister Spaghetti inquired. "That's right, sir. General Klauski has taken it upon himself to adopt," holding the number with his fingers, "three cats, in fact. And they stay very well fed," Mister Spaghetti meowed agreeably, followed by the others behind him, looking amongst themselves with satisfaction. "I always knew that Klauski was a fine specimen of a man. I hope you can meet the watermark the man left for you," "I'll certainly try, sir. Though sadly through unforeseen circumstances my debriefing by the good general was cut short, and I stand before you today with a, uh, a bit of a blind spot. You see, uh, I wasn't, uh...Aw hell," The general ran his hand through his hair, "How exactly does this transaction commence? I mean, should I be showing more respect, or, was I to bring you a gift in return, or-," "Nothing of the sort," Mister Spaghetti held up a paw, "And while we are on the subject, I may as well," Mister spaghetti reached his paw behind his back and produced an object (held between his two pinched paws like chopsticks) and brought it forward to the general, who took it and held it up to the light. It was rectangular and plastic, with two rigid wheel's in its center and a piece of exposed tape at its top a centimeter wide. The general whistled. "Well, I'll be. What do you call this, here?" "It's a cassette. It's used to record and playback audio and will make work in the field of sound engineering far more convenient. The days of your reel to reel are over," The smirking Sherwood passed the tape to Johnson and nodded in satisfaction, and once Johnson had finished inspecting this new gift of technology handed it to his partner Thomas, but Thomas did not accept the gift. "I see it fine from here," The agent said. "This cassette tape will last your people for two decades," Spaghetti explained, "Maybe a little less maybe a little more, but when I see fit you'll be given the next installment in this line of the invention. They're called the compact disc, but- Oh I don't want to spoil the big surprise," "That's no problem, sir," Sherwood said, "All good things come to those who wait," "Now, hold on a minute," The antsy Thomas said, "You're telling me, all our inventions... aren't inventions? They come from these...these animals?" "Not everything," Sherwood replied over his shoulder, "Men invent. Sure we do, things like the doorknob, the lava lamp, and the romance novel. Somethings though we get a little help with, to keep us sitting pretty, like the submarine, and the aye-tomic bomb," "And for what, General?" Agent Thomas's frustration was growing, "They placate us enough for them to infiltrate our ranks, and then what? A military coup?" Now it was Sherwood's turn to grow frustrated in return. "Boy, are you aware you're acting insubordinate? If you don't button your lip, I'm gonna go right ahead and zip it for you," He faced down the agent, looming over him with a scowling lip and a furious brow as the agent attempted to starred back without showing fear, and failing. Then, the cats began to laugh, breaking up the showdown. "A coup? As in, to spend our time ruling over this planet and dictating commands? No, no, no, no, no!" Mister Spaghetti shook his head and wiped the notion away, "You have our interests completely and entirely mistaken. We are not here to work, or to be regarded as anything more than your ordinary house cats to be fed and pampered. That's our ultimate goal, humans. You have nothing to fear from us, as far as war goes, as long as stay full and happy. If you were to ask me, I'd say that was a fine deal, indeed," "It...it does, truthfully," The General said, turning back towards the cats, "But if I have one thought, it's that I wonder how you plan on controlling the populace of Earth? Not to question your methods, but what say the humans adopt your species, and only a portion takes proper care of you? There's a lot of ill-minded folks on this planet, and a great deal of your race could encounter death, or worse, at the hands of humans," "Oh, don't you worry. The humans will come to adore us and make a pariah of any individual who does not share that enthusiasm and a dead man of any who dare cross us. The internet will see to that," "The inter...The inter-what now?" "All in good time, all in good time. There is one more thing we need to discuss: Not all nations of your planet are proceeding at the same rate of feline affection as your United States, and the lack of timeliness does disturb us," "That, I was debriefed on, as a matter of fact," General Sherwood said, "And I'm well aware of your expectations. The only problem is, eeh...Our current commander in chief isn't going for it. He won't commence war in Asia, no matter how much we cajole him. And he understands the implication, but he won't budge," "That is a problem, isn't it?" Spaghetti replied. "But, his vice president, he is more than willing to do what you ask," "And if I understand your system of government well enough if something were to happen to your acting president-?" "That's right. Then the vice president will take his chair. But something like this has to be done right. There can't be any way of it getting back to us. We have to find ourselves the perfect patsy," "A perfect what?" "Patsy. It means, eh, like a fall guy. A dupe. Someone who can do our dirty work, and take all the blame, without it ever getting back to us," Mister Spaghetti looked up into the starry night sky and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "This is a joke. An outrage!" Agent Thomas spoke up again. "Boy, I told you-," The General let loose his best crazy eye, but it wasn't silencing the agent. "You're going to let these mongrels assassinate our president? To hell with that! Why don't we go back and tell the white house that these cats need to be dealt with, better sooner than later? As you said, they already gave us the submarine and the atomic bomb, so why don't we use them!" "And you don't think they've got something even better? Aren't you listening!? We lift a finger to these felines, and-," "I don't care. You can't stop me from fighting these Egyptian animals! I'll see to it myself that the human race knows that-," "What!?" Oliver said, "You dare call us Egyptian? Those rock-pushing troglodytes? We are not Egyptian! We were worshipped by the Egyptians, and gave them everything they ever had! We cats hail from the hollow center of planet Saturn! EVERYONE KNOWS THAT!" Now there was an awkward silence, as neither party made a move, except for furious Oliver who crept closer and closer to Agent Thomas. The agent looked to friends for help, but they returned with expressions that let him know he was on his own. Thomas snapped and went for his pistol, when just as quickly Oliver reached out his paw and in it, a metallic green pistol materialized. The rounded front end turned a bright red and let loose a bolt of plasmic stream, which collided with agent Thomas, and turned him into a puddle of goo. Even Sherman and Agent Johnson could not contain their disgust and regurgitated onto the ground. The pack of cats laughed and meowed in return. "Grrrrr," Clay bent down on his haunches and snarled. "No, sssh! Clay, be quiet!" The man behind the rock whispered to his dog, but it was of no use. A moment later Clay rushed out from behind his hiding place and began lunging at the cats. "What in sam hell!?" Sherwood shrieked. "A dog! It's a dog!" Tuxie pointed and held his jaw aghast. Oliver, too shaken to act quickly enough pointed his gun at the dog, but without a moment's notice Clay caught Oliver's neck in his jowls and whipped him violently until he was dead. Mister Spaghetti produced his own vaporizer in his paw and fired a shot of red lightning at Clay, knocking him back three feet away. "Clay! No, no!" The man behind the rock finally revealed himself and came to his dog, who was not yet dead, but whimpering in pain and holding on for his dear life. "Who is this man?" Mister Spaghetti turned to Sherwood accusatorially, "You were planning an ambush all along!?" "No!" Sherwood said with all his sincerity, "I've never seen this man before in my life! I didn't even know he was there!" "It's true!" Said our man, still cradling his dying dog in his arms and holding him too close to his chest, "I promise, I had no idea ya'll be even out here! I was just on a hunting trip with my dog! I swear, I won't tell any of what I heard! I'll be a good human, please! But Clay didn't know any better, he couldn't help it. So he don't deserve to die, please! Just help my dog!" "Help your...?" Mister Spaghetti twitched his head and grinned, "Yes, we can do that. In fact, with our technology, we can make him better than ever. I can guarantee another twenty years of a healthy, happy life for this dog. But that cat he killed was a great mind, and a brilliant soldier and his life must be compensated in full. Are you willing to do that? Are you willing to be our...little patsy?" "I'll do anything, anything you ask," "Then get up off the ground, and start by telling me your name," Mister Spaghetti approached the stranger as he lifted himself up, wiped the mud from off his knees, and stood attentive like the good soldier he was. "Oswald, sir. Lee Harvey Oswald," "Well, mister Oswald," Spaghetti reached out his paw, expecting it to be kissed, "I congratulate you. You are about to become a most influential... purrrr son,"