It was my editor's idea. Just for the record. Like a crazed Charles Foster Kane, he'd ordered me to get the straight dope on Area 51. Lately there was no pleasing the man. Simple slice-of-life pieces just weren't good enough. Seized by a mania that bordered on the pathological, he wanted sensational, headline-grabbers: urging me to go undercover as Michele Bachmann's Mambo instructor; or write a first-hand expose on the sordid subculture of male genital piercing.

"The Weekly's running a shock piece, 'When Bikini Waxing Goes Horribly Wrong' . . . We need a real ball-grabber!" He snapped, "Either bring back that feature on Area 51, or Monday morning clean out your desk!"

The fact that I had no desk hardly mattered. The message was clear: it was "GO" time.


Night had wrapped itself around the Mojave like a star-bedazzled Snuggie when I rolled up outside the Groom Lake complex in my rent-a-car. A strange mist crept in on cat's paws, and the scent of danger hung in the air like the stench from a week-old bowl of Brussels sprouts. I wondered if it was too late to do that piece on male genital piercing? . . . WHA -- WHATWASSAT?? . . . Above me: a giant, silver disk hovering like a bird of prey . . . a blinding flash of light . . . NO! . . . NO! . . . ARRRRRGH! ....................

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in an expansive, metallic pod-like enclosure.

"We mean you no harm Earthling." Said an alien, brandishing what appeared to be an oversized turkey baster.

A bizarre bunch these aliens. Unisex -- all wearing bouffant hairdos, designer gowns, and vaguely resembling Joan Rivers with 5 o'clock shadow. They'd set up shop at Area 51 and were cloning randomly selected specimens. The clones were being used for dissection and study, while the "specimens" were being released unharmed.

"Look, the whole thing sounds kinda cool in an Ed Wood sorta way -- but are there any side effects?"

"A slight webbing of the fingers and toes," Said the alien, "And in some cases, a small amount of brain damage."

"What if I refuse?"

The alien pointed his turkey baster at me, "I'm afraid I'll have to vaporize you."

"When you say 'brain damage,' are we talkin' Gary Busey or Sarah Palin?"

I scanned the pod-like enclosure. A group of clones were engrossed in a heated game of poker.

"Hey, is that a George Bush clone?"

The alien seemed slightly embarassed, "No. That's the real George Bush. We released his clone by accident."

"Really? How long's he been here?"

"Almost ten years."

"That explains plenty."

"Yeah. We can't get him to leave. He's bonded with a couple of the clones. They're poker buddies."

"I see. Leonard Nimoy and Pete Rose. Who'd a thought?"

Lunging for the turkey baster, I vaporized the alien who disappeared in a curl of smoke. As I squeezed through a portal in the side of the alien craft, the group of clones loudly protested -- insisting I sit in for a hand of poker (all except George Bush, who asked me to bring back a six pack and bag of nachos). I managed to make my escape seconds before the craft vanished in a brilliant swirl of light. I'd come within a Klingon's hair of being cloned; nearly vaporized, but what a story! . . .


"You expect me to believe this garbage?" My editor snarled, "Reads like the plot of some crappy, 50s sci-fi flick . . . clones . . . unisex aliens . . . Pete Rose. Who's gonna buy this?"

"But it's true! . . . It really happened!"

The big guy waved dismissively, "Look, if you're gonna go all Clifford Irving, at least make it sound plausible . . . YEEEEESH!"

"Sorry, Chief. Mind if I ask a silly question? Why are you wearing a catcher's mitt on your head?"

"Issat what that is? I thought it was a new hat style?"

"Did it come with the chinstrap, or did you purchase it separately?"

"Can't recall."

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"I dunno. Been feeling a bit strange lately. Yesterday someone asked what I'd been reading and I drew a complete blank -- then this morning it took me an hour and a half to figure out how to turn on my sonic toothbrush."

"You probably just need a vacation. Anyway, I'd better get crackin' on that rewrite. Hard for me to type with these."

I held up my hands so he could see the web-like membrane enveloping my fingers.

"Funny, I got that same thing happening with my toes. Must be something goin' around?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hey Q, on your way out would you ask the intern to bring me a pot of coffee? I need to water my laptop."

"Sure thing."

Poor wretch. The job was really getting to him. Tough racket we were in. If only I could remember what it was?