Behind You I glared out the window with increasing annoyance. What else was there to do on that wonderful and gorgeous Top Orbiter series ship? I didn't want to be there, but when aliens (who've been your friends for fifteen years) tell you Earth's going down in a fiery pit, there's little other choice. Except it didn't. I was glaring out the window of a top of the line spacecraft AT EARTH. I was starting to have my doubts about it all being real. Honesty is the best kept secret in the universe, proven by the fact that within the human race, inventors of honesty, on average a person will lie about fifty percent of the time they speak for every day. Okay, so I have no actual clue if that's true, but it is a fabulous notion to ponder. At very least it applies to my neighbor's kids, who are determined to believe everything is "awesome." They'd realize their foolish mistake if they could only process how similar 'awesome' and 'awe-inspiring' are. My point being this; the "aliens," if that's what they really were, were either hugely mistaken about what planet they'd inhabited for at least fifteen years, or they'd been lying about the destruction of Earth. Now my job was to figure out whether I was hostage, or friend. This was not all that puzzling or difficult, because I had been there for four days, being fed through a small gap in the door. Another interesting thing about humans is their utter lack of a time line. Unlike pan-dimensional beings, viewing the future is a task beyond mental recognition. So when I told my sister that I would certainly have lost those last five pounds by the time it became necessary, I truly believed it. But at that moment I was five pounds from fitting through an interstellar cat door. A rustling noise came from behind me. The other occupant of this prison-storage area coughed and rolled over again, unsettled in sleep. The aliens appeared to have never seen a dog before, supporting my conclusion that they were, in fact, person impersonators, and not truly my old friends. Good. I'd hate to think all that time had been wasted with my future enslavers. Russle was my neighbor's dog (you know, the one with the "awesome" kids.) Russle loved to sleep, and had a knack for it. He also happened to be about 500 pounds of muscle. If I had his type of build, and skill for doing nothing whilst retaining a singular shape and weight, I would no longer have difficulty working through a cat door. Unfortunately, neither me nor Russle could fit through the door. See later editions for continued story (maybe, I have finishing/commitment issues.)
