We resume our story as your earnest reporter is confronted with Saurian's horrifying, some would say unbelievable revelations concerning the impending assassinaion of then President John F. Kennedy. The scene is Bob's Saloon on Munger Street in Dallas. It is the early morning and we are already drinking heavily. The following text is transcribed verbatim from my memo of November 24, 1963 to Chris Pierson, Managing Editor, Sensational Crime Publications.

Saurian implored me, "You must write down what I am about to tell you. You must tell the world. The people of Earth must know the truth." I was utterly befuddled. I could not tell if my head was already reeling from the liquor or the stink of Saurian's breath. Regardless, his words made no sense to me.

He grabbed the pen from my shirt pocket and stuffed it in my left hand. He smeared a half-soaked cocktail napkin upon the bar and gestured that I should begin writing. "I have been doing important research these past few years... extraordinary research... it has led me into contact with certain, uh, forces... yes, certain forces, intelligences, intelligences hidden from view, beyond the ken of the average person or even highest placed officials... are you getting this?"

I was not. I was staring blankly at him. "Did you say something about killing the President? You said something about killing the President."

"Yes, I'm about to get to that."

"Um- shouldn't we tell somebody? Why are telling this to me? What about the police?"

"Hah! You think I haven't thought of that!?! I would not be believed. They've already been warned and have taken no precautions. By now, I'm sure the fix is in. They are ready to invoke the cover-up, even as final preparations for the shooting fall into place. Therefore, I have sought you out, for you can serve to authenticate of my story. Please note the time."

It was 7:18 AM, the morning of November 22nd, 1963. I so duly recorded upon our improvised legal instrument and, at Saurian's direction, affixed my initials. He took the pen and signed his own, saying; "I will forward this document for authentication by the appropriate government experts. They will be reviewing everything, once it's all gone down. There will be an investigation, of course. I want to be sure that my testimony is heard. It is important to history, to humankind."*

Saurian distractedly swirled an index finger through the dregs of his awful cocktail as he continued. His tone was less of urgency than resignation. "At 12:30PM, today, the President will be shot. It will occur as his motorcade drives through Dealey Plaza. I want you to know, I want the world to know, that I am not involved. I am innocent. Further, the true perpetrators of this heinous crime might never be known if not for the deposition that I am about to give and that you must make public. They will try to stop you. They will laugh at you. They will attempt to destroy your credibility and my own. In fact, they may well try to have me killed, for I know the truth."

He leaned a bit closer, significantly violating my personally space and, with a sudden gravity of dire proportions, implored; "Promise me, for the sake of humanity, do whatever is required to publish the truth, no matter what it takes or how long it takes. The world must know!"

I poured another shot, stealing myself both from his sulfurous exhalations and for the revelation to come. I asked him, "So, tell me, where did this plot to kill Kennedy begin? Cuba? The Kremlin?"

"Oh, no. It's the aliens, of course. The Alien Force!"

Feigning comprehension, I nodded at the bizarre reply. In truth, I now reckoned that old Professor Saurian had gone dotty, demented, his brain no doubt riddled with puss and rum-filled lesions. I threw back another blast of liquor, considered my own reply and inquired, "You're having a grand ol' time at my expense, aren't you? Did you hunt me down just for a few shits and giggles and free drinks? You know, I'm a little too tired and way too busy for this."

"Oh, come now! I know all about you. My contacts have kept me abreast of your activities. I like to monitor my press, you know. No, you've got nowhere else to go in a big hurry, and you surely can use the money that a major story would bring. Hell, this might get you out of the minor league and into the majors, you know."

"I'm leaving." I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm.

"Wait... alright! Look, I'll buy." Saurian reached down, into his right sock, and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled off three hundred-dollar notes from the top and stuffed the rest back in the sock. He took one of the bills and placed it on the bar, stuffing the others into my shirt pocket. "This should more than compensate you for your time, eh."

Two hundred bucks was more money than I'd seen for a job since the "Case of the Chrome Nun", three years ago. What the fuck, I'll write whatever he wants. "Okay, spill your guts." I took pen in hand, slurped up a fresh pile of napkins and motioned Saurian to hold forth.

"Very good. Here's the straight scoop, the real poop. First, the background, as you folks call it. For the past few years, I have been conducting highly secret research into advanced mental abilities. The work has been financed by my -oh call it a day job- political problem solving for various governments and would-be governments. In any case, this research has afforded me a glimpse into realms of human experience well beyond the scope of the ordinary: teleperception, distance viewing, that sort of thing. It was in this line of experimentation that I happened onto the secret of Alien Force."

"Alien Force- that's capitalized?"

"Quite. Now, you see, it had come to my telepathic attention, that since the dawn of the Atomic Age, we had become the object of some concern to a certain higher intelligence, one that is abroad in the galaxy..."

"How's that?"

"By telepathing. We, the higher intelligence and I, communicate across the void of space through mental energy. It's really not that difficult; you just need the right kind of drugs, and plenty of them."

"I see." The old man was nuts, that's what I saw. The preeminent criminal mind of our era had decayed into just another dipsy-doodle hop-head, a drug-addled mental case. He did have cash, though. As far as I was concerned, I was just working a job. Pouring yet another drink, I let him continue.

"This force, since, oh, 1943, has been taking an ever more active role in our planet's development. They are chiefly concerned with the continued evolution of the presently dominant terrestrial species, the cockroach..."

"The cockroach?"

"Quite."

"Alright, I just want to make sure I'm getting this all down. Please, go ahead."

"Oh, I know that you think they're crazy, mistaking the cockroach for the prime species on the planet, but really, try to see it from the alien point of view. These lowly insects eat our food, eat us, for that matter. They live in our homes. They live anywhere they damn well please, actually. We can't stomp them out. They breed like, well, cockroaches! Gracious me, they'll be here long after we and all our misbegotten works have departed up the ash plume of nuclear Armageddon.

Now, it is this last matter that most gravely concerns Alien Force, and first brought humanity to their attention. Sturdy as those bugs are, the near-term likelyhood of a planetary atomic conflagration, while not posing a death-knoll to Cockroachdom, would certainly present a stumbling block on the path to higher insect consciousness and the great promise that it portends. Thus, Alien Force has determined to intervene in human politics."

Saurian paused as Bob came by to check on our progress with that bottle of whiskey. Progress was, indeed, mind-numbingly substantial. I rejoined, "So, uh, that's why they want to kill Kennedy- to save the cockroaches."

"Dear me, no! Kennedy is one of them."

"One of the cockroaches?"

"No! One of the Alien Force, my boy."

"Of course. How dull of me. Go on." It was now just past eight in the morning. I asked Bob for a cup of coffee. When it arrived, I poured in two fingers of Four Feathers.

"Here is the crux of the matter. Our beloved President is a genetically altered being, an alien imposter in the guise of John F. Kennedy."

"So, where's the real JFK?"

"Hah! The old man made a deal. Through Alien Force infiltration of international trade, it was arranged to get Honey Fitz the exclusive licensing of all scotch whiskey imported to North America. To sweeten the pot, the aliens threw in a sizable sum of cash, gold and diamonds. In return, he handed over his kid, then a Senator and potential presidential candidate. Poor Jack, I suppose there's nothing left of him today, but a stuffed exhibit in an alien museum. Tut-tut."

"But, uh, how'd they know he'd win the election? I mean, he's Catholic, and all."

"Really, do you think they're stupid? Nixon's one of them, too. Rather botched the job on that one; an early attempt at synthesizing a human being. Something of a brute, but they say he'll live just about forever if he's not put down."

"Put down?"

"Yes, a stake through the heart, a silver bullet, that sort of thing. Good God, the cold-gutted bastard scares even his makers. But, I digress. You see, the problem is, from the point of view of Alien Force, their Kennedy has gone native! He's turned, forgotten whom he's working for. A dreadful turn of events."

"More napkins, please."

"Certainly. Now, Kennedy, rather than obsequiously doing his job, reporting back to Alien Force, trying not to make too bad a muddle of things, is instead having a merry old time impersonating the leader of the Free World; movie-star babes in the Lincoln Bedroom, a glamorous and obedient wife downstairs, a gaggle of Brillcreamed, over-educated syncophants at his beckon call and mobsters available to kill anybody he desires made gone- and he's got his own army, navy and air force! Good gravy, he's twice brought the planet to the brink of nuclear disaster."

"Twice?"

"Oh, yes! The second time was never made public. Made the Cuban troubles look like a polite squabble between playground chums. As the aliens see it, Kennedy has to be brought back to the fold."

"Uh-huh..." I pour yet more whiskey and signal Bob for another coffee. I suddenly recall that I haven't eaten since yesterday, noon, and those pickled eggs on the shelf start to look real good. I plunk over a small ransom for something that would have last been termed food prior to the Korean conflict. "...so, they're going to kill him?"

"Well, that wasn't the initial plan. It's now quite complicated, really. You see, originally it went like this: Central controlled operatives, at the top of the CIA, put into action a program to 'take out' the President; not to kill him, but to reclaim him and get him home for some serious reprogramming. The assassination attempt was merely an expedient ploy, a red herring, to cover the reappropriation of the psuedo-Kennedy.

Of course, the damned NSA, acting in league with the Vatican, certain banking interests and anti-flouridation radicals within the American Dentistry Association, put the kibosh on that! Not that they had the slightest idea what they were really doing."

I bit into that first slimy egg. It was tepid-warm; the jar had been sitting under the illuminated sign that read: "Just Ask for the Handsome Waiter." It tasted like old sea weed and its yolk was green and rubbery hard. I took another and slurped it down whole; better than to chew it. "Wad'dya mean?"

"The NSA and company were not under Central's control. They did, however, know that something was afoot over at CIA, something concerning the President's ill-advised and incautiously planned trip to Dallas. They wanted in on the franchise! Acting independently, NSA seized on the presidential motorcade as the perfect opportunity to repay a debt owed on certain crimes against The Natural Order of Things. Thus, a second assassination plot was set in motion, outside the purvue of Central's planning."

The whiskey was about gone. It was almost nine in the morning, and those salt-cured pig's knuckles were looking quite delectable. I requested the Maitre-de bring over the jar, and more coffee, too. You know, the best part of a pig's knuckle is the hard to get, fatty gristle between the toes. At the time, this seemed a striking metaphor for journalism. Between bites and frantic slurps of acid brew, I asked, "Why don't your aliens just put a stop to it, huh?"

"These folks are not omnipotent. There's only so much that even a higher intelligence can control. They saw what was happening, but had too little time to take action. No, it was determined to back off and let the humans do the dirty work."

Brine slobbered across my chin. A piece of cartilage stuck between my top, front teeth. "Great. So, Kennedy's going to be killed?"

"Most likely. The terrestrial agents have brought in three expert shooters from around the world; Mafia, French Foreign Legion, U.S. Marines, the best. My bet is, a fellow named Lee Oswald will score the hit; he's the best of the bunch, a crack shot, nerves of steel. The Central forces could strike peremptorily, but so doing would add no opportunity to take JFK from the clutches of the surrounding terrestrials. No, they'll just hope for the best. Worst thing that can happen is that the President winds up dead or at least horribly wounded, permanently incapacitated, probably a mental vegatable. In any case, the problem of the moment will be eliminated."

After another hour of drinking and loony exposition on Saurian's part, he excused himself to the men's room. I took the opportunity to get on the phone and call the cops. I drunkenly informed them of a plot to kill the President and hung up quickly, hoping they would have no time to trace the call. As I stumbled back to my seat, I felt pretty silly. Of course, I hadn't really believed a word that Saurian had said. Obviously, the man was delusional.

He returned presently, and ordered up another bottle of whiskey. We drank and chatted aimlessly for another two hours; he being in an oddly serene state of mind for a man ostensibly possessed of such horrible knowledge. I would have preferred to quit the place, but this was a physical impossibility; I was far too drunk to walk. I contemplated sleeping the afternoon in Bob's backroom, as Saurian prattled on about subjects ranging from quantum physics to the social ecology of Cairo.

At 12:23PM, two men entered the bar. They were dressed in black suits and black hats. Something about them said FBI, but they identified themselves as Dallas Police. Approaching Saurian, they momentarily drew their identification, exposing holstered pistols in the process, and returned the ID too quickly to be examined. Making no move, not even looking toward Bob nor me, they placed Saurian in cuffs. They seemed to know exactly who they had come for and he offered no resistance. "Tell the world the truth!", were his last words as he was led away.

At 12:30, I was negotiating with a coffee cup, hoping to arrange its transport to my rubbery lips without spillage. I intended to sober up and head downtown, see if I could be of any help to Saurian. He might have been nuts, but I still had a soft-spot for the old guy. Besides, I wanted to know why he'd been arrested. The cops hadn't said a word and I'd been too smashed to dare involve myself. As I weaved toward the door, a news flash came over the TV. It was 12:32PM. President Kennedy had been shot and was presumed to be badly injured, perhaps dying.

Over the course of the next few hours, virtually everything that Saurian had told me concerning the assassination was confirmed- at least everything pertaining to the specifics of the crime. Oswald, Dealey Plaza, the timing, all was perfectly correct. Later that day, as the police rounded up suspects and witnesses, Saurian could be seen among a group of three men, identified only as hobos, being taken into custody. Their identities and present fate remain unknown to the public. As to who the true perpetrators of Kennedy's killing were, and what were the real reasons behind the plot, this reporter and our nation, may never know.

How could Saurian have gained foreknowled