When Bruce and I emerged from our packing crate, I was walking a little bowlegged, but otherwise in good spirits. Our reunion had been, how shall I say it? Intense. But he was quickly distracted by the uniforms provided by the large-jawed woman for her defenders.

Remember the night we stayed in on the spaceship and watched the human service called Netflix, O Mighty and Grand Digging Instrument? That movie called 300?

I didn't mind it so much, but the tiny leather bikini looked a little ridiculous on someone of Bruce's frame. He wriggled into it while muttering obscenities. And when we met up with the other members of Oma's Home Guard they weren't that happy either. We stood in the dusty area in front of Base Camp Oma and tried to look as professional as a group of men and a three-foot alien can look while wearing very little covering their posteriors.

Strangely, the large-jawed woman looked satisfied as her eyes raked us up and down, then back up.

"I knew all those spare outfits were gonna come in handy some day! Pass out the shootin' irons."

Her assistant shuffled forward with a handful of old army pistols, BB guns and in my case, a water pistol.

"Sorry, dude," the assistant muttered as he handed it to, "we're outta the real shit."

"Not a problem," I said brightly. Then I aimed it at Bruce and began squirting him with it again and again until his entire torso was gleaming in the late November sun, with little drops of steam rising off his taut pecs and --- sorry. I digress.

Anyway, I drew treehouse duty. There were a couple of planks nailed across two branches in a place that allowed me to see anyone who might be approaching the perimeter fence. By this time, neighbors had begun to appear on their front lawns. I suppose it isn't every day that a house on their street is surrounded by burly men dressed in leather bikinis. Or maybe it is. I was visiting Minion Kyle in West Hollywood, and it happened there every day. Sorry. I digress.

Friday night wore on. Every ten minutes or so there would be a noise, and one of my fellow mercenaries would let loose a few quick rounds of ammunition, peppering the darkness. From my vantage point I could see into the house to where the large-jawed woman sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by what appeared to be dozen of Terran canines --- you know, the creatures you always say remind you of my cousin Erglin, O Blemish on the Celestial Chin of Theta. The assistant was sitting with her, and they were trying to talk while she typed on the computer. It didn't appear that she was getting anywhere fast, since after she had typed for a few minutes another human who looked like her would jerk the computer out of her hands and scamper to another part of the house to watch exciting film clips. Really exciting film clips. Then the large-jawed woman would stand up and roar "you bring that sumbitch back here, baby boy!" and he would scream back "Act of sexual intercourse you, momma!" and the assistant would knock his forehead on the table. It got so interesting that I forgot to watch for the approach of Mr. O'Connor's forces! Of course, even if they had come, the most I could do was get their kneecaps wet, given my height and the nature of my weapon.