You'd think being eighty-five years old would protect you from being kidnapped by sex-trafficking space aliens. But you'd be wrong. Because my friends and I took out the slave traders only to crash-land on an ice-ball of a planet called "Oog." The natives here are huge and purple, with feet like beaver tails, two thumbs on each broad hand, and towering antlers. You wouldn't think they'd be interested in a quartet of eighty-somethings, but their tribe is really short on females. Also, their saliva contains a chemical that, when applied to the right location, turns back the clock on these rickety old bodies. Before you judge us, let me ask you this: What if you were standing so close to the Grim Reaper you could see the whites of his eyes? And what if a strapping young fellow came along and offered you the chance to be twenty-five again? Do you really think you'd turn that down?
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