Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Facelift.

They lived amongst us, in secret. The infiltration was a gradual process, but as the years had passed, their numbers had grown. The bottleneck was the surgery – a difficult, painful process; and with an unimpressive success rate, it was exceptionally dangerous. There were, however, no shortage of volunteers. The work was too important, and they all knew it. So, the great plan progressed. They found their way into higher and higher levels of our society, amassing more and more power and authority. It would be the work of lifetimes – of generations – but it did not bother them. They had waited; a thousand, thousand generations had waited. What were a few more, when they were so close to victory?

The key difficulty was their life-span. They did not live as long as us; not nearly, and it was no small thing to become a CEO or Senator when you had perhaps 25 years of living in which to do it. Fortunately, we were beginning to help with that little obstacle; young geniuses were reshaping the world, and a young president was beginning to turn to young minds for the answers. A new generation was starting to become energetic and involved as the elders fell away – and amongst the young, they lurked. They won over allies and confidants with their perfectly honed charm; every meeting a carefully planned and staged event. How could you not trust them, with their easy smiles, and big brown eyes?

One day soon, the cows would achieve their ends.