Captain Claw Science Fiction Cat T-shirt

# Captain Claw: Galactic Rogue for Hire

Captain Whiskers "Claw" McGraw lounged across the pilot's seat of the *Hairball Express*, one paw dangling over the armrest, the other lazily spinning his star-pistol. The weapon hummed with barely contained plasma energy, which was more than could be said for his current job prospect.

"Let me get this straight," Claw purred, his amber eyes narrowing at the holographic projection of Ambassador Blorp, a gelatinous Zorbaxian whose consistency suggested he'd been left out in the sun too long. "You want me to steal the Cosmic Kibble from the Canine Armada's flagship?"

"The Celestial Prophecy Orb, yes," Blorp gurgled wetly.

"I said what I said." Claw examined his claws with studied nonchalance. "Dog people guarding their magic ball. Sounds like a Tuesday."

"The payment is fifty thousand galactic credits."

Claw's tail shot straight up. "Make it seventy-five and I'll throw in my signature move."

"Which is?"

"You'll know it when you see it. It involves a chandelier. Very dramatic." He adjusted his laser-cut jacket—a magnificent thing with holographic epaulettes that shifted between gold and crimson—and flashed his most roguish grin. "So, do we have a deal, or do I take my impossibly charming self elsewhere?"

Twelve hours later, Claw found himself duct-taped to a missile in the Canine Armada's torpedo bay.

"You know," he called out to his captor, Admiral Barkington III—a hulking German Shepherd in a brass-buttoned uniform—"when I said I'd make an entrance, this wasn't quite what I had in mind."

"Silence, feline scum!" Barkington snarled, his medals jangling. "You thought you could simply waltz onto my ship?"

"I didn't waltz. Waltzing is for amateurs. I sauntered. There's a difference."

"You triggered seventeen alarm systems!"

"Only seventeen? I'm losing my touch." Claw twisted his paw just enough to reach the miniature laser cutter hidden in his collar. The tool whirred to life, quietly slicing through the tape. "Out of curiosity, does this missile actually work, or is it just for show? Because I've seen your fleet's maintenance records, and let's just say I wouldn't trust your mechanics to assemble a litter box."

Barkington's face turned an impressive shade of crimson. "Launch in T-minus thirty seconds!"

"Thirty seconds? That's barely enough time for witty banter!" The tape gave way. Claw dropped into a crouch, star-pistol already in paw. "But I'll make it work."

Three plasma bolts ricocheted off the bay walls in a careful pattern Claw had calculated in his head—mostly correctly. The first shot severed the missile's fuel line. The second took out the bay's gravity generator. The third, in a stroke of pure feline genius, hit the emergency kibble dispenser mounted above Barkington's head.

Ten thousand pounds of premium dog food erupted like a meaty avalanche.

"Not the kibble!" Barkington wailed as he disappeared under the deluge. "Anything but the kibble!"

Claw was already bounding across the floating sea of food in the zero-gravity, each leap perfectly timed. "This is my signature move, by the way," he announced to no one in particular. "Mental note: tell Blorp I absolutely earned that seventy-five thousand."

The Prophecy Orb sat in its case at the far end of the bay, pulsing with an irritating mystical light. Claw snatched it, tucked it under his arm like a football, and bounded toward the escape pod. Behind him, Barkington emerged from the kibble mountain, sputtering and coated in gravy chunks.

"You haven't won, Claw! That orb is protected by an ancient curse!"

Claw paused at the escape pod door. "Is it the curse where anyone who touches it gets mild indigestion? Because I had burritos for lunch, so that ship has sailed."

"No! The curse of eternal—"

The pod door slammed shut. Claw didn't hear the rest, which was probably for the best.

As the *Hairball Express* caught the pod and he settled back into his beloved captain's chair, Claw examined the glowing orb. It did feel somewhat ominous. Probably nothing. He'd delivered cursed artifacts before. That time with the Haunted Tuna of Andromeda had turned out fine. Eventually. After the exorcism.

His communicator chirped. Ambassador Blorp's jiggly face appeared.

"Captain Claw! Do you have it?"

"One Cosmic Kibble, as promised. And before you ask, yes, I want my payment in small, unmarked credit chips. Large denominations attract too much attention."

"About the payment," Blorp gurgled nervously. "There's been a slight complication. The orb you've retrieved is actually—"

The orb suddenly meowed.

Claw stared at it. It meowed again, louder.

"Why," Claw said slowly, "is the mystical orb meowing?"

"It's a pregnancy test!" Blorp wailed. "For cosmic cats! We sent you to the wrong flagship!"

Captain Claw looked at the meowing orb. He looked at the stars outside. He looked at his star-pistol and briefly considered his life choices.

Then he shrugged, tucked the orb into his jacket's inner pocket, and punched in coordinates for the nearest space bar.

"Seventy-five thousand credits," he muttered. "Plus therapy costs."

The orb purred contentedly as the *Hairball Express* jumped to hyperspeed, leaving behind a very confused Canine Armada and one extremely stressed Ambassador.

Just another Tuesday for Captain Claw.
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T-shirts are a dime a dozen, but this one stands out from the pack. It’s super soft, breathable, and has just the right amount of stretch. Need we say more?

• 100% combed and ring-spun cotton (Heather colors contain polyester)
• Fabric weight: 4.2 oz/yd² (142 g/m²)
• Pre-shrunk fabric
• Side-seamed construction
• Shoulder-to-shoulder taping
• Blank product sourced from Guatemala, Nicaragua, Mexico, Honduras, or the US

This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions!

Age restrictions: For adults
EU Warranty: 2 years

In compliance with the General Product Safety Regulation (GPSR), Science Fiction Classics and SINDEN VENTURES LIMITED ensure that all consumer products offered are safe and meet EU standards. For any product safety related inquiries or concerns, please contact our EU representative at gpsr@sindenventures.com. You can also write to us at 412 South 3rd Street #609
Boise, Idaho 83702 or Markou Evgenikou 11, Mesa Geitonia, 4002, Limassol, Cyprus.

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