I woke up in the bathroom stall of a Starbucks in New Mexico, my clothes drenched in pickle juice.  I emerged from the stall and walked out into the waiting room only to find Justin Justin Fletcher and the rest of my team, calmly sipping pumpkin spice lattes.  Justin was wearing black sweatpants and a corduroy shirt.  His hair was matted with sweat, his expression sombre.  I couldn’t believe that Escobido let me live.  But now I only have one mission, and this mission will put the fate of the world on my shoulders.  Escobido is planning something extravagant, like party with the gods extravagant, and I need to stop it.

Stalingrad, Russia, May 8th, 2020

“We’re almost there!” he shouts over the howling icy winds. “We’re late for the party,” I say.  Being almost a week late and needing to travel 562 miles in two days, takes all the pressure off the guy who is trying to prevent a global catastrophe.  We were supposed to get here a week ahead of time to be able to plan confidently.  Justin looked grim.  He face was pale as if a ghost had replaced his soul on the plane.  He glanced at the driver and ordered, “Turn right into this Taco Bell drive through.”  Really? We come all the way from Mexico to Russia to have more Mexican food?  The truck slowed to a stop at the window.  A few minutes later, we all had a burrito of our own.  The burrito didn’t sit well in my stomach.  Then again nothing did when you were facing death.