Dave, Fist of Odin (Grinning silently to himself, the Fist of Odin knows that his work here is done. The ball is rolling, and smarter heads than his will forge a path. Or not, and he'll jack some guy in the face.)

'Hey there, Ron. So what's up with the Jesus guy?'

'Uh huh. Yeah. Wo. Really? And then came back from the dead? Well, Odin was up there seven days, and came back with wisdom, the wisdom of Kicking Some Ass.'

'Peace and love, hunh? Hmmm. Nah, I can't really see it for me - but if it's working out for you then that's good.'

'Water into wine? Well yeah, that sounds pretty good. He ever come do that for ya?'

'Oh really? Hmmm. Well here's some of my god's blessed beverage...'

I pass around a flask of Holy Whiskey. I've been carrying this shit around forever, waiting to meet a mummy or something - but what the hell. I mean, we're dead, right?

I'm fine with going to terminal B and seeing what's to be seen - I figure whatever happens, Vrill and Abbey'll meet up and . . . ummm . . . something will happen and we won't be zombies anymore? I dunno. I guess I'm not the strategizer in the party.

Before we go I want to rest and rememorize.  ¶ 11:00 PM