Desperate Days

My name is Henry Hollis, and my life took a turn recently that I didn’t see coming. The easy way to say it is that I got a job offer, but that doesn't do justice to the situation. Maybe they should have told me the job would get me tangled up with mobsters and space aliens. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Times being what they are, I took the job, and every day since has been just this side of madness. After some reflection on the situation, I've decided to keep a journal of my experiences on this runaway train I'm riding. I hope you'll forgive the coffee stains. 

My name is Henry Hollis, if you didn’t already know that. Maybe this little message in a bottle won’t get read by anyone for 50 or 100 years, or ever, but I’ve got a few things to get off my chest, starting with a growing dislike for certain citizens of the new German Reich. They call themselves Nazis and grin when they say it like the word is the new and improved term for sunshine or roses. There’s also a certain ruby-red alien from a distant planet who’s made a real hash of my life for the last few weeks. Then there’s the small matter of a man by the name of Frank Moffer.