And this, friends, is where it gets hairy.

Dig it: the barbeque joint outside Fort Worth is a long, low building in a hickory-smoke haze. Inside, the jukebox plays Buck Owens’ “Act Naturally,” but nobody’s doing that today. Not since they walked in: a dashing limey in a double-breasted tunic followed by a gigantic ten-eyed monstrosity in black-and-gold power armor that somehow passed through a door it couldn’t have. The limey acts like he belongs here: sits and orders for both of them, oblivious to the game the Superjudge is playing.

Nor does he know he’s missed the year he was aiming for by 12 months.

But everyone pretends to ignore them. Everyone, that is, except two men in the corner: a weaselly-yet-nondescript gentleman with a perpetual smirk and a hairless man with penciled-in eyebrows.

“Jesus, Lee, what the Hell is that?” the hairless man whispers. “Maybe we should leave.”

“I told you: call me Alik. And I’m not leaving until I know when Lancer’s coming.”

“Day after Thanksgiving. November 22.”