This could only mean one thing: The game

This could only mean one thing: The game is afoot. This was going to require some strategy if we wanted to make it out alive. The first thing we'll have to do is...

eliminate the weakest link. By that, we mean the worst performer in the team." Everyone looked at Barry, yet no one knew what to say. He'd been here the longest, almost 99 years,

Poor Barry was old and feeble. He knew he didn't have a chance.

But then he was purposely hit by a dish of pasta Fazool thrown by his fourth wife, a woman of 88. When Barry awoke, he assumed he was a 12-year-old Guatemalan girl named Isabella.

Confused by it all, he went to confession and told the priest that he was convinced he was a 12 year old Guatamalan girl named Isabella. I explained having memories of being a top

-less waitress was perfectly normal for a fifty-six year old garbageman, but the priest kicked me out of the confessional before I could explain why. Disillusioned, I roamed

The streets, praying to God for a clue, an answer. That's when the S.W.A.T team landed in front of me, armed to the nines with AK47s and bow ties that doubled as cutting discs

They all easily doubled my height. A feasible but still impressive task given my standing as five feet and ten inches. I shuddered in my work boots, afraid of how to go about this.

I couldn't risk angering them but at the same time, I needed to do something. I took a deep breath and forced myself to stop shuddering. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

I shot him their dead I couldn't watch him one more second, sitting in deep pain. I watched him take his last breath