FINAL COUNTDOWN: Episode 1 - 'The Trigger' (The Final Countdown Series)

Final Countdown

a Novel by
William Grabowski & Jason Rosette

Original Story by[
**]Jason Rosette


Contributions to Concept

by Richard Goldstein




Something flashed in Pat’s peripheral vision


He whipped around and glared at the blue corner beside his bed, where smudges from tossed coffee and old cobwebs climbed toward the ceiling. He took a few steps and stood huffing at the bed’s end. There, he saw it, for an instant only. Red sand – mouth of thorns – full hips, splayed wide open, beckoning him.

And a pair of sharp red teats thrust upward like mountains….



*Carlsbad,_ [[*New Mexico: July 20, 1980]_]


Lazing on a pillow before his friend Pat’s TV, scrawny Lloyd Sparkles dug into the big blue bowl of Fritos and stuffed his mouth while chubby young Pat gazed at the tube.

“Hey”, blurted Mr. Method, Pat’s father, “Pig-out, but be quiet about it. Sounds like you’re chewing gravel.”

Terrified, 10-year-old Lloyd swallowed hard. “Ss-sorry, Mr. Method. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Okay. Just don’t do it again.”

No way was Lloyd capable of turning toward the couch and facing Pat’s hulking, cigar-chomping old man, so locked his gaze on the TV’s static-y black-and-white image: Channel 6’s Sunday Special, One Giant Leap, a celebration of the first manned lunar landing.

Completely absorbed by the show, Pat had yet to eat a single chip, even with his arm dangling limply in front of the bowl.

They’d all seen the historic moment several times over the years, but it remained no less amazing.

Gray snow cleared from the screen, and there was Neil Armstrong, alien in his bulky suit, descending from the equally alien lunar lander as if through some invisible fluid. That haunted landscape, empty and silent, inspired both fascination and fear. Lloyd could hear Pat’s quickening breath, see his fingers sinking into the pillow as if probing for moon dust himself.

The TV beeped once. “That’s one small step for man,” Armstrong declared, eleven years ago and over a quarter million miles away. “One giant leap for-”

Static burst from the TV in a jarring hiss -

Mr. Method smacked and kicked the TV; he reached for and strangled the antenna. He hated the machine. Suddenly, though, the tube switched to another channel, and the Roller derby came in clear and rowdy instead. Pat and Lloyd gazed at a towering blonde woman in green tights and white jersey as she elbowed a mean-looking brunette in red skates. Pat blushed at the sight of the Amazonian marvels, busty in their jerseys; Lloyd cocked his head slightly as if studying some strange insect he’d found on the playground.

Mr. Method backed away, slowly, grinning. “Now this is more like it, fellas…”

  • * * *

For Pat and Lloyd, one of the best things about summer vacation (aside from the bully-free environment) was the loosening of already saggy parental reins. Lloyd’s father wasn’t very often around, and his mother knew Lloyd was not the troublesome type. Not a wimp, but wispy – quiet. Once she’d mentioned something about a bee’s nest in the backyard, how she was planning to call the exterminator. No one would go near it. But then Lloyd had gone by himself and picked it off its tree limb and carried it across the yard before gracefully rolling it into the ditch, as if he were on a bowling field trip at school. He’d got stung but didn’t notice, just quietly sat in a chair and smiled.


Pat’s father drank, for hazy reasons which had little to do with thirst, but he managed (most of the time) to keep tabs on his chubby son, Pat. In any case, Pat had commandeered a bench in the garage and spent most of his time there building a sprawling replica of a lunar base, complete with domed vegetation farms, a movie house – and later, as a rudimentary add-on…a roller skating rink.

This evening, after Mr. Method’s cancellation of the One Giant Leap re-run in favor of the roller derby, the boys ate some peppery ham & Swiss on rye, then clattered out the back door and ran across the lawn.

The moon had yet to rise, but stars-brilliant through the vast black sky-brushed the nightscape with faint light. The two could smell pine resin before they even reached the trees, but the old cottonwood was tonight’s destination. The cottonwood tree was their ‘base’.

They arrived at the tree.

“Let’s get closer to the stars!” Pat raised a sneakered foot, and began climbing the crude ladder of sawn two-by-fours he’d nailed to the tree himself last spring. The ‘base’ was Pat’s idea and brainchild. Yet Lloyd was always game to go along: he loved his friend.

After a few moments, he halted and sat in a huge U-shaped crutch beside the main structure.

Yes -a classic, tree fort. Not a house, but a fort, with a crudely assembled Tee-pee shape on top made out of scrap lumber. Lloyd quickly joined him, his sweaty T-shirt radiating warmth.

Pat cleared his throat, jarring in that quiet dark. “Gimme the countdown, Lloyd.”

“You got it, Pat! “Lloyd was, on one hand, very happy his friend had asked for his assistance; but he knew that Pat demanded precision.

Ten…nine…eight, seven-”

“You’re going too fast!”

“Six, four-”

Pat smacked his knee. “You skipped five, c’mon, we gotta’ get this right. We GOTTAGET THIS RIGHT.” Pat’s tone revealed something else, unrelated to the countdown. Maybe something about home.

The night time leaves sullenly blew and bristled for a few moments before Lloyd quietly resumed his countdown position. He cleared his throat, and started again.

  • * * *

Summer took its usual luxurious time fading toward fall. Time did not have teeth then, as it does now, and our two heroes reveled in the gummy suspension of time and space which seemed to last forever. School was still a distant ‘nether-thing’, a mysterious, transformative, but generally unlikeable creature approaching from afar, but still beyond the horizon and no trouble as yet.

Pat and Lloyd ignored that dreaded reality in any case like seasoned champions. They had, after all, bigger fish to fry. And lemons to squeeze.

“It’s gotta be a hundred degrees out here,” said Pat, squinting into dusty distance. “Where are the customers?”

The lemonade stand he and Lloyd had hammered together out of “spare” plywood liberated from a newly constructed house on Lloyd’s street smelled of sawdust and paint. Pat’s mother had supplied a mesh bag of lemons, a few glass pitchers, sugar, and a spoon nearly as long as Lloyd’s arm. For his part, Lloyd supplied a dented ice chest decorated with carnival stickers from all over America from Mr. Method’s ‘travelling days’. The two entrepreneurs agreed the stand would attract the most attention if placed strategically at a crossroads-exactly like the one at the end of Lloyd’s street, where that lumpy thoroughfare met a two-lane highway that brought traffic in and out of town.

“Well,” said Lloyd, “all I know is we got the antidote for hot pipes. People see our stand, they’ll stop. Right Pat?”

A blue-tail lizard scuttled from the scrub and across the road.

The boys laughed. “How ‘bout a tall cool one, Mr. Lizard?” cried Pat.

“Yea! How about a tall cool one Mr. Lizard? “, echoed Lloyd.

At that moment a car emerged from the shimmering haze, slowed, and pulled onto the crunchy berm. “See?” said Pat. “That blue-tail was an omen.”

The boys could hear the car’s engine ticking as it cooled. No one stirred inside the vehicle for a long time, until finally the driver’s door opened, and out climbed a pear-shaped woman in white sunglasses and a matching dress. Closing the door, she gave a lipsticked smile to the Lemonade sellers and lumbered around to the far side of the car. “Harry! Get out here!”

The passenger door opened. An exchange of inner and outer vapors occurred and a sickly-looking man with an oily comb-over, jumped out as if the car suddenly as if it were infested with fire ants. His plaid shirt was inappropriate for the weather. He and the woman joined arms and waltzed toward Pat and Lloyd.

“Hey,” Pat whispered. “Think they’re married?”

Lloyd found sudden interest in tearing open a stack of red plastic cups. Yet he muttered, “Love is something special”, as he fumbled with the plastic.

The couple stood peering at the boys as if they had arrived at some exotic museum display. The woman sloppily chewed gum-or something-before announcing:

“Hello. Hot out today, huh?”

“Hi there lady”, Pat demurred, “and sir of course”. Pat shifted his gaze to the scrawny man.

“I see plainly you’re lacking in vitamin C, ‘cuz of the thinness of your hair, which is ‘prolly a result of your long travels in the heat, I would most likely reckon.”

The man took no visible offense, and absently patted his comb-over.

Relieved, Pat went on. “Which is why we offer nothing but the best, the purest lemonade-ain’t that right, Lloyd?”

Lloyd nodded and swallowed hard. Pat heard a click from the bottom of his friend’s throat.

“Y-yes sir. The purest.”

Pat managed to maintain eye contact with the man. “My partner. Mr. Lloyd Sparkles. He doesn’t talk much, ‘specially when it’s baking hot like today. He conserves his heat and moisture on days like this, see.

The man narrowed his eyes, as if trying to digest the elements of a complicated equation.

“So I do the talking. An’ he does the squeezing. And boy, can he squeeze-hee-hee! Ain’t that right Lloyd?”

Lloyd remained as stiff and unmoving as a fence pole until, at long last, the faintest nod could be discerned.

The large woman-the Alpha-leaned forward, brushing her mate aside with animal instinct, as a Praying Mantis might do after detaching (and devouring) her own mate’s head. Pat could see his distorted reflection in her sunglasses.

“Discount for pretty ladies like yourself, ma’am,” he blurted.

Pat leaned his portly frame beyond the Amazonian and craned his neck to squeak:

“Sir, you ought’a treat your lady right. Don’t be a cheapskate-buy her a glass of fine lemonade why don’cha?”

At that very instant, a sun shard dazzled the woman’s glasses. Those ancient protons, spending only eight minutes to cross over from the sun, yet born in the fusion furnace of the sun during the last ice age and taking those years to bump to the surface and final, liberating release, flashed into Pat’s eyes, travelled through his clear cornea and finally registered with the rods and cones at the back of his eyeballs.

Something yanked away the world, spun Pat into white infinity silent as space…timeless as death.

A harsh odor, like rubbing alcohol mixed with Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup, raked his sinuses and soured his tongue.

God, he was blind! The glaring white void vibrated into blackness .Pat still stood, but could feel on his back and legs the burden of sudden weight, as if in seconds he’d gained eighty or ninety pounds. He was somewhere else, with Lloyd, in the near future, a few decades away…

“I saw you try.” Pat heard Lloyd say. But his voice was all wrong. Lloyd’s voice was deeper, raspy. The sun, the sun, those rays, coming from so far away. The weight of it.

A wave of despair washed over Pat, and he sensed light above.

“What’d I do wrong? I’m a hard-working guy. I’m not a bad person…”

Pat glanced down and saw he wore dress-up pants, and cheap shiny black shoes beaded from whoever’s dewy lawn they stood in. Where was he? When was he?

The dewy cotton of Pat’s mind stretched and spanned, and he could somehow feel that he was

still standing at the lemonade stand, yet was also somewhere else-time wise at least-in the future.

His own future.

“You didn’t do nothing wrong, Pat,” said Lloyd. It was Lloyd’s voice alright. Yes, he could feel it. But it sounded different now. “Nothing. Maybe it’s just luck.”

Pat couldn’t speak. He raised his head and had to squint-the moon! Bright as hell. Where had night come from? Where had the pear-shaped woman in the white sunglasses gone?

I’m not gonna scream, Pat told himself even as his distorted form trembled. If I do, the moon will fall and crush us. It must. It is a heavenly body and we are also heavenly.

Pat had to look away, so gazed down at the ditch. His glance rested absently on an empty bottle, radiant with moonlight. Its label said JIM BEAM.

Finally, there was the sound. A soft beeping haunted the air. Pat reflexively surged, as one might do when in fear, or when some great mishap suddenly occurs without warning: the biting off of a leg by a shark; the falling of a carnie tent pole (smashing craniums below); the return to home to find the partner has wordlessly left.

Pat didn’t want to see what Lloyd looked like. Not with that terrible voice. He would not look.

“That’s a funny sound,” Lloyd whispered.

Pat flinched. “What sound?”

“The one you’re making.”

Above, an owl screeched like a burning woman and Pat’s stomach churned with dread. “I’m not making any sound. You-”

A silent explosion of white light shoved Pat backward. He could feel each photon of light, originating from the sun, touching his retinal nerve, one by one, a trillion at a time. And with this came the clamor and sound of the time past, eons past, but all at once -the drone of a conch shell on an ancient beach -the P-plunk of a longbow arrow through plated armor and into the Norman breast -the giddy-ish laugh of a million children's' first steps - all at once.
Pat fell into some rigid object. Sudden heat dropped onto him and he cried out.

“Oh my gawd!”shouted someone. “Snap out of it, kid. You all right?”

Pat’s blurry vision cleared. “Uh…I don’t know…”

The huge woman loomed over the lemonade stand’s counter. Yes: he was back at the Lemonade stand, with Lloyd, somewhere in the Southwestern United States. The first thing Pat could discern were the woman’s breasts – roving, arching, and aching breasts with jutting nipples – inches from Pat’s gaping mouth. He could not catch his breath.

Lloyd cleared his throat. “Pat. Pat. Hey-what happened? Are you sick?”

Pat shot to his feet quickly, brushed himself off. “No. Why?”

“You were talkin’…makin’ funny noises. Makin’ this weird beepin’ sound. ‘Boop!’ Boop!’

"C'mon Lloyd -"

I thought you fainted or somethin’.”

“Fainted? Like a girl in the movies? Maybe I was just daydreaming but I didn’t faint. “

The woman backed away. “You are one strange child, boy.”

“Sorry. “

Lloyd felt like he was moving in slow motion now. He plucked a cup from the tall plastic sleeve and placed it beside one of the moisture-jeweled pitchers. His hands shook. Pat would have to pour.

The man had been watching the whole scene, and now he made an awkward effort to break the silence. His throat made a choking, or grunting, sound. He dug his hand into a trouser pocket for coins to pay the kids.

"Aw, don't fret, Miss Honeycutt. You know how kids like to mess around. Kid was only messin' around." Pat regathered himself and poured the lemonade. Miss Honeycutt gently moved in and cradled the cup of lemonade like a holy goblet. A crow landed on a nearby wire to witness the scene, impartially, with obsidian black eyes. Then Miss Honeycutt extended her lips to meet the cup's rim, allowing her lips to protrude like a those of a Chimpanzee until they met the cup's surface. The cool liquid to flowed down, down, ever down -and all was over.


30 Years Later



**]Food Pirate Supermarket


Food Pirate meant many things to many people. To long-time locals, the reliable supermarket never failed them; never ran out (unlike the 24/7 big-box crap palaces) of some vital staple like bread, milk, eggs, cheap white wine, or coffee; they employed mostly intelligent help possessed of empathy; and ‘The Pirate’ as locals liked to call it was at all times well-maintained and clean.

And, to those visiting families, such as campers enjoying southwestern air and cobalt skies, or simply the harried Interstate traveler, Food Pirate’s products were logically arranged on shopper-friendly shelves without the annoying and confusing scattershot approach (snacks crammed beside magazines, dish towels and straws clipped to glass-paneled coolers) displayed in far larger stores.

No. Food Pirate’s management decades ago had penned official policy: “We respect the customer’s inalienable right to practice self-responsibility. Failing that, no question or complaint will be ignored-never, ever shall we.”

That philosophy served the store, impressive in this time of the New Normal, where many businesses had grown so terrified of lawsuits or Black Friday stampede deaths. Food Pirate’s 53-year history had never been tainted by even a single lawsuit, or indeed any litigation whatsoever. Each item, from meat or produce or dairy or dry goods; to cleaning products or kitchen implements or small (often presented by outside vendors) appliances, was routinely inspected and given either a Thumbs-Up or No Way José. Nothing slipped through this rigorous program.

Well, almost nothing.

  • * * *

Patrick B. Method stood proudly behind his folding display table, garnished with a classic blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. Their setup was as simple and American as the Miracle-Slice chopper/grater he and his longtime colleague, Lloyd Sparkles were busily demonstrating (and, please God, selling!) under Food Pirate’s sun-blessed roof.

Patrick, still known to his friend Lloyd and the reader as ‘Pat’, smiled warmly at curious shoppers gathered before the demo unit of the Miracle Slice unit he and Lloyd had strategically arranged beside the humming produce bins.

“Lookin’ good, lookin’ good,” Pat said to no one in particular, adjusting the pencil mike clipped to his shirt. Lloyd, two feet away at the table’s end, compulsively picked at a stack of plastic bags to ensure they weren’t sticking together. They were not; yet he ruffled them continuously in any case, like a dove preening its feathers.

A ball-capped woman in cargo shorts and neon lime T-shirt suddenly appeared, revealing herself from beyond the turn of the adjoining aisle. She clapped as Pat held aloft the latest Miracle Slice -the new M-Mark1 'Caper', fresh from its mid-west American factory.

“I sooo need one,” she said. “My friggin’ cat knocked mine into a sink of dish water-BZZZZT! Game over, man. I’m lost without it. BZZZZT! I mean, really, BZZZZT! Cat went with it. Dead. “

Pat nodded in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that, m’am. Sorry to hear about your fine feline companion. Perhaps she was trying to tell you something though? Maybe…just maybe…that is was time to get a new slicer blender unit like the Mark 1 ‘Caper’ here, huh?

He handed over the appliance, and the woman gave it scientific scrutiny.

“Nice design,” she said. “I’m liking the blade options too. Sold.

“That’s not just a blade. That’s a neo-blade. Nano sharpened. Finely tuned European craftsmanship going back to the days of Galileo’s telescope, I mean – “

With a snap, Lloyd whipped a plastic bag from the stack and popped it open. He stuffed the Mark 1 inside while snappily retrieving a wad of cash from the lady’s hand, all in one Guillotine motion: she was a fine lady, really. She cradled her new machine as though it were a newborn.

Others had gathered, attracted by the scent of cash, and the sale, and the souk, and the prim flip of cash. Pat sensed the group of bystanders through his peripheral vision and suddenly swiveled towards them, surprising everybody (even Lloyd):

“There you have it, folks! Another satisfied customer!”

Lloyd dutifully clapped – a fan at a golf tournament.

Pat intensified and he became preacher-like: “As I was saying, folks. Ma’am. Sir. Son. You. Everyone. Yes. Hello. Come on in! Uh-make room for the crowd will ya’, I wanna’ stay with the crowd, I wanna’ stay with the crowd!!”

A boy with red buzz cut hair, just shy of ten or eleven and apparently over-sugared or hyperactive, made repeated grabs for the Miracle Slice Mark 1. The young slob’s prints were starting to smudge the face. Pat’s impatience mounted. Where the hell were the kid’s parents?

“How’s it work?! How’s it work?!“cried the boy, reaching for the Mark 1 just as Pat pulled it away.

Pat kept smiling. “The hell with it.”

He took a quick look around to make sure the coast was clear. He plucked a spatula from the table and slapped it quickly, precisely and painfully against the back of the boy’s inquisitive hand.

Pat leaned in and whispered: “That’s how it works, son, that’s how it works. You go for something…and something slaps you back. And you’ll never know when it’s coming.”

The kid just stared at Pat for a moment – then suddenly bolted away.

Lloyd eyed this exchange as if fearing some emotional meltdown, but relaxed when the little rake hell skedaddled around the furthest aisle to topple a display of stick pepperoni.

“Gather ‘round, folks!” Pat bellowed with renewed, primitive gusto, having dispatched the young interloper “…and let me show you how this baby chops, slices, dices, grinds, grates, purees, whips, and more! Basically it’ll do everything everything except rotate your tires…but we’re workin ' on that and soon -"

GWEEEEEEE!!!!!! An abrupt high-pitched gnashing sound-the crowd flinched and turned.

A nose-ringed guy with punky blond hair stood grinding coffee in Aisle 7. The crowd stared at him for a moment, then swiveled back to face Pat. He’d lost his momentum.

“Ha-ha. That kinda freaked me out too” he said, and gripped a shiny eggplant. Lloyd stared at the purple-black skin of the vegetable for a long time. He suddenly thought of the acid-blooded creature in Aliens. They shared the same skin. He involuntarily flinched.

Pat noticed his colleague was mentally absent, but forged on without him. The crowd was waiting:

“Anyhoo, watch this…”

Pat smacked the vegetable onto a cutting board, palmed a chef’s knife, and deftly quartered it lengthwise. Best to give the crowd sizeable visual aids for dramatic effect. Removing the Miracle Slice’s feed-tube pusher from its sleeve, Pat fed in a plank of fleshy veg.

“Now, these babies are made in the heartland of the USA. Wisconsin. Who said American craftsmanship was dead? Zing-o! Look at how that sucker makes short work of the eggplant, huh? How about that? Anyone who loves that Greek eggplant dip, Baba Ghanoush and whatnot-hey, we got ya covered!

Lloyd was still eyeing the skin of the eggplant and was unavailable. With a flourish, Pat spun in place, high-fived himself, and wiggled his head as if deeply grooved into some trip hop track. A young couple observed this sweat-dripping performance with a weird and striking lack of affect, often seen in children.

Lloyd suddenly snapped back to reality. He made a few halfhearted elbow-jabbing dance moves, but compared to Pat his moves were flat. He returned to noodling with the plastic bags. Several people in the audience absently danced, though as Pat shuffled along.

Pat suddenly stopped and smacked his hands on the table, jiggling the knife against the seed-specked cutting board. The crowd was still caught in the spell, and Pat's pointed and abrupt shift only helped to embed the hook deeper. "And now, ladies and gentlemen! My dedicated colleague here, Mr. Lloyd Sparkles- a specialist in cuisine Physics-will now demonstrate another function of this amazing instrument, the M Mark 1 'Caper' from Miracle Slice. Mr. Sparkles -"

Pat backpedalled while bowing dramatically, one arm extended before him in invitation.

Lloyd looked rabid, or as if injected with some toxin.

Pat rebounded from the awkward pause seamlessly. He announced again, “Lloooyd Sparkles!”

All eyes fixed on Lloyd.

Icy water replaced his blood. Lloyd was frozen, stuck. The only objects as paralyzed as he, at that moment, lay mineralized, ancient and prone in Petrified Forest National Park.

Everyone waited. They watched the slender man gaze at his shoes. They watched him swallow hard -Adam's apple bobbing. Then they watched him raise his head and grimly smile.

Lloyd shuffled closer to the table's center. The Food Pirate had grown unusually quiet -only a distant squeaking grocery cart wheel could be heard lamenting from afar.

Lloyd Sparkles, team member of Patrick Method -former sales champions of the entire Southwest territory of Pyramid Industries (*marketers of the Miracle Slice and affiliated products) opened his mouth to address the audience...

And choked out a quiet squeak. The nearby young couple cleared their throats. Everybody stared. They waited for more.

But no more came. Instead, Lloyd tilted his head to the side as if listening intently to something far, far away.

And all at once, the young couple turned and walked away, dispelling the faint gravity that had held the crowd together for so long.

  • * * *

Open Range Motel


Pat stretched his arms over his head and felt the popping of vertebrae. “Another off day. Can’t figure it out.” As if in slow motion, he collapsed onto the musty bed: one of two sagging twins in the dull chamber they called their home on the road.

Lloyd warily eyed the stuffed elk’s head mounted on the wall beside the door. Its overly large glass eyes looked back at him with a crazed and disturbingly knowing look.

“We have enough money for the room this week, Pat?”

“We’re just in a slump, that’s all. Transitional state. The trough of a wave…”

Lloyd, still smarting from his in-store freeze-up, reached down from his bed and gingerly opened a beat up case near the nightstand. From it, he raised a shiny French horn. He snake-tongued the mouthpiece and he blew a single, laborious, musical scale. He lay the horn to rest on the bed.

The motel room stank from decades of cigarettes, beer spills, fermented used rubbers, and sickly sweet peppermint-based cleanser. The TV stood bolted to a long mirrored bureau, the remote attached to the set by way of a flexible steel cable strong enough to tow Pat and Lloyd’s station wagon. Nothing but the finest in a ceaseless line of rooms that they’d inhabited over the years, ranging from Tuscon to Reno to Tucumcari…but right now it beat the hell out of some muddy campground.


Visit: http://www.Shakespir.com/books/view/638930 to purchase this book to continue reading. Show the author you appreciate their work!

FINAL COUNTDOWN: Episode 1 - 'The Trigger' (The Final Countdown Series)

(*WARNING! Rated 18 years + for frank depictions of sex, raw language and violence) 'FINAL COUNTDOWN' is the story of two hilarious, hard-luck traveling salesmen in the American Southwest who become accidental outlaws when their counterfeit Mexican blenders go murderously and hilariously awry! A darkly comedic, dystopian fiction novel by award winning filmmaker and writer-director Jason Rosette ('Lost in New Mexico', 'Freedom Deal', 'BookWars'), and co-written with paranormal maestro William Grabowski, 'Final Countdown' is chock full of the strange and offbeat characters of the American Southwest, with sizzling and surreal psychedelic flashbacks and vivid postmodern time stretching. Take a trip into the dark comedic underbelly of the 21st Century USA - join us on the journey!

  • Author: Jason Rosette
  • Published: 2016-05-25 09:20:17
  • Words: 23555
FINAL COUNTDOWN: Episode 1 - 'The Trigger' (The Final Countdown Series) FINAL COUNTDOWN: Episode 1 - 'The Trigger' (The Final Countdown Series)