Let’s rewind a little bit.

My name’s Christopher DeBair. Up until about thirty hours ago, I lived in a city called Manchester, situated in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Which, by the way, is situated on a little marble of blue and green called Earth. I worked for a reasonably average accountancy practice, and last night I’d gone drinking with the boys to alleviate some work related stress.

The boys consist of Ross, Luke and Mark. All of them are friends from school, and all of them as mad as a box of frogs. Rossy is a former semi-professional rugby player, with the frame to match; he looks like a cross between Hagrid from Harry Potter and Brock Lesnar from the WWE. Luke is the resident computer guy, he loves a good game. He’s also an avid Formula One fan. He’s funny as fuck when he wants to be. Mark, well, he’s the science and geography nut, a chemical engineer by trade and all around great guy. We affectionately call him the “Travel Wanker”, which he takes in his stride. He’s done a lot of touring the world, and taken so many fucking photos. Of everything. All-the-time. If you want to know where something is, or what it’s made up of, he’s your man.

So, there I am, enjoying a nice pint of Trooper ale in a little pub called the Steamhouse. Little was the operative word; it was fucking tiny, so much so that the big man Ross had trouble getting to the bar. Anyway, we’d all got a bit shitfaced and I made my way home. I’m guessing I blacked out as I got through my front door, as I don’t remember anything else.

Next thing I know, I wake up in last night’s clothes in a field of fucking snow, situated in the middle of nowhere, and I can’t remember shit about my life. Not a single thing, other than my name, the lads, and bits and pieces of general knowledge. The only life for miles around were these big dog-rat things and a pack of very angry wolves, as I just described.

Now, back to the exploding wolf.