Intern’s Log: Brisket, Deep-Fried Snickers, and Diplomatic Suicide

  Date: Redacted

  Intern ID: Reynolds, J. (I am about to negotiate with a warlord raccoon using only barbecue and dessert.)

  So.

  The world is ending.

  Alien horrors that "don’t exist" are coming.

  The Galactic Council refuses to acknowledge them.

  The only ones who might be able to fight back are a collection of genetically engineered war animals and lunatics.

  And somehow, in all of this—

  I have been sent to talk to Bandit.

  Bandit.

  The rogue, raccoon warlord who once stole a military drone just to use it as his personal taco delivery system.

  And you know what?

  I DON’T SPEAK RUSSIAN.

  Phase One: The Plan, If You Can Even Call It That

  Eleanor, ever the bringer of bad news, was the one to tell me.

  "Bandit controls the largest independent force outside of conventional militaries. If we want a unified front, we need him."

  "You do it," I’d said, immediately.

  "He doesn’t like me."

  "He doesn’t like anyone."

  "Exactly. But he likes you the most."

  And that’s when I realized—

  I am Bandit’s favorite chew toy.

  Not his friend.

  Not his trusted ally.

  Not even his enemy.

  Just the one human he enjoys screwing with the most.

  Which, in his twisted little mind, means I am the closest thing he has to a diplomat.

  So now?

  Now I have to fly into his war camp—deep in Russian territory—

  Walk into his stolen military compound—filled with heavily armed bears, raccoons, and defectors—

  And convince him to fight the real enemy instead of just stealing more tanks.

  I am going to die.

  Phase Two: The Only Bribe That Might Work

  So, what do you take to a warlord raccoon with a penchant for Mongolian BBQ, a deep mistrust of authority, and an ego the size of Siberia?

  A bribe.

  But not just any bribe.

  Something so uniquely tempting that even Bandit—chaos incarnate—would pause long enough to listen.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  And after some deep reflection, I landed on two key offerings.

  Texas brisket.

  Smoked for 16 hours.

  Melt-in-your-mouth, fall-apart, slow-cooked perfection.

  The kind of meat that could make a grown man rethink his entire life.

  Deep-fried Snickers bars.

  Because Bandit, despite being a war criminal, has the palate of a state fair addict.

  Sugary, greasy, ridiculous American excess in a single bite.

  And most importantly—something he has definitely never stolen before.

  If anything can get Bandit to sit still for five minutes, it’s barbecue and novelty deep-fried desserts.

  Phase Three: The Risks (Besides Certain Death)

  Let’s be clear:

  Bandit hates the U.S. government.

  ? He actively mocks our intelligence agencies.

  ? He once hacked a military database just to replace classified briefings with memes.

  ? He has personally declared the IRS his "sworn blood enemy."

  ? He stole an F-35 once, and we still don’t know where he put it.

  So walking in with an offer of “cooperation”?

  Yeah. This is an uphill battle.

  My only hope is that he will be too busy eating brisket and deep-fried Snickers to immediately throw me into a raccoon prison.

  Phase Four: The Logistics of This Disaster

  So here’s the actual plan:

  Get on a military transport. (Because apparently I’m important now? What the hell?)

  Fly to a frozen hellscape where Bandit has established his “capital.” (Read: A stolen Russian military base full of mercenary lunatics.)

  Walk in, unarmed, carrying the finest smoked brisket and fried Snickers known to man.

  Attempt, using only charades, bribes, and sheer desperation, to convince Bandit that fighting alien horrors is a better use of his time than annoying world governments.

  Survive.

  The survival part is questionable.

  Phase Five: My Current Mental State

  ? I am flying into a war zone.

  ? To negotiate with a raccoon warlord.

  ? With barbecue and deep-fried candy as my primary bargaining tools.

  ? I do not speak Russian.

  ? I am, objectively, a moron.

  I need to pack.

  I need to pray.

  And I need to accept the fact that if this goes wrong, my final resting place will be a snowbank somewhere in Siberia, while Bandit eats my brisket over my frozen corpse.

  End Log.