Jordan cuts the wheel sharp and pulls around the dwarf. You yell, “Sorry chummer, walk it off!” and the van peels out down the winding road along the bay. The three of you have a laugh about it after there’s enough distance between you and the gang of bikers.

The remainder of the ride is quite uneventful. You have a feeling you really dodged a bullet by not stopping to help that drunk dwarf; seems like it would have been piling another problem on top of an already long list. Intuition, it’s what separates the good runners from the dead ones.

You leave the cool breeze of the bay for the foothills of West Seattle near Westwood. Your destination is a town in transition. Once a quaint small town atmosphere this neighborhood is gentrifying, ironically due precisely to the small town appeal to corporate commuters. In another decade it will be just another modern suburb, with hip chain coffee houses pretending to look like small town mom and pop shops, the very ones which were run out of business.

Dorsey directs Jordan to a street on the edge of town. There you stop at a small one-story building overlooking a couple dozen moving trucks.

The sign above reads, ‘Move it Buster’


Ronin DarkMagus