From atop the dead Sinclair sign (which sported, of all things, a cartoon dinosaur), some species of night bird cawed loudly enough to be irritating; it seemed even to stare the Writer down.
Quoth the raven, he mused, and entered a stuffy, brightly lit store.
Inside smelled like cinnamon and ginger snaps. Someone with a voice that creaked like wood, greeted, “Hey, Joe. Top’a the evenin’ to ya.” So the driver’s name was Joe, who returned the greeting crudely by squeezing his crotch and saying, “Here be the top’a your evenin’, Tobias,” after which both men laughed. Tobias, clearly the proprietor, was a broomstick of a man likely in his seventies, puffs of gray hair sprouting from either side of his bald spot, and a third such puff on his chin. Here the Writer took a moment to survey the dr
