Chapter 19
The door slammed closed behind us with a large sound, like a rusty gong struck by a rubber mallet, and I turned to find the strange young man who had let us inside sliding the deadbolt home. He was an interesting figure, short and bone skinny, dressed in baggy pants criss-crossed with chains. He wore no shirt, unless you counted the light chainmail draped over his shoulders as clothing. Every available surface was tattooed, gauged, or pierced. He had a thick head of long, dirty-blonde hair, all sticking straight up in foot-long spikes.
He turned, jingling as he did so, and his heavily modified face broke into a surprisingly welcoming smile.
“Honey . . . babe! I’m stoked to see your face in the place!” He began to bop up and down, as if dancing to a rhythm only he could hear.
