We sat on multi-hued wooden chairs with serpents slithering along the legs while Bizz seated himself at the base of a narrow spiral staircase that likely led to living quarters. We"d declined an offer of beer, so he drank alone as he waited for us to begin the conversation.
In his late 20s, the man was reed-thin and short. He bore the appearance of a suffering artist; the face sporting a ducktail beard was gaunt and sad. Carrot-colored hair was sparse, suggesting baldness was around the corner. He smelled vaguely of sweat and greatly of paint and chemicals, and lack of bathing. A black tank top showed off two full sleeves of neo-traditional tattoos. I half-expected to see rook or industrial piercing and was surprised there was none, at least to the visible eye.
According to Gail, Bizz Wa
