CHESTER
The Southern Packs surely have the most rigid, and depressing air of solitude. Over a five-hour ride and there is not even one jazz tune wafting from the houses. Or open clubhouses.
Nothing that defines 'fun'.
It's just traffic noises, and then the soft musing from the wind. It's the early evening, around 5 p.m., when I pull up the familiar gate of the Southern Packhouse.
I take a while before I alight the car, shutting the door and taking off my glasses. Approaching the gate, I get rudely halted by a couple of burly, Southern soldiers.
"Head-Alpha Chester!" One of them roars and the others take a gait, like they're ready to attack. They have dead glares and are almost baring their claws.
It's funny how the sight of me can plunge them into such a beastly mood. But I guess
