Tassels of Terror
“Now this is a damn shame.” I said as I stepped out of my blue F-250 pickup and into a scene of biblical destruction. It looked like something out of the Old Testament, no shinola. Charred beams lay scattered around the parking lot like Lincoln Logs at a hyperactive kid’s birthday party, and glass in all shades of brown, green and clear crunched under my Justin boots as I made my way to where the front door used to be. I stepped over the threshold and looked around for somebody not carrying anything heavy.
The first guy I saw that had nothing but a clipboard in his hands was my best guess for the arson investigator, so I walked over to him. He was a little banty rooster of a fella, the kind that looked like he ironed his polo shirts. He was about five-six, and from my h
