The alien squeals, twangs, and buzzes that reverberated through the unmarked alley door sounded more like a wrecker flattening cars in a junkyard than music. Two dumpsters overflowing with bags of decomposing food, coffee filters, and used bathroom-cleaning supplies stood to either side of the entrance. A rat scurried out from behind one dumpster on its way to the other, dragging a rotting fish head in its mouth.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked Min, friend, food-truck owner, and the craftswoman who’d made the magical submachine pistol—Fezzik, I’d named it—that I carried in my thigh holster.
My finger wasn’t far from the trigger now. On the way in, we’d spotted a massive clawed footprint in a dusting of spilled flour sticking to brown goo on the cracked pavement. I checked
