Almost immediately, gunfire ricocheted off of Dreadnought’s tough exterior. A shirtless and heavily tattooed man dropped in a pool of blood outside a local vice den called El Fracaso Épica. Six men with green bandanas covering their mouths held up automatics and shouted. Matt examined the tattooing on the fallen man. “Los Bandanas Verdes and los Leóns Blancos,” he remarked. “Must be Tuesday.”

“Y’know,” Death Zone asked, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What are you going to do with the RV?”

“Sell it,” Matt replied, getting out.

“Here?” Death Zone asked, incredulous. “The metal market sucks down here! They’re poor! Why not sell it up at Grand Junction? Deseret pays through the nose because of all those border skirmishes with Utah.”

Matt parked the Dreadnought. “I know a guy,” he said, exiting.

The trio (including the Doctor, forcibly coerced) entered the bar. The bartender recognized Matt and stepped aside. They entered a back room, where a spasmodic man was sitting.

“Hello, Twitch,” Matt said.