Sitting on the porch of his “mobile home” smoking a joint was John, a shiftless layabout living off welfare and what he stole out of people’s cars. He was doing OK until a voice spoke into his ear, the hot breath irritating the hairs growing out of his ears.

“Where’s Krulltar?”

John tried to jump up, but he tripped and fell to the ground in a heap. A pair of black combat boots landed in front of him.

Levering himself out of the mud, he started to say, “Jesus Christ! You nearly gave me a…” But he was interrupt by a hand in a black motorcycle gloved snatching him up by the neck and one-arming his bulk two feet off the ground.

“Where’s Krulltar John-boy?” said a voice, flat with no emotion.

John gasped, “I don’t do that stuff no more Bat! No, no more meth! I don’t know who this Krulltar is!”

The other black clad hand reached into John’s jacket and pulled out a vial with some crystals in it.

“That’s enough meth for five people. Where did you get it from?”

John said “You didn’t hear it from me right?”