War of the Wooks Part III
Overnight, the Mole Person Liberation Front staged a late-night guerilla attack on the tunnels. MPLF operatives entered territories occupied by radical wook organization The Other Side of The Coin in the Rio and Caesar’s Palace tunnels without crossing the border between the areas; they snuck in through the lateral drains—smaller pipes that intersect the main tunnel that OSOC builds ‘wook mansions’ around—and attacked. Sleeping wooks were restrained with zip-ties, kidnapped, and carried out through the lateral drains. Wooks who were awake at the time of the attack were caught by surprise and many sustained injuries in hand-to-hand combat. Overall, 26 wooks were kidnapped and another 30 injured. Almost nobody knew that the attack had taken place until it was over, and the MPLF suffered no losses.
This event has several important implications for the conflict. Drain laterals can only be entered underground from the wook-occupied tunnels or from the aboveground drains. The fact that MPLF members were able to enter the laterals from aboveground means that they have some unknown means of egress. OSOC has been suspecting this for a while; they have occupied every entrance to the Rio-Caesar’s-Mirage tunnel network and therefore cut off all known supply lines into the deep tunnels where Mole People still live, but there are apparently supplies getting in; food, water, and weapons like slingshots and brass knuckles, which the MPLF has so far favored in battle. Even if the MPLF members who attacked the tunnels traveled aboveground from the MGM Grand tunnel system, which remains in their control, that wouldn’t explain how Rio-Caesar’s-Mirage Mole People haven’t run out of supplies.
The second important implication is that OSOC drastically underestimated the MPLF’s strategic and combative capabilities. Sleeve, OSOC’s Press Officer, told me in an interview that the wooks who had been attacked were taken aback by the Mole People’s skill in close-quarters fighting.
“It’s like we’ve been saying the whole time; the Mole People are, like, fundamentally super violent, man,” Sleeve said when my advisor and I paid another visit to his office in the Rio tunnel. “They’ve taken hostages now, which is, like, a huge escalation. They’re probably torturing them now. Did you know that the man who had the idea to open the Guantanamo Bay detention center was a Mole Person? It’s true. Torture is, like, a part of their culture.”
Another day of covering this conflict meant another press conference to attend. Vanguard, Sleeve, and a group of journalists even bigger than the one the day before gathered at the junction of the Rio and Caesar’s Palace tunnels. OSOC had lit up a few hundred more feet down the large merged tunnel, and journalists greedily filled up the extra space.
As I stood with my advisor waiting for the conference to begin, somebody kicked me in the calf and I partially collapsed. I stood and turned around to see Andy Gustafon of JamBase and Skye Ortak of Relix, my journalistic competitors and apparent nemeses.
“Nice work breaking the news about the Nitrous Mafia,” Ortak said, her voice dripping with disdain. She was referring to yesterday’s Shrieks & Whispers article in which I met a secret informant who revealed that OSOC was secretly funded by the Nitrous Mafia, an organized crime unit that sells whippets at jam band concerts. The informant also hinted at another income source that he couldn’t explain to me; his only clue was to “look higher.”
“Find any leads on that secret source of funding?” Gustafon asked with contempt.
“If I did,” I snapped, “why would I tell you?”
“That’s a good point,” he replied. “We figured out who it is, anyway.”
I paused, taken aback. “What? Who?” I asked.
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because I’m the only person who can contact the informant to confirm it! You have to tell me, you fucking shmuck—”
“Hey!” Ortak interjected. “It seems like there’s an easy answer here. You’ll just have to put us in touch with your informant. No problem!”
“You know I can’t do that,” I said, growing more and more frustrated with her condescending tone. “I don’t even have his contact information, just a time and a place to meet him after the show tonight.”
“I guess you’ll just have to bring us with you,” she said.
“There is no way in hell I’m going to scare off an anonymous OSOC source by bringing a stranger around. Have you ever dealt with informants like these? They’re… very sensitive!”
She shrugged. “If you’re okay with being an obstacle between the truth and the public, that’s on you.”
I saw red. “Fine, you muckraking scumbag pieces of shit! But if he clams up when he sees two bigwig fucking jam band magazine journalist assholes, then that’s on you!”
“Great!” Gustafon exclaimed. “Where should we meet? Golden Corral?”
I was ready to pounce on him when my advisor grabbed me by the waist and pulled me back. “You don’t want to do that,” he advised.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked, still enraged. “These good-for-nothing fucking vultures have been picking away at me like obsessives, like Gene fucking Hackman in The French Connection, ruining everything—”
He hushed me. “OSOC brought in a hot dog stand, so I was in line. You need to calm down.”
Before I could protest, Vanguard walked to the podium and began the press conference, the white chrysanthemum in the flowerpot on his head bobbing gently as he spoke.
“Today is a day of great pain, but also of great celebration,” he announced. “As you know, the endlessly cruel Mole Person Liberation Front launched a disgraceful attack on our new homeland last night. In the short time that Zuri Zepeda has been the so-called Prime Mole, innocent wooks have been hurt and kidnapped. Mark my words: we will get our people back, and Zepeda will pay.
“The Mole Person Liberation Front is not and never has been a legitimate governing body. The Other Side of the Coin will never recognize them as a true power in these tunnels. They are advocates for violence and hostage-taking. We came here to have good lives, and we are willing to give good lives to the Mole People as well if they are willing to assimilate.
“That is why I am happy to announce the formation of the United Tunnels of Vegas. This will be an organization headed by a Mole Person; a legitimate, peaceful, Mole Person representative body that will aid in assimilation. I have appointed the one and only Grubby Busch to the position of True Prime Mole. Grubby, come on out here and say a few words.”
The title ‘True Prime Mole’ was filled with implication; Bush had already lost the Mole People’s Prime Mole election to Zepeda, and the title seems equal parts a consolation prize for Bush and a provocation to the MPLF.
Busch emerged from the Caesar’s Palace tunnel, wearing jeans and a ratty t-shirt; the uniform of the UTV. “Hi, nice to meet everybody,” he said, his trademark southern twang coloring his voice. “I’m real excited to be the True Prime Mole. I’ve always said that the Mole Person and the wook can peacefully coexist, and I’m proud to be a part of making that happen. The United Tunnels of Vegas is gonna, well, unite everybody here in the tunnels into one, uh, sort of democracy.
“Vanguard and his people at the Other Side of the Coin, they can change things for the better, and I wish Zuri would see that. She’s a real force for violence, her and her liberation front. But it doesn’t have to be that way! Starting now, any Mole Person is welcome to pledge their allegiance to the United Tunnels of Vegas and will be rewarded for their loyalty by OSOC. They’re really good people, you know, these wooks, and I intend to be the strongest force out there fighting wookphobia.”
Sleeve opened the floor to questions.
“Prime Mole Busch,” one journalist asked, “how has the Mole Person constituency reacted to the formation of the United Tunnels of Vegas?”
“Well,” Busch began, “you have to remember, Mole People ain’t used to being part of a big organization. We’re used to being loners or members of a lil’ community, so whether it’s the MPLF or the UTV, it’s new for the Mole People. But about a hundred of us—” he looked to Sleeve for confirmation, who nodded “—have already joined the UTV and are moving into the sections of the tunnels that wooks are keeping safe.”
Another journalist raised his hand. “What exactly is in it for Mole People? Why assimilate instead of fighting back?”
“Well, like I just said, safety is a big factor. Things just ain’t safe deep in the tunnels, and in OSOC zones the only threat is the MPLF. The fact is that Vanguard and the wooks just have more resources to make this place liveable.”
Andy Gustafon shot his hand up. “On the topic of resources—and this question is for Vangurard or Sleeve—do you have any comment on the recent allegations in the insignificant magazine Shrieks & Whispers that OSOC gets significant funding from the Nitrous Mafia?”
Sleeve stepped up to the mic. “In the interest of total transparency, which is, like, one of the highest values of any wook, I’ll confirm that we do accept funding from the Nitrous Mafia and there is a section of one of our tunnels that we permit them to use as a storage area. However, many of the reports, like, greatly exaggerate the extent to which they fund OSOC. I actually have to commend Shrieks & Whispers for not distorting the facts, unlike, say JamBase.”
I sneered at Gustafon, but my advisor poked me in the rib. “He’s just trying to win your favor,” he whispered.
Ortak raised her hand. “What do you say about the allegation, also published in Shrieks & Whispers, that there is an additional, secret, scandalous source of funding that is being kept hidden?”
Vanguard leaned into the microphone, the chrysanthemum swaying over his head. “There is no such secret source of funding,” he stated flatly.
Sleeve leaned in. “Whoever the informant was who, like, provided that information, well, he lied. Someone internal is trying to embroil OSOC in a fake scandal, and we are working on weeding that person out as we speak.”
I raised my hand. “Regarding funding and also last night’s guerilla attack by the MPLF, do you suspect that Zepeda targeted trustafarians because of the financial support they lend to OSOC? And do you have any idea where the MPLF is getting their funding?”
“It’s certainly possible that Zepeda targeted the wook mansions for that reason,” Vanguard said. “As for MPLF funding, new intelligence points toward the fact that MPLF ally, Deadheads Advocating for the Freedom of Mole People, which we have officially designated as a terrorist organization, have been secretly providing money, weapons, and training to the MPLF.”
Another reporter chimed in. “On the topic of DAFFOMP, they have been continuing their calls for intervention by the Las Vegas Water Authority. Has the Other Side of the Coin changed their stance on this?”
“Absolutely not,” Vanguard said, “We still wholeheartedly deny the need for intervention by a so-far absent authority.”
Busch approached the microphone again. “I think I speak for everybody when I say that the formation of the United Tunnels of Vegas is proof that we don’t need no water authority to sort our problems out for us. But let me say somethin’ about DAFFOMP, and I know this ain’t likely to be popular, but I do think their hearts are in the right places. If anybody from DAFFOMP is listenin’ right now, please know that I am open to talks with you, and you know where you can find me.”
He stood back, but then, as if he had forgotten something, leaned in again. “One more thing: the United Tunnels of Vegas is committed—fully committed—to gettin’ those hostages back.”
Vanguard made a final announcement. “In less than an hour, OSOC will begin our largest defenses yet against the Mole Person Liberation Front. And mark my words: we will not stop until the trustafarian hostages are returned to their wook mansions.”
With that, Sleeve ended the press conference. Ortak approached me and told me to meet her and Gustafon at Sphere’s Venitian entrance after the show so we could meet the informant. I told her that I’d see her there, and in the meantime, she could go fuck herself.
Returning to the same venue for the second night in a row brings an easygoing sense of familiarity to the experience; while I’m not sure anybody could ever get used to the immensity of Sphere, the newfound sense of familiarity one has on the second night of a two-or-three night stand is nearly comical. Fans carry themselves with newfound boldness; I’ve been here before, their posture reads, I know what’s what. I know where the bathroom is.
The fact that we had already been in and out of Sphere, however, did not ease the pervasive sense of disquiet section 406 felt as we bore witness to a woman giving birth while the band was playing Dark Star.
“Jesus Christ,” my advisor bemoaned as he watched a wook cut the umbilical cord with his teeth, “I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen that.”
“It’s the miracle of birth,” I told him. “Stop shying away.”
The umbilical-cutting wook took a long pull on a DMT pen and blew it lovingly into the baby’s face. “Welcome to the party, bitch,” he said affectionately, patting the baby on the head before falling backwards over the balcony.
“I’ve only ever read about this type of thing,” my advisor muttered quietly.
“Get used to it,” I said, “it’s not even setbreak yet and we still have one more night.”
He retrieved two pills from his fanny pack, and swallowed them dry. All he could so was shake his head disaprovingly.
The woman named her daughter Dark Star, even though she was tried her best to stall the birth until the band played Althea.
My advisor and I fled Sphere. “Who am I?” he asked. “Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure who you are, and we’re going to meet some reporters we know. Enemies. They’re going to scare our informant away and ruin everything,” I explained. The instructions from the informant were clear: I would be able to find him in a hotel room at Treasure Island. One door in the entire hotel was painted green—typical bullshit theatrics that informants love.
We darted through the passenger bridge to the Venetian, weaving expertly through the dense crowd, and found the nearest exit, where we stood waiting for Gustafon and Ortak to meet us.
“Can we go to the strip club after this?” my advisor asked me.
“You’re supposed to be my travel advisor. Why are you asking me permission?”
“Because I’ve gotten to know you, and you’re a little bit of an uptight prude.”
I gaped at him. “Uptight? Prude? How dare you! Do you realize the deadlines I’m on this week? I was assigned a story that was supposed to be fun! And now I’m out here doing this Daniel Pearl bullshit in the tunnels?”
He hushed me gently. “I don’t know who that is. And you haven’t relaxed a single moment since we got here. You need to chill, man.”
“Chill? Did you just tell me to chill? Are you serious?
He handed me a pill. “Take this.”
I grudgingly slipped it in my mouth and swallowed it dry, almost choking when somebody punched me in the small of my back. It was Andy Gustafon of JamBase with his friend Skye Ortak of Relix.
“Great show, huh? How about that Saint Steven? Heady jam, amirite?” Gustafon said, laughing as I winced from his blow.
“I’m sure I’ll read about just how heady you thought it was in your shoddily-written review tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Gustafon replied, “but first you’ll read about how I broke a much bigger story about OSOC’s scandalous sponsor.”
“Are you going to tell me who you think it is now?”
“Absolutely not. Bring us to your informant.”
I headed down Sands Avenue toward Treasure Island on the other side of the strip, where the informant had asked to meet us. Gustafon and my advisor fell back to discuss the show, and Ortak walked beside me.
“I’ve read your articles about all this, you know,” she told me.
“I know. If you hadn’t read them you wouldn’t be fucking everything up.”
She laughed. “No, I mean I really read them. With care.”
“Great. What did you think?”
“I think your writing is awful,” she said bluntly, “and your whole method of storytelling is contrived.”
“Thanks for the feedback,” I muttered. When we arrived at Treasure Island, I guided everybody into the lobby. “Okay. One room in this hotel has a green door, we have to find it. That’s where he is.”
“He’s in this hotel? In one of these rooms?” Gustafon asked.
“Yes. He’s behind the green door.” I burst into laughter, the drug my advisor gave me beginning to take hold. “That’s his whole shtick, that he’s behind the green door.”
“Is that a reference to something?”
“Probably some old porno movie. People who become informants for reporters always have some kind of…” I trailed off, losing my train of thought. “Anyway, we should split up. Andy, you and my advisor check the even floors, Skye and I will check the even floors.”
“You mean the odd floors?”
“That’s what I said, moron.”
“Fuck you. Why are we doing this in pairs? We should split up individually.”
I squinted, pulling together the rapidly-decaying vestiges of my usual cognitive ability. “If one of you found it by yourself, you would just go behind the green door and ask the informant without me… scumbags… we have to keep an eye on you, that’s why pairs.”
“Fine. Good god, what is going on with you?”
“Leave me alone! Skye! Let’s get to floor two to look for the green door!”
“I thought they were doing the even floors?” she said.
“I said that we would do the even floors. Check the transcript, that’s what I said. It’ll be published tomorrow.”
She followed me into the elevator, which we rode to the second floor. We walked the entire floor without seeing the green door, so we took the elevator to the fourth floor.
“What made you want to be a journalist?” Ortak asked me at one point.
“I’m not making small talk with you,” I replied.
“Okay. Well, here’s a more thoughtful question: why are you such a dick?”
I glared at her.
“We could be helpful to each other,” she continued, “if you stopped being so hostile. I have great connections to the MPLF and you have great connections to OSOC. Why don’t we compare notes?”
“I’d never help you unless I was forced to. Do you know the stress I’ve been under lately?” The elevator reached the sixth floor with a mild wobble that, amplified in my perception by the drugs, made me lose my balance.
“I understand that you’re stressed,” she said, helping me up, “but that whole thing with the Golden Corral was really a dick move.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. “The Golden Corral, the Golden Corral… why is that my legacy? I don’t understand why you’re taking that so personally!” I picked up my pace, eager to find the green door.
“How else was I supposed to take that other than personally?”
“My editor told me to throw you off the case! It’s not personal, it’s just petty journalist squabbling, like when the helicopter journalist who found the white Bronco tipped everybody off to the wrong cemetery.”
“Well, you wasted a lot of my and Andy’s time.”
“Kind of like what you’re doing to me right now?”
She smirked. “It’s not personal. Just petty journalist squabbling.”
“Give me a break. Remember when you told me that if I ever needed anything, I shouldn’t fucking call you? Remember all the times your buddy Andy hit me? That’s not personal?” Not finding the green door, we got back in the elevator and I hit the button for the 8th floor.
“I’m not responsible for his behavior. I didn’t hit you.”
“I guess not.” We walked out the elevator. “But he’s with you, isn’t he?” I paused dramatically—I had finally spotted the green door. I shouted with excitement.
“What’s going on?” Ortak asked.
“The green door! I found it!”
“Are you hallucinating? That’s the same color as every other door. It’s not green!” She quickly realized that she had gained the upper hand. “You’re high and you can’t tell colors apart anymore, can you? Now you need me more than I need you!”
I silently cursed my advisor for giving me the pill. “I can see just fine.”
She grinned at me. “No, you can’t. Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of this situation. You’ll just have to follow me and trust in my ability to find the green door.”
“Trust? You?” I sneered.
“Do you have a choice?”
I careened dramatically through the hotel halls, the brown and black carpet of the hotel hallways intermingling with the lighter doorframes; floor becoming wall, wall becoming floor, the whole world listing to the right ten degrees, fifteen degrees, thirty, forty, meeting the capsize point, tipping dramatically—
Ortak stood over me. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine! I tripped! Let’s move on.”
We found nothing on floors ten, twelve, fourteen, or sixteen. My ability to effectively perceive the world around me had so diminished that all I could do was follow Ortak around like a helpless puppy. Finally, on floor 22, she found the green door. I called my advisor, who was a few floors below with Gustafon. They came up to meet us.
“Let me go in first,” I said, “so I can explain that I’ve been subject to entrapment by a couple of classless vultures who think they’ve solved the great mystery.” I shooed them further down the hall, then knocked on the green door. The informant opened it and I walked in.
“Hey there,” I greeted him, “so, odd situation here… I didn’t figure out where OSOC is getting money from, but some of my, uh, colleagues in the profession think they’ve gotten to the bottom of it and they want to ask you themselves.”
The informant frowned. “I only agreed to meet you.”
“That’s what I told them!” I exclaimed. “Well, sorry to waste your time, I’ll go let them know they’ve ruined the whole operation. Have a nice night!”
“Wait,” he said, “you can let them in. If they have identified the funding source, I’m willing to confirm it.”
I rolled my eyes, cracked the door open, and waved everybody in.
“Cut to the chase,” the informant demanded.
“Okay,” Gustafon began, “we’ve been doing some digging. And we believe the secret income stream is Peter Shapiro himself.”
I gasped. My advisor raised his eyebrow. The informant nodded.
“That’s correct,” he said, “but I can’t say any more. I have to go. Godspeed to you all.” He left the room.
“Peter Shapiro?” I asked, incredulous. How could the legendary jam band promoter—sponsor for Goose, organizer of the Fare Thee Well Shows—be responsible for OSOC? I looked at Ortak. “Doesn’t he own the magazine you work for?”
She nodded. “He’s the head of Relix.”
“Have you confronted him about this?”
“I’ve never met him, I’m just a reporter.”
“Good lord.” The wook who tipped me off in the tunnels was right; this whole conspiracy went higher than I possibly thought. The vast array of players in this insane game was dizzying—or maybe it was the drugs—with the Nitrous Mafia and now Peter Shapiro both funneling money into OSOC and the UTV, will the MPLF stand a chance? Will they release their trustafarian hostages and collapse? How will the revelation about Shapiro change the landscape of the conflict in the tunnels?
“I know you’re probably having some deep thoughts right now,” my advisor said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “but we’ll be peaking soon, and I advise that we head to the strip club immediately.”
“I just want to ask,” I shouted to my advisor, pointing to JamBase writer Andy Gustafon, “why exactly we’re hanging out with this asshole?”
“We’re off the clock! Remember how I was telling you to relax earlier? It’s time to relax!”
We were in the Peppermint Hippo—an establishment that, in olden times, would have been referred to as a “showgirl theatre.” Contemporary polite society would call it an “adult entertainment club.” But most commoners would just say something like—
“We’re at a strip club!” my advisor shouted gleefully. He had gotten us bottle service and expedited entry, all free of charge. On the flight into Las Vegas he had met—and apparently deeply charmed—a pair of exotic dancers named Climax and Clementine, who invited us to their club.
“We’re at the strip club with Andy Gustafon.” I withered. “How am I supposed to relax in the presence of such an obnoxious loser?”
“I can hear you!” Gustafon said from the seat next to mine. “For what it’s worth, I also wish you weren’t here, you self-important grandiloquent fuck!”
“Grandiloquent? Who are you, John Camden Hotten? Don’t you have some smut to publish?”
My advisor slapped me in the back of the head. “Shut up! My friends are coming.”
Climax and Clementine had spotted him and were heading over to our table. I recognized them from the plane ride, but now they were wearing… you know, the type of thing you would expect people in their line of work to wear.
The drug that my advisor had given me had slowly begun to wear off, but its effects would occasionally surge with a vengeance. It was in the midst of such a paranoid surge that the two dancers sat at our table; Clementine with Gustafon and Climax with my advisor. Fear gripping my soul, I prayed that they wouldn’t talk to me.
“Hey, handsome!” Climax greeted my advisor. “How’s the week been? Win big yet?”
He chuckled. “Not at the casino, if that’s what you mean. But we’ve been busy.”
“Oh yeah?” she turned to me. “You’ve been keeping my friend busy?”
I sat like a deer in the headlights, totally unresponsive.
“Oh. Okay. You know, last time I saw you you were also pretty… pent up. Has anybody ever told you that you could stand to let loose a little?”
“I guess I do get that feedback pretty often,” I stuttered.
“I think you should take it. I’ll have some of my friends come check on you. But you,” she said, turning back to my advisor, “should probably come with me. You brought cash, right?”
“Trust me, Climax, I’ve been budgeting around this specific evening.”
She and my advisor slipped away. I polished off my cocktail and waved our waiter down for another, pretending Clementine wasn’t sitting in Gustafon’s lap just a few feet from me.
“Are you really a writer?” I heard her ask him flirtatiously.
“I really am. I’m pretty famous in my field, not to brag,” he said. I chortled quietly, and he faced me, shot me a brief, dirty look, and turned back to Clementine.
“And what field are you in?” she asked him.
“Oh, you know. Investigative journalism.”
“Really? Have you been working on anything big lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I have… maybe you could help me with it?”
“Depends what you mean by help…”
“Let’s talk about it privately?” They, too, disappeared.
I gulped down the rest of my cocktail and ordered another. Alone at the table, I stared blankly forward, my focus going in and out in accordance with the will of the alcohol in my system. The club was a sloppy conglomerate of skin, money, and fantasy; a few dozen men allowing themselves to believe that the beautiful woman flirting in their laps actually liked them—most, of course, fully aware of the ephemeral and transactional nature of the relationship but nevertheless permitting themselves to lapse into the fantasy, aware, as anyone who hopes not to become an easy mark must be, that these women sell their attention and charm just as much as they sell their dancing.
Is it all worth it? The question doesn’t have to be hypothetical; the thousands of men who frequent such clubs on a daily basis answer, with money if not words, with a resounding “yes.” What kind of endemic emptiness do we all suffer from that makes the idea of paying for this kind of validation seem reasonable?
Another swell of drug-induced paranoia swelled in my psyche. Who was standing near me?
“Hey, there, cutie,” a dancer said to me. “Climax said you might need some… attention. My name is LaCroix, and this is my friend Crystal Light.”
Crystal Light blew me a kiss, and I slumped in my chair. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” I muttered.
“Well,” LaCroix said with a mischevious smile, “hopefully having some fun.”
My advisor and I stood outside the Peppermint Hippo. He patted me on the back in an attempt at reassurance.
“Come on, man,” he said, “it’s really not that bad. I’ve probably spent way more than that at strip clubs.”
I looked at him, not sure if I should feel outraged or incompetent. “You’ve spent more than three thousand dollars?”
“Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Uh, no. You spent that much?”
I groaned.
“Well, think about it this way,” he said, “this is technically a work trip, so maybe you can deduct it.”
“Some consolation that is. Where’s Andy?”
“I have no idea. Should we try to call him?”
“No. With any luck, some pimp is beating the shit out of him somewhere.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get back to the hotel, alright? Big day tomorrow. Big day.”
Updates to this developing story will be posted daily for the duration of the June 6-8 Dead & Company residency.
Shrieks & Whispers 
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