Brody hopped out of his battered, ancient Hiluxe, lit cigarette dangling from his mouth and enormous old rucksack slung over his shoulder. The notes from the Judge on his case back down in Georgia were still in the pockets of his worn flannel overshirt. He'd doublechecked the address before pulling into the Mansion, almost positive Arlee had played some great prank on him.

But no, this was the right place. And all the money the huge facility seemed to imply...it made Brody itch. From the drive up, he was pretty sure you could fit the entirety of his old neighborhood in this places' yard. Was he sure he was in the right place? Were they sure they'd sent him the right letter?

Brody was too lost in trying to figure out how big of a joke the world was playing on him to notice that he was being noticed...