Dead Dog's Tale

  I had long left the evening dark behind me, a filthy cloud of Arizona's crumbling asphalt and desert dust trailing in my wake. My mission was clear: outrun the night and put as much time and space between myself and Tucson as possible. But Nevada's 93 North, with its pitch-black void, finally cornered me. Phantoms of rime and rain swirled around my truck, thick tendrils of chilled fog closing in from all sides. Eighteen-wheelers haunted the road, behemoth ghosts roaring out of the shadows, ripping past at break-neck speeds, shaking my U-haul and rattling my frayed nerves. Exhaustion finally kicked its way in and grabbed me by the collar. With my focus wavering, drifting over the white line as the fuel gauge needle drifted uncomfortably close to E, I conceded to the night. I searched the horizon for the faintest glimmer of city lights. I found salvation in the small, unincorporated town of Alamo, Nevada. As I slowed from 70 mph to 25, the truck vibrated and shook, tires slippi...

I chose this rural fortification in Marsing, Idaho, for the privacy it offered and the particular energy it exuded. The walls were a canvas of messy graffiti tags, quickly scrawled upside-down pentagrams, and sloppy spellings of "Satan" alongside the ubiquitous "666." Holes were kicked and punched in the walls, and the shattered glass from broken windows and beer bottles crunched beneath my boots. My intuition was correct. This space was steeped in a rich history of emotional angst, pangs of helplessness, and unfettered rage—the exact flavor of mana I required. But I wanted more. My familiar spirits whispered that the prime location was yet to be discovered. The upper floor needed to be tactically unsound. While this was a lonely place, the flickering candlelight visible from the windows could still pique the curiosity of uninvited guests. Who or what roamed the Idaho farmlands in the pitch of night was not the equation I was here to explore. However, cocking b...