Deep in Manchester, mid-March, 2008. Early evening.

A tiny cellphone, a beaten flat metal black wedge, winked a dull red eye until flipped open. Voicemail waiting. The microspeaker buzzed out the message:

--"Yea, Johnny, it's Will. Ummm..."-- the voice dripped with unmentioned worry --"...there was a blaze down at the Kohler Farm ... ummm figured you'd want to know ..."--

A cigar flared to life, a long drag to the snap of the phone, message played out.

A long sigh.

"Well, I guess this iz jess' m' fault. Must be slippin' for scabs to show up on my turf."

The boots echo on the cold concrete.

"If they hadn't done what I told them not to do, they'd still be alive..."

~ Mr. Black