I was there, godammit. I saw it all. There are things in this world that will blister a man’s mind. They said that shit like this doesn’t happen in the Beehive State. “They leave that to the freaks in Frisco,” they said. The editors know that I’ve been squeamish since that incident with the trannies on Hollywood Boulevard, but instead of just leveling with me I get the same tired old reassurance that this time it’s just gonna be a standard assignment. It’s my fault. I should know better.
Either way I never go on the job without the Blackhawk and a flask of Old Crow. They’re both for self-defense, you see.
Provo bills itself as a friendly frontier twin, wholesome and family oriented. Recreational activities for the outdoorsman. If nearby Salt Lake City is a bit too cosmopolitan for your tastes, this might be your town. The editors had sent me to cover the annual Provo Street Fair, an event that had only been rumored to exist until an underground flyer made it into the hands of a reporter in Vegas. It was a cheap photocopied affair with what looked like a man in some sort of leather getup wearing a dog mask. The Vegas reporter rightfully had the scoop, but he refused to take the job. Needless to say, they gave it to me.
No one ever sends me to cover the local Little League game.