With the closure of November, winter began to fully settle over Las Vegas, bringing a slow but inevitable closure to the otherwise extensive drinking and partying within the city. Typically, Vegas and its neighbor to the west only saw maybe a half inch of snowfall at the most, often none at all, with the mountains as the one exception. Temperatures generally hovered consistently ten degrees over freezing, and the bitter cold chills often seen out east or up north in the Midwest were nowhere to be found, assuming you haven't been living in Satan's asshole (Florida) your entire life and could take a few degrees below 50. 

Not this year. 

An unusual cold front had traveled down from upper Canada over the United States, bringing with it sub-zero temperatures and the most snowfall Vegas had seen in over a century. Tourists and locals cleared themselves out overnight. Not a single soul was seen on the streets four hours before midnight, and the only people after that were those making their way from the casinos to their hotels, carefully attempting not to slip on the ice, crack their heads open, and freeze to death in the middle of the night. 

On the topic of the casinos, they were virtually empty. Vegas was not built to sustain anything less than 20 degrees, and now they were expected to serve whiskey still frozen in the barrels and deal cards that snapped in half if you bent them even the slightest. Unwilling to take the risk, they closed until temperatures decided to rose again, which would not be for some considerable time. Having already prepared for such disasters, the local mob-run casinos had installed furnaces and placed coffee machines near the entrances to keep people coming, or at least not turning into icicles. 

Even still, the loss of visitor revenue during winter was generally already not factored or was covered by other illicit activities. The problem with this specific cold front now, however, was that staying outside longer than a couple of hours could end up lethal for the average homeless person and despondent gambler. As a result, all the local crews in the area had to ramp up both their drug production and distribution. This becomes a serious problem when half the cars in the city have batteries too frozen to operate or oil unwilling to be thawed within their tanks. It wasn't difficult to find random passing civilians muttering something about "hell freezing over" or other phrases of similar nature. 

Although he was essentially a soldier already, PlagueDoctor had intentionally held off his initiation ritual to work on other, more "personal" matters (i.e digging around a fuck-ton of corpses that may or may not have been created by both local and foreign crews). While this left more opportunities for personal matters not contained within the family, it also stuck him with the shittier dirty work. In this case, CheeksClappinski had sent out an order to retrieve whatever stockpiles of drugs were still unrecovered after being left overnight in the freezing cold. For the most part, they were secure; if they weren't, he'd make sure whoever took them would be shipped in a pine box within the next week. 

The good news was that cocaine was a salvageable loss; the price of nose candy in Vegas was pitiful compared to the east coast or, better yet, Detroit and Chicago. While any missing bricks would certainly suck, Vegas' specialty was heroin. Pure black tar at its finest. Of course, it was now also frozen, but transporting the rocks across the desert had never been an issue, and the average junkie wouldn't give two shits about the condition it comes it when it's softened next to a fire.

Regardless, Jezabel had otherwise made it clear that whatever shipments still unaccounted for should be recovered at any cost, and now, walking through the ice-covered streets of Sin City itself, it was time to collect. And hopefully not slip and break his neck.

After painfully landing on his ass a minute into the walk, he exhaled, before slowly rising back on his feet and now, carefully, shimmying his way forward across the sidewalks. It was going to be a long night.

Apparently, some ignoramus had decided to place the first drop point right next to the tarmac at McCarran Field. The good news was that it was concealed within an inconspicuous suitcase container behind one of the poles on the sides of the runway. The bad news was that the entire runway was coated in snow, a blizzard had settled in, and not only was visibility nonexistent, actually finding the specific pole in question was going to take a long and grueling amount of time to individually check every single one. 

Conveniently, they had NOT marked which pole to indicate anything. The irony of such a precaution, initially intended as to otherwise not make such a drop painfully obvious to airport personnel, now felt ridiculous under the current circumstances. 

Normally, walking on an airport runway at any hour was beyond stupid, but due to the extremely unusual weather predicament the city now found itself in, the airport was closed. The runway lights had been shut off, coating the surroundings in pure darkness. Only small lights from the city skyline and from maintenance overhangs pierced through the darkness. The rinky-dink airfield, previously used for the U.S. Air Force, was rapidly transforming into a passenger-priority airport. The past years had seen increasingly higher numbers of passengers and arrivals on the daily. Usually, a flight or two would be expected at this time of night, had a snowstorm not encompassed the whole area. 

The walk to the outskirts of the airport had not taken that long; PlagueDoctor had already started from the Paradise section to begin with. The snow-covered gravel crunched under his shoes as he recognized the makeshift tarmac installed only a decade before. Fidgeting with his flashlight before finally getting it to work, he began making his trip across the runway to search for his target. 

Pole after pole yielded no results, and as Plague wondered whether he should just wait for the morning to have at least some semblance of visibility, a faint hum began to pierce through the howls of the wind blowing. 

The runway lights flickered on without warning, and as PlagueDoctor stood like a deer in headlights, the purr and vibration of a Cessna 172 plane quickly came into fruition. Then it came at him directly, coming straight in for a landing. He had only barely managed to dive out of the way as its landing tires bounced across the gravel, squealing as the brakes pressed firmly against them. His hat went flying through the air, before floating down to the ground a foot from his side. 

Almost as if fate had given its blessing, the gusts generated by that near-collision had ruffled a pile of snow aside one of the poles. Plague quickly spotted a faint blue hue sticking out from amongst the snow, illuminated by the runway lights. 

While the pilots of that Cessna 172 would look around for whomever they nearly shredded into pieces on their forced landing, they would not find them. PlagueDoctor had already booked it at full speed out of that airport after digging up and hauling away the suitcase. The blizzard had delayed their flight today, but tomorrow they would embark on the longest nonstop flight in history. 

PlagueDoctor continued his walk alongside the outskirts of Paradise, nearing the city limits and as far away from any nearby airports as humanly possible. He shined his flashlight over his watch, brushing off the snow still stuck to it. The night was still young, and there was still work to be done. Preferably without planes crashing into him out of the blue. 

Dawn began to break over Interstate 15 as PlagueDoctor strolled alongside it. The majority of the surrounding landscape was vast and empty, with only singular industrial buildings dotted alongside the highway and small trailer parks a couple blocks out in the open being the only civilization covering up the extended view of nothing. The Vegas skyline reflected the rising sun; the Golden Nugget sign eventually turned off. 

Rubbing his eyes, PlagueDoctor eventually approached one of the trailer neighborhoods connecting to the highway. The actual "connection" was more of a dirt mound that linked with other mounds before actually reaching the trailers lined horizontally against one-another. The seven of them circled a center area, with two pools structured in the center. 

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a now soggy, soaked, and barely legible note that was supposed to indicate which of the trailers was the holding spot. The only letters actually readable were an "h", "u", and what was either an "e" or a "g". All individually different words, hopefully in some particular order. 

The blue one? The green one? Did it matter that the actual trailers here could barely be considered blue or green, let alone any color other than gray or white? Plague figured he might as well search each of them. If any occupants were inside, he'd just have to deal with it. 

Supposedly, Jezabel had stationed a guard nearby to watch over this particular package, as well as highlight the specific trailer in question, but they were nowhere to be found on the outside. Plague peered through the window of the first trailer, one that roughly seemed to match whatever description of "blue" could be ascribed to it; the trailer was more of a bleached white with the faintest of blue hues. Perhaps it was truly blue at one point, but not anymore. 

The trailer was empty, but the door handle was locked. A few kicks to the handle frame easily knocked off the latch, and the door slowly pulled open. Stepping inside, the temperature was only mildly better than that of the outside. For a trailer, it was rather compact; this trailer was not designed for the average person. 

The bed mattress yielded no results, nor did any of the cabinets. The kitchen was empty, and the chairs were old and ripped. Was this trailer even used? 

A storage compartment near the back only had a crate of various useless tools and measuring tape, but it also contained a crowbar. Plague figured it would make breaking into the other trailers simpler, and so he grabbed it before heading back outside, attempting to close the door behind him that no longer latched. It slowly pulled open again on its own as he wandered over to the next trailer. 

Something felt seriously off on the next camper as Plague approached; the humidity seemed to increase as well as the temperature. Jamming the crowbar into the side of the trailer door, he cranked it open and stepped back to pull open the door. 

A horrific, pungent, and pervasive smell flooded his nose as he neared the entrance. The smell of death somehow seemed to penetrate his own mask used to counteract such a smell. Suffocating under the fumes, he quickly backpedaled out of the camper, ripping off his mask temporarily to inhale the non-contaminated frozen air. 

Twenty minutes later, he smacked off the built-up snow within his mask, before sliding it back on. The flakes leftover chilled his face as he slowly returned to the revolting mobile home, bringing the crowbar up and smashing into the windows on the sides to hopefully air out the contents within. Hopefully the noise at this point didn't draw any attention, but he had somewhat of a good excuse. 

As the sun fully peaked out over the horizon, Plague returned to the trailer of doom, covering his mouth as he poked his head inside. The guard that was supposed to be positioned here, or at least whatever was left of him, lay mostly in pieces on the floor, surrounded by the corpse of a coyote and some other unknown organism. The bloodstained floor and walls had dried but still remained fresh, now chilled by the cold air and soon to be perfectly preserved at least until temperatures rose again. 

Whatever nightmare happened here had to wait until later. Coyotes don't typically attack people, let alone jump into a trailer with them. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he searched around the cabinets behind what was left of the guard's corpse, peeling open the doors one by one until the compartments eventually revealed his intended prize. Another package was secured, albeit at the cost of whoever this poor soul was. 

He stepped back over to the remnants of the carcasses before noticing something black and metallic now reflecting off of the light next to the half-chewed head of the fool himself. Naturally, it was lying in a pile of some sort of bloody "mush" if it could be called that. Taking a deep and still rotten breath, he reached over and fished it out, the disgusting squelches of interacting with human or animal goop forcing his head to turn away. 

The bloodied keys to a CJ-5 Jeep now lay in his hand, dripping ever so often onto the floor. PlagueDoctor vacated the trailer as quickly as possible, wiping off the keys and his gloves in the piled-up snow below, doing his best to erase whatever trace of that scene as possible. The Jeep was parked alongside one of the trailers on the other end, a cover firmly strapped over the metallic top of its exterior. Unhooking each strap, the cover slid off with ease as he stored it under his arm. The doors unlocked relatively easily, and a quick jerk on the handle pried open the doors from their icy seal. He stored the cover in the backseat, before checking the seating.

Surprisingly, the engine roared to life after a few sputters, bringing a tiny smile to his obscured face. For now, it was time to report back and hopefully get a drink. Or two. Or five.

As he backed out and rolled the car over the snow-covered desert, the tires crunching the precipitation below, he looked over to the backseat again, reviewing the fruit of his labor. If nearly being killed and discovering the seemingly devoured remnants of an associate wasn't exciting enough for one night, he dared not think about what else could transpire later. If anything, he wanted nothing to do with another collection trip like this. 

A free Jeep was pretty difficult to turn down though. If he actually got to keep it, that is. Surely all the trouble he'd gone through was worth the price of a $3000 car. 

The Jeep slowly rolled to a stop as PlagueDoctor pulled back into his HQ, thumbing in the headlight knob and shifting the gear back into 1st. His hands slid into the rectangular handle on the sides and pulled the latch open, the door swinging outwards with a creak. A patch of built-up snow on the hood of the car became disturbed and dropped down on his head, the ice-cold powder paying no mind to the collar of his jacket and invading the crevices of his backside. His shoulders tensed up as a response, but he paid little mind to it after a quick rub and an adjustment. 

The back door groaned as he pulled it open, carefully avoiding the second snow pile that attempted another aerial attack, instead landing harmlessly on his forearm and the seat cushions. He hoisted the suitcase out from the seat with a grunt, before stuffing the other package under his armpit and slamming the car door. 

The actual HQ itself, a nightclub on the outskirts of Paradise, was not particularly active at this time of day, just after noon. A pair of guards were stationed at the front giving each attendee a search before they were allowed to even gaze inside. Nonetheless, Jezabel could still be found hovering near the front desk, which sat parallel across from the main entrance doors and the back room. 

Stomping his way into the establishment, ignoring the questions thrown at him from the front entrance guards, PlagueDoctor dumped the goods over the counter, pulling the suitcase up next to the table. One of the wheels had broken off somewhere along the journey here, and it proceeded to fall over and crash on the ground. 

"Next time we decide to store anything like this across the city, at least let me pick someplace a bit more reasonable next time." His words echoed throughout the club, paying zero mind to the other patrons who unfortunately happened to be within. 

"Oh yeah, by the way," he muttered under his breath, "whoever you put as a guard at that trailer park just off the interstate is not going to be rejoining us anytime soon." He raised a gloved hand, still somewhat containing the stains of dried blood from the carnage earlier in the night. 

ThaddeusVanderlynEsq, the trusted consigliere to Jezabel, walked through the doors in the back. Upon catching sight of Plague, along with the unmistakable whiff of death, Thaddeus promptly stopped in his tracks and turned around back through the doors. 

He took off his outer jacket, pulling the sleeves inside out and disposing of the defiled clothing on the floor, kicking it against the wall of the counter. "I need to hose off. Sorry-not-sorry for the scene. Rough night." He placed the keys to the Jeep next to Jezabel, motioning towards them with a finger point. 

"Are there any others we need to go after, Jez? Because I'm not quite sure I want to even bother going for them myself this time. At least not without someone coming along to cover some of the bullshit I've just dealt with." 

Jez looked up as Plague trudged into the club, her most recent "glitter" shipments tucked under his arms. He looked half frozen, while the other half dripped that watery pink fluid you get when you mix blood and ice.

Shaking her head, she called one of the guards in and handed him the keys. The (Un)lucky rabbits foot was half frozen, but she knew the jeep it belonged to and Jack would want to know about it... And deal with things.

"Jack, Your cousin was out at The Trailers tonight?" Jack looked down and Jez saw his jaw tighten and smiled sadly as she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Plague found him. I'll have someone else cover the door, Go, say your goodbyes, and give him a Viking funeral. I'm sorry for your loss."

Jack was still staring at the keys, his clenched jaw the only indicator of his loss, but he nodded and left with a muttered "Will do, Thank you Ma'am."

As soon as he was gone, Jez turned back to Plague, pulling a set of keys from a hidden pocket, she tossed them to him.
"Plague, take your jacket and Go back out the door you came in. Turn right and follow the wall around to the stairs. These will open the door at the top lock it behind you. First door on the left is the mudroom.

"If you think you can salvage the jacket, hose it down and hang it. Else, drop it down the shoot and it'll go in the boiler's fire. Same with the rest of your cloths. There are towels, spare cloths and shoes in the cupboard. Get scrubbed. I'll deal with the drugs while you're busy."

Jez turned back and scooped up the coke, heading into the back rooms to so her people can split it up for the dealers. Each of the tables got their own pack to portion out. Jez checked each table as she went around, Making sure no one looked shady.

Finally, as the last pack hit the tables, Gary came in, growling. "Three of our safe house guards were taken out last night. No idea who did it. One of them had a dead parrot on top of him, I'm not even sure how it got in there with him."

Jez turned to him a look of confusion on her face. "Why the fuck would someone leave a dead parrot? You know what, I don't care. Go grab one of the town cars and bring it round, I'm sending Plague back out to find out whats going on."

As if summoned, Plague walked back in wearing the glittery holiday sweater that had been stashed in the mudroom. Jez had to work hard to hide her smirk as she took her keys back. "Oh, good. Gary is getting you a car, I need you to head back out and check on the safe houses. Bring back all the drugs you can and send the guards home. There's no need to have everything out and about in this weather. And while you're out, can you drop off some dry cleaning?"

Plague sighed and trudged back out the doors stopping in the door way as Gary pulled up in one of the blue beetles Jez had insisted would blend in better then the black town cars Plague had argued for. "Oh, Hey Plague! I left the car running, should be nice and warm for you!" Plague turned to look back at Jez, who was quite pointedly NOT looking at him, her shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

With another, longer sigh, Plague headed back out into the snowy hell that was Las Vegas right now.

The stuffy Christmas sweater was obnoxious and stuffy, yet somehow not itchy compared to the others PlagueDoctor had worn previously. Regardless, combining the overly festive presence with the absolute atrocity that was the Volkswagen Type 1 was anything less than discrete. The waist-high 14-foot rinky-dinky midget of a vehicle almost seemed to mock him more than he already felt he was, its engine humming as it sat parked against the sidewalk. For whatever reason, the German-owned car had exploded in popularity within the States, despite its very evident origin from the Nazis defeated only a decade and a half earlier. Perhaps the simplicity was all anyone needed. 

Jezabel still remained the boss, but even this seemed a bit more cruel than usual. At least to Plague; the other members within the crew found it downright hysterical. 

The cyan coloring glistened under the sunlight as he trudged over to the side. Getting into the car was another matter, acting as if he had to stuff himself in just to fit. The clown car entry maneuver. Looks like being discrete was off the table today, but considering the circumstances, perhaps it wouldn't matter in the end. 

Gary stuffed the dry-cleaning in the trunk before giving a nod to the back mirror and slamming it shut. It was time to move. 

The immediate closest safehouse had been established towards the east within Sunrise Manor, which itself only came into existence a couple years before now. The spot itself was actually on middle ground between northern Vegas Sunrise Manor's boundaries itself. After the region survived an annexation attempt from northern Vegas, it actually ended up giving it some financial freedom, as the initial establishment had kept taxes relatively low and mostly out of harm's way. 

The actual safehouse itself was more of a storage shed among the various businesses alongside Torrey Pines, inconspicuously standing among the other pull-up sheds. The one in question was always the rightmost closest to the alleyway, designed for easy convenience and unloading. While not always under constant supervision, at this time of day it was supposed to be. 

Thankfully, the two sentinels who had been stationed nearby were still present, albeit one had taken to sitting in their car while the other stood shivering in the cold air. PlagueDoctor pulled up in his stupid and silly little car, parking across from the specific shed. 

On instinct, the guard standing in the open reached into his coat jacket to put a handle on his weapon but quickly dropped his hands upon seeing the ridiculous outfit Plague had been forced to wear. He tapped a finger on the car window, motioning towards his associate to come out. 

"Jesus, Plague, I nearly didn't recognize you. What the hell are you wearing?!" They chuckled amongst themselves, clearly enjoying the presentation they'd been given as Plague stepped out of his car. 

"Whatever the fuck Jezabel left for me. Yes, yes, it's VERY funny. I would advise you not to poke too much fun though, and I'm pretty sure I saw a whole box full of these sweaters back at our station. All it takes is one bad word and you'll be prancing around in these just like I am." He patted off the snow sticking to the sweater, apparently a perfect magnet for every single falling snowdrop. 

"That's not why I'm here though. You've been relieved of duty, so head back home. Are the drugs still secured?" He motioned towards the shed. 

Smirking, the guard who had previously been resting within their car pulled out a set of keys, dangling them around as he moved to unlock the latch. The door squealed as the shutters rose open, and he leaned down to the side and pulled out a plain black box with a red handle. "Should be," he said, handing the box over to Plague. 

Flicking open the latch, he inspected the contents; a few bricks of cocaine and a half-order of heroin rocks. All there as it should be. 

"Now, about our payment for today-" 

Plague jerked his head over, clearly uninterested in their rather impatient demands. "When you get that truck home, we'll discuss your payment. Your job isn't done yet. I've still got work to do, and you've still got a shift to cover. Just because you've been relieved from here does not mean you are going to be relieved the whole day. Get back to the headquarters and report in." 

The pair of them stared at one another, clearly not taking his words too seriously. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure we'll be doing nothing except sitting around waiting for this whole storm to blow over. If they really meant that, you'd think Jezabel or even RichardWad would be here themselves to say such-" 

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the air, as the moron who continued to talk suddenly found his hat dislodged from his head, a bullet hole poking clean through. PlagueDoctor stuck his pistol back into the front pocket of the sweater, which otherwise had become a previously unknown great spot to conceal a weapon. "What fucking part of "go home" did you decide not to fucking listen to?" he bellowed, his arm jutting out to the side in the direction of their vehicle. "Get your ass in that truck and GO HOME. You would not BELIEVE the day I've already had so far. Get in the fucking truck right now or I swear to God I will put a bullet through your giant fucking mouth."

The pair scrambled like rats into the truck, stomping on the gas pedal and speeding out of the enclosure. PlagueDoctor buried his head within his hands, clearly frustrated at today's events, which seemed to never let up. You'd think the month of giving would be a bit more generous.

Sticking the box next to today's dry cleaning in the trunk, he quickly stepped back to the still-open shed and shut it tight. In their panic to get out, the duo had dropped their keys to the shed on the ground. Avoiding another future fuckup, he snatched them off the snow and locked the shed up again, before retreating back to his Type 1 and squeezing himself back into the tiny car. 

The next stop was now up north, aside the Union Pacific Depot behind the rail line. At this rate, it felt like he was going in a circle around the whole goddamn city, each spot equally more stupid than the last.

The scene at his HQ recalled back into his mind. Something about more guards being ripped apart, with a parrot corpse as the calling sign.

Where the fuck did someone get a parrot in the middle of Vegas, let alone anywhere in the United States?

Before pulling out of the storage sheds, he checked his pistol over. Things might start getting serious, not that he couldn't handle it. PlagueDoctor just simply didn't want to. At least, not without someone else around to shave off some of the stupidity on.

The Union Pacific Depot itself was an unassuming building, sitting alongside Fremont Street on its own across the intersection of Main Street. The building itself had been remodeled entirely in 1940, matching that of the Bauhaus style popularized in Germany a few decades before. It stuck out like a sore thumb along the road, the "mid-century modern" architecture looking completely foreign to the surrounding buildings. The pale-green color was obscene and difficult to look at, while the connected arch sticking out on the roof was the only redeeming quality. The rail line itself was at least untouched, but the disparaging building design seemed to bleed over it regardless. What an idiotic looking building. 

To the immediate south of the train station was a smaller and more appealable bus station that seemingly resembled a typical gas station, just without any of the actual pumps to go along with it. Extended alongside the Greyhound Bus Depot was a cafe linked to the building itself, with convenient parking right in front of the double doors on the sides as well as the front entrance. 

Pulling in alongside the sidewalk, PlagueDoctor figured he might as well attempt to grab a bite to eat, considering he hadn't eaten since 5 o'clock the previous night. The bus station also happened to be the backup spot for storing drugs; if they were ever here, the main drop spot had been compromised. 

The Type 1 ground itself to a halt and sputtered to a halt as he killed the ignition. Squeezing himself out of the still-too-small vehicle, he stretched his back, the strain of sitting hunched over for an hour clearly not worth it. For whatever reason, though, despite the rows of parked cars along the sides, not a single person could be seen walking up and along the sidewalk. Cars continued to drive by as normal, but nobody was out and about. 

Pushing open the doors to the cafe, a chaotic scene presented itself. The cafe was completely empty, with various trays, plates, cups, and food sprawled out all over the floor. Broken glass from the counter crunched under his shoes as he investigated the abandoned eatery. Despite all the chaos that had gone on here, it seemed more like a break-in than a shootout. Regardless, that wouldn't explain the lack of customers or employees otherwise nowhere to be found, who otherwise would have stayed behind to report such a crime. 

He traversed his way to the front, stepping behind the counter and pushing aside the metal serving station that had crashed onto the floor. One of the doors to the kitchen had been ripped off of its hinges, lying flat against the tile with the window cracked and smashed. The other door was jammed to the side and would not budge when pushed against. 

Treading into the cookroom, it was even more thrashed and in ruin. Pots and pans lay littered everywhere, one of the burners was still on and melting away at a pair of tongs left on top, and fryer grease had spilled and spread across the entire back, making each step sticky and more difficult than the last. The fridge had been ransacked, with only a few bottles of cooking oil and leftover greens still remaining. 

Plague flicked off the switch to the cooker, carefully avoiding the now-dripping pair of tongs that threatened to sear his hands off. To his right, he reached around one of the cabinets stuck against the wall, pulling it out and throwing it aside. Behind the cabinet, tucked away in a cutout of the wall, was the next drug package. Whoever was just here had been looking for it yet wasn't able to find it. It also meant the intended drop spot had been shot apart. 

The corpse of another parrot lay at his feet on his left. Guess now we know who was behind this escapade. 

While gathering his belongings, the back door suddenly shook, increasingly getting more forceful, before progressing to multiple slams against the door itself. Something was ramming against it and about to break inside at any moment. Plague quickly scrambled to his feet, pulling his pistol from his side. There was no cover within the kitchen, at least nothing that would otherwise conceal his location. He frantically searched around, looking for anything viable, before the steel shine of a glistening jet lighter caught his eye. His arm shot out over to grab it, quickly trying to flick the flame alight as the hinges on the back door began to give way. 

Almost immediately as the door smashed open, crashing into the kitchen counter across from it, the lighter finally snapped alight. As various figures stormed into the room, a smirk formed across his face as Plague chucked the lighter across the kitchen, the flame making contact with the layers of grease that had soaked up among the tiles. 

Instantly, the room burst into flame, the grease immediately catching alight and quickly absorbing the whole room as Plague dove through the entrance doors and over the front counter, booking it out the side and shoving himself into his car as fast as possible. He struggled to shove the keys into the ignition in his panic, before they finally slid into the slot and jerked the handle. The car hobbled as it failed to sputter to start, hindered by the cold air, before the engine finally roared alight. 

Bloodcurdling screams and yells echoed from within the cafe as the visitors failed to escape their incinerating hell, until the running gas from the ovens caught alight. The explosion that followed shook the whole ground, the windows on the sides of the cafe and bus stop disintegrating as flames burst out from them. The blast wave slammed into the side of Plague's car, shattering all of them and rendering Plague momentarily deaf as he slammed the stick into gear and his foot on the gas, speeding away as the depot overhand collapsed right on top of where his car just sat. Further explosions rocked the building from his rearview mirror as he placed a hand over his ears, trying to block out the incessant ringing from the sudden detonation. 

The car continued to speed down Fremont Street, chips of glass dislodging and falling into the road with every miniscule bump and sharp turn. The ringing in Plague's ears eventually began to dissipate but still remained for minutes after. Somehow, the package this whole endeavor had been intended for was stuck snugly within the pockets of his sweater, perfectly intact albeit with a few shards of glass laying on top. Perhaps it was useful for something after all.

The cold wind continued to crash against Plague's face from the blown-open windows. Hopefully, the sweater would be warm enough. Pulling out a map tucked away in the sun visor, he made a mental note of his next location: Fremont Casino, now all the way towards the west. At least it stayed on Fremont Street.

Fremont Hotel & Casino had opened only two years before, requiring just over $6 million to actually build, chump change in comparison to the majority of projects going around. Somehow, it also managed to become the tallest building within the whole state of Nevada, though that's not exactly a compliment considering the actual "state" was more of an unending desert with zero hills. Anyone isolated in the wilderness would be thinking the Earth was flat for how actually fucking "flat" Nevada let alone Vegas was. 

Nonetheless, Fremont Casino sat among the triangle of the other casinos on Fremont Street itself, now the newest edition to The Strip. Flanking across the boulevard sat the Golden Nugget and Binion's Gambling Hall, all equally great casinos in their own right, but now conveniently out of the way for Fremont's introduction. 

Jezabel had organized the actual construction of the casino, provided they could utilize it as a stash point for heroin, cocaine, and perhaps the odd shipment of amphetamines that may run through. In return, the funding for such construction would be generously provided, as would the amenities, zero harassment by the local police force, and the greatest bodyguards money otherwise couldn't buy: mafiosos. 

The past two years had seen some very consistent returns and profits among the Vegas families, as had the drug trade. Assuming everyone played their part and the cops remained paid off, things would be fine. There were even talks of opening up another casino alongside Fremont within the next decade. 

None of this seemed to be of much importance as PlagueDoctor pulled up in his now-shattered car, coming to a jerking halt along the sides and not giving a damn about the pedestrian walkway. The valet from the other side of the casino came speeding out trying to figure out what was going on, his eyes widening seeing the condition of the car that had just pulled up. 

Plague groaned as he pulled himself out of the smashed-up car, grabbing a hand on the roof to hoist himself up. The air began to grow colder again as the sun already began setting, now just before 5 PM. As he shut the door to the car, the hinge snapped and the door slid off the side, clattered onto the ground and spilling out whatever glass was stuck in the window holder. Plague snickered, walking around the car up to the valet, who quickly tried to adjust themselves. 

He dropped off the keys in his hands, nudging his shoulder. "Bring that back to The Pit over in Paradise for me. Don't worry about the condition. Just get it back there." Before walking past, he stopped, turning around and thumbing with his back pocket, pulling out a few $500-dollar bills. Typically used for bank-related transactions, he'd sneaked them off a while ago poking around an armored truck. He stuffed them into the valet's front vest pocket. "Should cover the trip, and perhaps anything else." 

The valet carefully leaned down, grabbing the dislodged door and tossing it in the backseat. He stepped back around, carefully trying not to slice himself sitting into the car seat, wiping away the glass shards that decorated the interior. PlagueDoctor gave a nod as the valet stared awkwardly, before activating the ignition and pulling out of the road. 

As he strolled in through the entrance doors into the actual casino itself, it expectedly was as lively as ever, with various tables and machines being used by virtually every patron. The front desk sat neatly positioned among the center of the whole casino, the first thing you'll spot walking through those pairs of double doors on either entrance side. Thankfully, and as he had arranged various nights before, RichardWad was still hanging around, still serving out baked specialties to those walking amongst the games. Behind him lied the remaining drug box, neatly sealed amongst a blue container naturally covered by an overabundance of glitter. Looks like the parrot crew hadn't gotten here yet.

He stepped his way towards Dick, relaxing his shoulders as he brushed off whatever glass remnants still lay stuck to his unruly sweater. "Jezabel says we're all supposed to head back home. Something's been going on, few of our guys have been getting torn apart of late. Thanks for keeping the box safe, just bring that back and anything else leftover here back to base." He brought his arm up to his face, rubbing the top of his head and re-adjusting his mask, a couple glass shards falling out from the momentarily opened holes.

"I got stuck with dry cleaning duty...so I'm still running around. Already been through hell and highwater, without the water part at least yet. Been a pretty fucked up day and a half...too bad my big mouth keeps me from being able to relax much.

Richard nodded, scooping up the box and giving the signal to three men positioned at various spots within the casino. The trio organized at the front, following Richard out of the doors and down the sidewalk. Adjusting his jacket once again, PlagueDoctor stepped back outside into the cold night, now ready to finish his unpaid manual labor and be done for the day(s). 

The problem was that when he stepped outside, the car was nowhere to be found. The car he had just sent back to Paradise. The car that held all the dry cleaning in the trunk. That car. The car he needed to empty the trunk of to get such dry cleaning. The car given specifically to DELIVER said dry cleaning. The car full of dry cleaning that he forgot about that he just shattered and probably ruined. 

The good news was the valet had dumped the dry cleaning out on the ground, apparently giving the debilitated vehicle a look over at some point. The bad news was it was now frozen like a rock, scattered around, cumbersome, difficult to carry, and filthy. 

"God fucking damn it." 

Dragging the dry cleaning across the road, the cleaner's had just closed and only the front porch light remained on. The owner themselves was visibly at the front door, sweeping the ground around it and getting ready to close up for the night. Groaning with each tug, Plague pulled himself up against the door, turning around to face the exterior. 

"Hey man, we just closed, sorry. We open again tomorrow at 6 A.M. if you'd like to-" was all he could muster before Plague brought his leg up and firmly kicked in the door, the knob snapping through the frame and clattering on the ground as the door flew inwards, nearly snapping off the hinges. Without a word, Plague continued dragging the sacks of clothes in through the doorway, ignoring the rants and yells from the owner as they frantically demanded that he stop. 

Eventually, all the bags of clothes were inside, and Plague turned to walk back up towards the owner, who still had continued to scream his lungs out until Plague reached into his back pocket and pulled out a hefty wad of cash, slapping it into his chest and shoving him off. He made the wise decision to not press on about this "minor" inconvenience anymore, and wandered off down the street. 

Plague slowly pushed the door as closed as it would get, trying to jam it back into its lock. When it refused to latch, he slammed it against the lock, which finally stuck it into place, until the glass pane that made up the majority of the door cracked and shattered all over the floor. At least the frame of the door was still there. 

Tugging the sacks in front of the various washing and drying machines, PlagueDoctor returned back to the wall, fumbling along the sides until he found the light switch. Flicking it on, the interior lights buzzed and slowly flickered to life, the hum of the generator reverberating throughout the store. The washing machines themselves were of the newer models released sometime within the decade. Rectangular, easy to use, and operated simply by turning a dial on the front. 

The problem was PlagueDoctor typically did not do laundry, let alone using a machine to do it; he was still used to manual washing within a barrel and hanging them out to dry the next day. 

His attempt went about as expected. The cardboard boxes of cleaning solution were easy to find but figuring out how to apply them was the next problem. The first load consisted of him dumping a full box within the machine, which soon led to the bubbling once he switched the machine on immediately sending the spill-cover flying off and clattering onto the floor, with an endless stream of bubbles soon enveloping the entire room and everything within. At least now he would smell nice, but now he couldn't see anything. As the bubbles soon rose around up to his torso, he pondered what he'd done to deserve such a bubbly fate. 

Thankfully, bubbles are (mostly) harmless, and eventually the tidal wave of bubbles subsided, though not before spilling out into the street. It was actually rather fun, almost like a free bath standing up. 

The next load was not much better. This bag of clothes had been absolutely caked in glitter, one of Jezabel's "glitter bombs" being the ultimate culprit. This time, Plague added too few of the solution, which led to barely enough bubbles forming on the surface. Even worse was apparently one of the glitter bombs had been tainted, mishandled, or maybe it was due to them being dragged through a filthy street all night, but regardless, when Plague pulled off the lid to check its progress, something vile was released into the air. Wearing a mask meant PlagueDoctor was unaffected, but the nearby houseplants against the corner of the wall were not so lucky, immediately shriveling up and rotting away. Plague quickly dumped half of another box into the machine, hoping to avert whatever aerosol bioweapon had just been unleashed. 

Eventually, Plague found a good balance, finally getting the hang of things. He even ran a load using the dry-cleaning bags themselves, washing off the caked-up dirt that had built up on the fabrics from an hour of dragging them through the mud and snow. He figured he had taken up enough time as it had been already, and the cold air was surely enough to dry the freshly cleaned clothes, assuming they don't all freeze and fuse together. The dry cleaners even had extra clothing sacks to make up for any that had ripped on their own and definitely not due to dragging them across frozen concrete and gravel. 

Plague walked over to the phone on the wall, thumbing in and rotating the dial until his number of choice was dialed. Hopefully, they would be up at this hour, although there was no telling whether they'd be willing to put up with some of the bullshit, let alone driving themselves across town to do it. But Plague had a few favors to call in, and he might as well make use of them now. 

Glitter timeout was just about over. Not that PlagueDoctor particularly minded. It was nice being out of the spotlight for once. 

Following the debacles of the previous week, Christmas had finally come and gone, and things had been quiet around the headquarters since. The problem with nothing happening is that you start expecting something to happen, and it usually doesn’t end up being good. 

Plague shifted in his chair, pulling out the blue-green feather scavenged from one of the various parrot corpses left behind at one of the raided safehouses. Still no leads on who or what was causing all this, and people were beginning to grow antsy. 

As was customary, Jezabel emerged out of nowhere with a bucket filled to the brim with slime-coated glitter, arching her arms back and dumping it all forward on top of PlagueDoctor. Unnecessarily cold and overbearingly sparkly, he wiped the goo from his eye-holes and shook off the gunk sticking to his sweater. 

”Can I finally take this off now? I don’t see anyone else forced to wear one of these…I think I might’ve ruined it already. Not my fault though. Never was.” 

Jezabel glared with a piercing side-eye, clearly unimpressed with Plague’s attempt to deflect. “Plague, you blew up one safehouse and shattered our car in the process. And to top that all off, despite somehow managing to do the dry-cleaning, half of the clothes I asked you to wash have holes in them from dragging them through the sidewalk. You’re probably going to wear that sweater for the rest of your life!” 

The news had come bright and early. News that nobody would be expecting, news that no-one would ever want. News that everyone eventually dreaded. 

When someone dies out of their own accord, or when anything tragic occurs within someone's life, there's few words that could otherwise truly describe what one is feeling when they receive the news. Those words become more difficult to find when the news comes as a surprise, let alone an abrupt one. Knowing you could be talking to someone one moment, and the next, they are gone. Permanently. 

The call came in the early morning. Very early. Just after midnight early. PlagueDoctor was dead. 

But there was still work to be done. And someone's gotta do it. 

Typically, setbacks often put an end to an adventure. But not this adventure. 

Fresh off the boat in California, PlagueyDoctor's first steps were straight into the airport, flying back to Vegas in order to re-acquaint themselves. Coming right off of the airplane, an anonymous stranger stuck his hand out in front of them, stopping them dead in their tracks. Opening their trenchcoat, they reach inside, producing an otherwise thick envelope and handing it over. 

"PlagueDoctor would want you to have this."

The envelope contained $35,000. Not nothing, but he'd need a few thousand more envelopes to make up for what was previously just lost. But before he could say anything, the figure was gone. Vanished in an instant. Plaguey looked around, wondering where they might have wandered off too, before shrugging his shoulders and continuing his walk, hailing a taxi back towards his family's headquarters. 

The drive was over almost as soon as it began. The club was there just as it had always been, hugging the outskirts of Paradise as it looked over the small suburban neighborhood. Plaguey approached the main doors carefully, eyeing the walls of what once housed his father. But as he slowly reached his hands out towards the handle, the doors swung open, and Jezabel lurched forward, grabbing Plaguey by the hand and jerking them inside.