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What else would a Drug Enforcement guy do other than something hyper-cool, right?

Mouse goes down the road. I go down the road. Mouse goes down another road. I go down the ‘nother road too. Mouse ultimately turns into Birdwood. Me likewise, but I’ve eased back to give him an elongated plot of pavement.

A lot is coming up ahead on my right. I see Mouse’s minivan at rest in one of the rows. I also see the mysterious JADE man is watching my auto wheeling toward his. I don’t want to stop anywhere near him. Neither do I want to pass immediately back by him.

I nudge my coupe onwards and stop in an arced drive. There I get out and walk inside a building that has its door propped open.

From two young guys at a desk I ask for directions to a place I already know the location of. “I go left? At… where -- the gas station?” I waste approximately three minutes of life with this type of pseudo-ditzy nonsense. The boys beam at me when I thank them for being so helpful. I dally back to my car.

Pulling away I scope out Mouse’s vehicle again. He’s vacated it. I’m tempted to park but then what? I’m not sure I should go looking for him. Maybe he’s buying an 8-ball from some ghetto grub. I don’t want to mess that up.

I vamoose, vividly imagining Mouse is doing something hyper-cool.

I’ll find out later this is a trip he makes frequently and what he does here ain’t hyper-cool. For that matter, it can be summed up using one letter:

Zzz Zzz Zzz