I was in the deli on 4th street. The second time the butcher came around he called on me and asked what I wanted. What I needed was a fortune cookie, but the place I was in didn't have anything like that. The short guy in the back screamed at me to get lost. He couldn't see over the counter, so the used tissue I threw on him landed with a perfect surprise.

I tried again at Quality Foods to find a fortune cookie, but once more I was disappointed. An old Russian woman stood up from her panhandling ft. a flute and suggested I go to Quebec. I was feeling adventurous, so I headed the frick in that direction.

The walk to the airport took me half a day at least, and I ran out of food by the time I had booked my flight.

It was hours later when I first saw the plane. It was long and disgusting. I would have no part in it. I tried to return my ticket, but returns weren't accepted. It infuriated me to the highest degree. I sat down in one of the old, horrific-smelling seats and stewed in my rage.

Dylan sat down beside me in his black trenchcoat. "'Sup," he greeted. His bold, sexy smirk blurred out the rest of my view. He seemed to gain more confidence and excitement every day as we neared our final event.