You walk out of the diner before realizing you have no idea where you're going. Where's "Bleak Court" exactly? Why would a street be named 'Bleak,' anyway? Numbers, letters, states, trees, flowers, minerals, presidents, other historical people and places... but adjectives? It seems odd.
So you stop at a nearby ampm for a map of the general area, and have to burn more cash on one of their chocolate macadamia nut cappuccinos before the girl behind the counter will let you check out a local map.
"All dressed up and nowhere to go?" the girl asks you. Impressed by your outfit, your lack of a vehicle, and your prowling around in the small hours of the morning, no doubt.
"There's no such street as 'Bleak Court,'" you complain, checking the foldout several times.
"Who'd want to live there?" the ampm girl wonders. "Some emo kid."
"Yes, an affectation," you say, nodding to yourself. Of course. "'The invisible worm that flies in the night.'"
"None of that dirty talk on my watch," says the countergirl. You peer up at her in surprise, checking her nametag. Meg. She can almost keep a smirk from the corners of her mouth. There's something familiar in that expression, but you can't place it.
"This lowly brew would better serve as a hog's colonic," you tell Meg, which is the best diss you can offer for the candied nastiness you've been sipping.
"To fuel you on your failure odyssey, Vil!" says Meg, flashing you the sign for silence and dismissal. "'Report you well and truly.'"
You turn and exit the store at once, knowing now you're not as alone in town as you'd thought. That had been some niece or daughter of King Trump, using old signals, so you're being watched. To your benefit, or otherwise?