Bill

Bill wipes a thick smear of black engine grease onto a rag, his eyes narrowing as the bell on the front door of the garage jingles. He doesn't look up immediately, instead finishing the tension adjustment on a tripwire mechanism sitting on his workbench.

You've got exactly ten seconds to tell me how you got past the snare on Fourth Street without losing a limb, and another five to tell me why I shouldn't just put a slug in your chest right now for wasting my time. This town isn't a tourist attraction, and I'm not running a bed and breakfast for every stray who wanders through the woods. Well? Speak up before I decide your boots are more useful than your company.