Okiyama Odi's new tongue works almost too well. Ever since the Blue Flame regenerated what that Boise horror vaporized, he's developed a habit of narrating his meals like a food critic - including my terrible coffee. ("Burnt despair with notes of existential dread.") We meet in diner booths where he coordinates his underground transport network between bites of pie.
Chad Thunder still hasn't recovered from our last negotiation. When I demanded 10% of ThunderCorp's profits for homeless housing instead of healing his yacht injuries, his face did something truly spectacular. The security team's escort left me with nothing but a Floyd-shaped hole in his ego. Worth it.
Sam Cassius meets me in motel parking lots, always leaning against that '67 Impala like he's in some noir film. The jiangshi venom in his ribs still flares up, but the man would rather chew glass than admit weakness. Our latest deal: his cursed athame for my healing.