Mickey's Long Term Storage - Exterior
Evening
Thursday
A buzzing whirr of radio frequency buzzes through the cooling air of the late afternoon, the muggy humidity of the lower Adirondacks and their plethora of wetlands and swamps now giving way to the natural mountainous crispness, the lazy hand of the frozen north reaching down and brushing a careless hand over the foothills where your town lies.
Yes, your town.
Fairfield, New York.
With its streets that glisten and reek with the summery scent of fresh tar, and the western roads that fade between gravel and dirt, alongside the stubborn old road leading up, further into those old, old mountains.
The final chill of spring is fading. Soon, Summer will be here in earnest, tired eyed university students clamber back to the wooden dorm buildings dotted around the oak tree park in the center of town, ears laden with cheap alcohol. Irascible children are about to be called into their homes by their parents.
Very wholesome, a firmly ordinary north-eastern town, nestled gently in the hills.
But, for whatever reason, you have grown, hm, perhaps discontent with your lot.
Maybe you were always this way, perhaps you came to this train of thought recently, after a loss, or great shock, perhaps?
Well, it's none of this old man's business.
You all got the flyer, in one way or 'nother, got the coordinates, got the location, and now you're here.
Out front of Mickey's Long Term Storage and Garage, being watched through a small kiosk window by a bespectacled youth in his early 20s, just now setting down a thick textbook.
The buzzing of the radio lies thinly in the air, like a mosquito on the edge of hearing.
He leans idly out of the window, peering measuringly at all of you, particularly the younger individuals.
"Here about the flyer?"