Pete stood on the side of Sunset Boulevard, on the cusp of the dark alleyway he’d been instructed to wait within. The Sanguines were the gang to impress, so if he wanted in, he was going to do whatever was necessary. He’d fully expected to be a mule of some sort, likely bringing a nice bag of weed back from Tijuana up his butt. The intense California sun bore down on him, drenching him in scorching heat and an orange-hued light. Dusk was coming sooner rather than later, and he’d hoped that whomever was testing him would arrive before the streets got too seedy. How ironic… Pete was not the type to join a gang. He was whiter than paper. Skim Milk was too spicy for him. He rocked out to Celine Dion in the car on the way to the location. He worked as an insurance adjuster, and that was “really exciting” for him. I could go on, as I have plenty more of these, but I’m sure you get the gist. After the sun had just begun to set, with the hazy, orange dusk painting the sky, Pete felt a sharp