Peace Is Better

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“Here we go again, Barbara,” Bill Williamson said. “Ready to roll?”

Barbara Rasmussen nodded. From the left rear seat of the Mighty Mo, the sasquatch Governor of Jefferson watched his publicist’s blond curls bob up and down above the back of the right front seat. “I sure am,” she said. PR people never lacked for enthusiasm. That sometimes made them scary, but they needed it.

“Then we’ll do it.” Bill stepped on the gas. He stood nine feet two in his stocking feet, though he was much too hairy ever to have put on stockings. The back seat of a car as humongous as his ‘74 Caddy with the extra-long steering column let him drive for himself, which he enjoyed.

Yreka had been a state capital for sixty years now, but it was still a sleepy little place. Anyway, the government office building lay only a couple of blocks from the onramps to the I-5: Jefferson’s backbone and, when you got right down to it, the whole Pacific Coast’s.

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