Doomsday Hunter

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Well, this was it.

Six-hundred-fifty East Broadway Lane, Minneapolis, Minnesota. I always hated doing inspections in this part of the city, mostly because it always made me feel like a peasant, come to do the bidding of my noble masters.

When I finally rolled up to the two-story, white-washed brick facade of my destination, my feelings were only intensified.

The exhaust pipe of the beat-up, old, two-thousand-and-four Oldsmobile Silhouette minivan sputtered and spat as I slowed the vehicle to a halt, and for a minute, I wondered if one of these bougie neighbors was going to call in a noise complaint.

Hey, at least I had a company car. Even if it was a piece of shit.

I threw the ’ol girl into park, killed the ignition, unbuckled my seatbelt, and slid out onto the sidewalk. I tried to be discrete as I yanked open the sliding door of the red-and-yellow van and mentally prepared myself to try and find my equipment in the mess of the back.

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