Samaritan
By boundless piles of clutter and trash there, scrounging about neighboring rats, was a man. His name was Chester but he, understandably, went by Chet. It was stitched in yellow cursive on his jumpsuit, spangled against gray darkened from well-worn grime and innumerable oil stains. Oil seemed to cover most of him, embedded permanent even into the pores of his skin. His rotund frame plunged deep into the hill, with only his loosening boots jutting out. When he emerged he had in his gloved mitts a muffler just the fit for a pickup truck waiting for him in his abode and he stashed it with other disparate gems in an accompanying motorbike, itself fashioned from the very chaff surrounding it. As he began saddling his vehicle he noticed a near-imperceptible green incandescence in the packed base of a facing heap. He'd have given no inordinate thought had it not flickered twice in quick succession, a scant beckoning of some cryptic value lurking within reach. He started the vehicle and ...