The transaction had gone horribly. It was seven in the evening as Vincent Chevalier drove along Amsterdam Avenue, haphazardly stitching his R8 in and out of the homeward bound procession. He had endured the better part of the last decade dealing with these Japanese steel assholes and their pseudo-Yakuza bullshit. The fabled politeness and venerability of the Japanese was lost on these goons, who were just as likely to show up unannounced in one’s office, as they were to do so wielding meter-long katanas. As he made his right onto West 88th Street he definitively made up his mind to retire Dodgson, who had somehow mutated into a spineless sycophant, a caricature of his once brilliant former self. “Too many hours in that goddamn opium den,” Chevalier told himself. The steady clockwise movement of the tachometer was his only release from the situation, and only moments later he found himself in the driveway. Noticing the ominous loitering of a decaying moving truck outside of his estate, Chevalier nervously pumped the brakes, and the car began to waver on the gravel. “Shit,” he thought to himself. It quickly dawned on him, however, that there was no way those bespoke suit-clad Japanese had arrived in this wretched vehicle to off him. His heart receded back into his chest as he put the car in park, and began curiously up the stairs towards the front door. As he neared, a gangrenous stench ebbed from his palatial entryway, and an unknown man issued a stern command. Vincent paused short of the door, and a smile crept across his face as he teased his mustache. His komodo dragon had arrived.