On the west coast of Costa Rica there is a small coastal town called Dominical. After the bizarre and disturbing events in Midwest America with the Order of the Nocturnium, this is where we find Story October. He came here to get away, to get his mind right and align his spiritual energies.
It’s no small coincidence that he chose Central America to bum around and recenter, something compelled him to this place; as much as he would like to believe it was his own freewill, it wasn’t. The Earth goddess is a multidimensional entity of higher power and exists partially outside temporal reality as we know it; she foreseen her binding to the Material realm and set Story on an inexorable path to this destination, she needed him close. And at the moment, he’s all that stands between Armageddon and salvation.
Unfortunately, he’s fallen off the wagon of sobriety, again, and he’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard for several months. There is a free camping area near the rocky beach where he has a tent setup with a hammock inside, he’s lying on it, bottle in hand, it’s noon and he’s already half-drunk as he looks out of the opening to the seagulls and breakwaters of the Pacific as it meets the rocky shoreline. Worse yet, at least from his perspective, his bottle is empty, so he manages to find the energy to scrape his sorry ass up and head down to his favorite local mercado on the corner of the block nearby.
As he’s walking to his destination, he stumbles on a rock but doesn’t fall down as he reaches into his pocket and says, “fuck,” out loud because he finds no money in there, then he remembers through his clouded half-intoxicated mind that the nearest automated bank machine ran out of money Friday afternoon, it’s Saturday, they won’t put more money in it until Monday, therefore a new plan is required to facilitate his intoxicated aspirations.
Along the front of the rocky beach area there is a series of vendor stalls selling various wares, mainly for the tourists, aside from the food and drink vendors, which the locals also frequent. People are beginning to assemble and gather at the beach areas and the shops are opening. Story is looking for one vendor in particular, Roberto, but that’s probably not his real name, his real name is probably Robert; a man of Jamaican descent that grabbed a vendor stall about a year ago, he didn’t pay anyone for it, nor did he get any permits, but so far, no one has said anything about it to him. He sells little drums and painted gourds to tourists.
Story approaches Roberto’s stall as he sets up, getting ready for any customers for the day. This is Latin America; people do a late start on the weekends here. You can be an early bird if you want, but you’ll be on an empty beach or empty streets, which I suppose some people might like but it’s no good for merchants and vendors. Roberto speaks English because he was born in Jamaica; It helps with engaging tourists and making sales, which is good, because Story’s Spanish is broken at best. He says to Roberto, “Como estás, amigo.”
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“Hello, Chicago, mon.” Roberto replies warmly, he’s in his late thirties, dark skinned with long dreadlocks as befitting of a rastaman. Instead of calling Story by his name, he uses the location of where he is from, not in a rude way.
They greet each other with an informal fist bump, Story jumps right into the topic at hand and asks, “I need a bottle, bro, but the ATM is outta cash again, can you spot me some money till Monday? I just need enough for a bottle.”
“No problem, mon. Get me some chips, just a bag of plain tortilla chips, the local ones in da clear bags, they is the best ones.” Roberto hands Story some local currency, colóns.
Stuffing the money in his pocket, Story asks something else, “my phone is dead, can I charge it here again, is that cool?”
“I gotchu.” Says Roberto and he plugs the charger into Story’s phone, laying on the table next to his own phone.
With a fist bump, Story says, “thanks bro.”
A few moments later, Story is in the mercado looking at beer selections, normally he would drink hard spirits, but he's thinking maybe he should take it easy today and stick to beer. After making a selection of a one-liter bottle of beer and grabbing a bag of tortilla chips for Roberto, he pays the older Tica lady at the register. She hands him back his change but grabs his hand with her free hand, looks him in the eyes and says, “Es muy peligroso, senor.”
He’s taken aback by this, she’s never spoken to him before, other than standard pleasantries to a customer, but he can sense it on her now that they made firm contact, she is touched with the Sight, just a little bit. He slowly pulls his hand away, eyes still locked, says nothing in response as he slowly looks away, starts to walk out when he’s hit with an intense psychic shockwave and at the same time an earthquake rumbles through the town, shaking buildings and cars, shattering windows. He falls to his knees screaming in pain, “Oh my fucking god!”
From down the street, Roberto is watching for Story to return, he feels the earthquake and hears him screaming, it’s very disturbing to hear a grown man scream in agony and terror. So, he runs over to him, helps Story up to his feet, and says, “it was only an earthquake, it’s okay mon, they happen all de time here.”
“No, no, no, something’s wrong, terribly wrong, but, but, it’s close by, it’s here, in Costa Rica,” replies Story as he is helped to his feet and shakes his head, thinking of the irony that he actually thought he could get away. “I need to ask you for another favor, I need money for a bus, I need to go north, and I need to go today.”