Alice of Bogata. Darkstar of the Chemical Spray, Angel of Battery, Poet of the Dream Cycle, Executioner of Dealers High on Their Own Supply.

I know that I've already told you that she lives in the Interior now blowing things up and setting shit on fire. Alice calls it 'seismic' but really she's just getting paid to have fun doing things that she'd probably be doing anyway. It might seem a like an exaggeration to think that someone's idea of fun might be setting controlled burns or knocking away the face of a mountain with some carefully placed C4 while under the influence of Montreal's finest illegal export, but that's Alice. Straight out of an impossible dream, the product of a delirious childhood spent drifting among aunts and uncles, the cobbled streets of that ancient city of libraries, a clandestine boat trip that didn't end in tragedy, a series of audacious hustles that eventually landed her on the Canadian west coast playing drums for a band that had no plan for success and then out into that sundrenched valley that she calls home. - - why are you here, Buster? - I need something. - did you come for the box? - I did. - do you know where they are now? - I think that I do. - do I want to know how you got the information? - I'll tell you in the car. - are you inviting me to come along? - I think that you'll want to be there for this. - are they alive? - That's what I intend to find out.