Mr. Felt arrived in the same state as his formerly historical mansion had stood, the following day. Business meetings would still need to be hosted remotely, and he was still fully capable of putting on his company persona on in order to handle his professional life. He was only to be affected privately, in his thought's emotions would stay locked. Tension just kept rising with what should have been nonexistent relationships in his life. The beautiful town with the rocky seashore that he had come to love, to escape everything ugly and human, had a foul population that hated his guts.

Logically he knew it was time to make sure insurance was fully paid out, and to sell this wreckage. He should move somewhere else before he could be made into another national clown for daring to stand up for his rights. The poor were fully conscious that the rich were a different class of citizens who received different treatment. It was a position with many privileges but plenty of negatives, plenty of politics, and hard choices with everlasting consequences; it was nothing a socially challenged country bumpkin could ever consider. Now another key calculation needed to be made. He would either run for the hills, or make a stand to keep fighting for continued access to one of his many special spots. That's what this trip was really about figuring out.

"You caught any of the suspects?" Felt asked.

"We got all the guys, come take a look" said the state trooper guiding him inside a dim department room, large enough for 4 evidence boards to sit side by side. "Here's your suspects chief".

"My security company already sent those pictures over on the first day. Hope you got something else'' said Felt, frowning.

"We got some names, and we got plenty more evidence, even the box of matches that they probably used,'' said the useless cop.

The smug bastard puffing away on the photos he'd studied all the way over was now sitting blown up in front of him, grinning in high definition with a square Loony Auto matchbox gripped in a leather glove. The criminal was so sure he wouldn't get caught, or that his health wasn't going to catch up on him sooner or later. Regardless, the cancer would come well after the law, and justice would take its course.

The next day. A skiing man rounded the last bend on a large hill coming in quickly and dusting down on Mr. Felts feet. He had traveled several hours from one burnout to see another, his idiot son who never had strived to live past a reputation of being the family bastard. As long as he and the trust fund were kept slushed, being made the fool didn't matter, it was all good to kick back and chill. This child, a 29-year-old toddler, was a product of Felt and a Maine hippie, back in the day.

"Good day for it," said Mr. Felt.

"Sure is," said the younger one in response, lifting up his snow goggles revealing glistening blue eyes, a white smile, and dirty dreadlocks his father did not possess.

"I know why you have come here. Do you need a place to stay, father?" he said laughing.

"I'd catch fleas living with you and your clan of hippies" Mr. Felt said as he adjusted his sunglasses, turning to avoid direct sunlight leaking over the top of the hill. "Son, I need another favor".

"What will it be this time?”

“Well for starters if you ever want more money don’t come to me till that hair is cut” said Mr. Felt folding his arms and frowning. “I need muscle to protect my properties, and since none of you work because your parents all pay most of your rent, so I figured you could use a job.”

“Well, you better pay us fool, because we know how to unionize'' said the son.

Mr. Felt looked away cringing as his child was performing some movement that was hot in the current young adult culture. Flapping his arms and letting off seagull noses in a dance he had been practicing.