A Stuga On the Cusp of the Orust Riviera, tucked away next to a hobbit hole in the woods.
This Dean Pugh character would need close watching. He was foul and lean, junk-food raised and opposed to dentistry judging by his greening teeth. His skin had a yellow tinge, beneath shitfly green eyes, and his brain was probably odd enough to posthumously set off a bidding frenzy among scientists. He generally seemed batty as a loon, goofy as a goose on ice, immaculately weird, with no stain of normalcy on him at all.'
The Wing was a white prison gang, a loose nationwide cartel of sorts that kept in touch via three-to-five jolts and visitation privileges. Though not as strong as The Aryan Brotherhood or The Brown Mafia or The Locked-Up Muslims, The Wing had dirty fingers that could pull triggers on both sides of those high federal walls.