“And that right there goes out to all the punks running down those long mean streets. ‘Twas a little ditty called ‘Stormtroopin!’ No guesses who we’re rapping about on that. I’d tell you the artist, but someone scrubbed the labels off the 45s. More killer shit like that from KXOB, live in the heart of Haven, with our megablock of classic rock.” It was a voice that could’ve sang on the platters he played, that’s how full and smooth the black wolf’s was, a stark contrast to his spindly frame, but a perfect match for those soulful green eyes.
He punched his mic’s mute button and sent out the next half-hour. The DJ kicked his legs up on the desk and took a long drag off his silver cigarette. Old World pinups and band posters festooned the small gray room, lit only by his one screen and the lights of the vintage console. He smiled at every one of his fine wolven women, and saluted the frozen, frenzied faces of killer musicians live on stage, all through the smoky haze.
His name; unimportant, even to himself. The only thing that mattered was keeping the music going, and the signal clear so all the hounds crazy enough to own a ham-radio in Haven were getting their money’s worth.
Then came a knock on the door.
