Barns aren't really my thing. They're fusty little mud pits that I appreciate more as C-locations on The Walking Dead than actually occupying myself. This one doesn't even have baby goats or alpacas! But it does have cats... Quite a few, actually. Cats who as we speak are tearing into each other with claws and hissing and sparring. Ah, yes, that's why I'm here... Somewhere in this dump is my little kitten, Erica. When I saw her on the roster I knew that she was worth tearing myself away from Destiny 2 for. And boy, I hope she's ready for the hurt that I've got in store for her...
My partner Sparrow and I park at the well-worn clearing where several other cars and trucks have been left. My sneakers immediately sink several inches into the mud and just like that they're ruined... I sigh and Sparrow laughs, "I told you to wear boots. Come on, let's head to the farmhouse. If Erica is anything like you she's also a hot city mess who needs her A/C." She's right, like she always is, and my sneakers suction in and out of mud all the way to the house. It's eerily quiet outside, the most I hear are chirping insects and scattered conversations in the distance muffled by walls.
Sparrow knocks but there's no response. The farmhouse itself is huge, as is the entire farm, with many outlet buildings and cabins within view off in the distance. She knocks again. "Let's just go in, too much outdoors for me," I say.
Sparrow cocks a critical eyebrow, "We've barely been out for more than a minute."
"I know, right?" I turn the doorknob and push the heavy wooden door forward, tracking mud a few steps into the foyer before kicking the sodden pair off to the side. I'm left barefoot and in my "country rasslin'" attire: a midriff-baring denim jacket and 'dukes. I tuck a rebellious blonde lock behind my ear and scan the room. "Anyone... home?" I call out.
"Spoooooky," Sparrow teases, yanking off her boots while seated on the stone-tiled floor.
"Shut up," I laugh. "I'm going to have a look around..." I leave Sparrow who continues to wrestle with her size-too-small footwear. Typical. Somewhere lurking in the farmhouse a wrestling match awaits. The question is, Is it an ambush or a proper fight?