MEET THE NEW BOSS, SAME AS THE OLD BOSS

Getting Jett Hollinshead down is no easy feat. Her enthusiasm usually has to be measured with the same technology that ranks things like tornados, hurricanes, and the toxicity of Rick and Morty fandom. Standing in Bronko's office, however, she doesn't just look downtrodden at the moment; she looks defeated. Jett watches Bronko as he sits behind his desk, filling out purchase orders by hand, a sight that usually calms and reassures her everything is proceeding normally, but today she knows that isn't true, perhaps never will be again.

"What is it, Jett?" the executive chef finally asks her. "Did Chanel stop makin' suits or something?"

"I wish that was my only issue at the moment," she grumbles.

Bronko grunts. "This must be serious, then. You fittin' to tell me, or are you just planning to stand there and wring your hands all afternoon?"

Jett practically comes apart at the joints. "Oh, Byron, it's a catastrophe! All our events have been cancelled! All of them!"

Bronko's hand finally stops moving. He sighs as if the weight of a large planet has just settled upon his shoulders. Placing his pen atop his decades-old blotter, he reclines against the towering winged back of his throne-like leather chair and regards Jett with a wearied, joyless smile.

"Well, now, that's not altogether unexpected, is it?"

"It's worse than that, Byron; all of our vendors, all of my venue contacts, they're all either walking away from us or no longer returning my calls, texts, or emails. I can't access our corporate accounts. They've all been frozen. Sin du Jour has effectively been rendered off-line."

Bronko nods. "Then we may have ourselves much bigger problems a-comin', don't you think?"

"You think this presages an attack?" Jett asks him.

"I think whatever's comin' has been comin' for a goodly while and we're finally running outta road."

"Then ... is staying here the right thing, Byron? I ... I would never consider abandoning you or the staff —"

"O' course you wouldn't, Jett. You're tougher than a bullwhacker's steak dinner. I know that."

She seems to take genuine solace in those words, nodding along with them. "Thank you. It's just that ..."

"Should we all run, is what you're puttin' out there."

"Yes."

"Jett, darlin', there ain't no runnin' from this. There's nowhere in this world any one of us could hide, maybe not even in any other world. We've done all we can to fortify this place in our favor. This is the best any of us is gonna do."

"Then is it time to call everyone in? What's the word? 'Bunker' and wait for whatever's coming?"

"It may be time to give everyone the choice, or at least let 'em know where we're at."

Jett nods, resolutely, forcing the steel calm over her she's spent her entire life cultivating.

"I'll take care of it, Byron."

"You're a blessin', my dear."

She offers him the most genuine smile she can manage. Jett turns toward the door and immediately stops, nearly leaping from her heels and letting out a yelp.

"You startled the bejesus out of me! Will you kindly announce yourself before just ... poofing like that?"

"Apologies, ma'am," a nasal, dreary voice answers Jett.

Bronko leans over the padded arm of his chair and peers around Jett's lithe figure. The squat, ink-animated form of Droopy Hound is standing in Bronko's office, staring through them both into some unimpressive oblivion only the living cartoon character can see with its dour eyes. Droopy Hound has clad himself in a plain blue guard's uniform, no doubt a mockery of his current station in life. A demon inserted into Sin du Jour by Allensworth as the building's magical security system, Marcus mystically reprogrammed the malevolent spirit to answer only to Bronko and the staff.

"What do you want?" Bronko bluntly asks the apparition.

"You have a visitor, sir," he informs Bronko. "He's waiting in the lobby. I've taken the liberty of magically isolating the entrances and exits available to him as a precaution."

"Who is he?"

Droopy Hound shrugs his perpetually sagging shoulders. "I can only tell you he's human, sir."

Bronko sighs, heavily. "Fine, then."

"Thank you for your service, Mr. ... Hound," Jett offers, diplomatically.

"A deal is a deal, ma'am," the toon replies simply before evaporating with a static-filled dissolve.

"Well, at least our efforts to secure Sin du Jour seem to be working," Jett says.

Bronko stands, grunting as the bones in both of his knees audibly pop.

"I ever tell you about my first joint, the one I opened myself, without backers or venture capitalists and the like?"

Jett shakes her head.

"Li'l roadhouse joint about twenty miles from the border in South Texas." Bronko opens the top right-hand drawer of his desk. "It was a rough crowd, and I mean the staff, not the customers. I hadta take what I could get, for the most part. I wouldn't be surprised if there were more outstanding warrants in that kitchen than high school diplomas."

"I can imagine."

"So, I learned the hard way, whenever you had to fire a body from an employee pool like that, you best stick a paring knife in your apron just in case they took to the news poorly."

Jett's eyes narrow in confusion. "I ... That's a quaint anecdote, Byron, but why that? Why now?"

Bronko reaches inside the drawer. The knife he removes from it isn't meant for peeling fruits and vegetables; it's a hunting blade with a wicked clip point and a handle fashioned from elk bone. He reaches behind his wide body and carefully tucks the blade through his belt at the small of his back, draping the hem of his chef's smock over it to conceal it from sight.

"No idea," he says with a grin.

Jett shakes her head. "Byron ..."

"Let's go greet our guest. Hell, maybe somebody here won the damn lottery; wouldn't that be a thing?"

Jett can't help smiling, and this time it's strong and clear and mirthful.

The two of them exit Bronko's office and walk the winding corridors toward the front of the ancient brick building. There's no visible barrier between the corridor and the lobby, but as Bronko and Jett pass through the archway, they can both feel the electric edge of magic raising the tiny hairs on their exposed flesh.

The man waiting for them defines nondescript. Despite being the lobby's only...