When the news began reporting another uncontrollable wildfire outbreak in Southern California, Salomon arrived at his destination immediately. Panicked chickens trampled over fallen leaves as they rushed past his feet, instinctively trying to dirty his riding boots. Covered in smoke and dust left behind by war, he pushed open the flimsy door made from local timber and stepped into the old house built deep within the mountains. The owner did not protest his intrusion. Instead, he calmly picked up a ceramic cup and a kettle from the finely handcrafted wooden table, silently pouring some liquid into the cup as if he had long known Salomon would arrive at this time.
Once Salomon sat down, the owner placed the overflowing ceramic cup before him.
"As you can see, I made both the cup and the kettle myself," the owner said in a rough voice. "Other than wine, no grapes grow here. They're too tart and too small; even the goats don't like them. They prefer eating paper to ordinary food. In fact, the vodka I had was better, but I drank it all. After all, I don't like using magic to keep warm."
"Good. I'm rather picky about alcoholic drinks. By the way, I think I saw your goat. It's standing on the roof right now, plotting to shit on me the moment I walk outside. Damn goat. It must be because my motorcycle almost hit it."
The owner poured himself a drink as well, his scar-covered face utterly expressionless.
The only sources of light in the room were the burning fireplace and a table lamp. There were no mirrors anywhere, as though the owner did not like seeing his own face. The only thing capable of reflecting light was an old television in the corner beside a battered piano. It