[occ: Not every RPG on here has to be a western set in the 1800s. Mr. Niceguy never gave us a year.]
Justin was waxing his Camero -- round and round, back and forth. He stepped back and looked at it with pride. She was quite a beauty; and very fast too. He had rigged her with all kinds of racing gear. As he sprayed the windows with cleaner, he saw a young man sit down on the curb outside his garage.
"What your name fella? I haven't seen you 'round here before." Here in River Bend, Kentucky everyone knew everbody; they even knew some things about you that you wished they didn't know. The young man looked up.
"Mr. Niceguy."
Mr. Niceguy? What kinda name is that?"
"Its mine."
"Well, Mr. Niceguy, what's your problem? You look kinda troubled." Justin smilled as he loosened the cap on some special chrome polish.
"Well --" a look of hasitation and then despair crossed his face. He got up and walked into Justin's garage. "See this letter here." Mr. Niceguy handed him a letter. Justin read it.
Dear Mr Niceguy,
It is imperitive that I speak with you on a matter of life and death, please use the enclosed key and meet me at apartment 101 South Grumpton Street at noon tomorrow.
"Well, did you go see him?"
"Yes, I did, but all that I found there was another letter." He passed Justin another letter.
Mr. Niceguy,
I'm sorry I couldn't keep our appointment. I need to speak with you.
I never was, am always to be,
No one ever saw me, nor ever will,
And yet I am the confidence of all
To live and breathe on this terrestrial ball.
What am I?
"Hmmm . . ."
"I couldn't figure out what it meant."
"Tomarrow."
"What?"
"Tomarrow. That's the answer to the riddle. He want's to meet you there on the next day. When did you go there? Is it too late?"
"No!" said Mr. Niceguy excitedly, "I still have time. Thank you!" He started to run off.
"Hey, kid!" He stopped. "I think I should go with you."
"Umm, sure, thanks."
"Get im my truck." The two walked around back and walked towards his truck. It was a diesel Ford six-wheeler.
"Wow." said Mr. Niceguy in a low voice. Justin started the engine and unloked the door.
"Get in!"
The truck roared down the dirt road at 40, 45, 50, 55 . . .
"Are we goin' a little fast?" asked Mr. Niceguy nervously. Justin laughed. He hit the handbrake and slid around a corner. He saw Niceguy squeeze his seat. Justin slowed down.
"O.k. buddy, tell me, how did you get the first letter?" they were now going 35 mph.
"I don't know. I found myself knocked out in an empty apartment with the letter in my pocket."
Justin reached up to his gun rack which spanned his rear window; he pulled down a Remington 870.