by Matt Rogers
Chapter 17
We finished eating and began our preparation to find out which family decided to make a move on the LeTorque which consisted of me and George returning to Bloody Mary’s while Phillip, Trudy and Vivian went to buy outfits at a clothing store Vivian had seen when she went shopping earlier. I asked why she didn’t buy them when they were there before and she explained when she was there earlier she was merely shopping, this time she would be buying. I accepted her explanation because she said it with such authority I thought maybe I didn’t understand the correct definition of shopping.
WHAT IS THE CORRECT DEFINITION?
I’m still not sure.
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“Earlier, Vivian and I were going to Bloody Mary’s and she said it’d be okay because if there were any other Werewolves they wouldn’t kill her because she’s a Vampire.”
“So?”
“You’re not a Vampire.”
“I know.”
“What if we come across some other Werewolves?”
“We’ll kill them.”
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny.”
“What did you mean by we?”
“You’ll be fine, trust me.”
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“You missed the turnoff.”
“Son of a…!”
Dallas at night is a completely different place than by day and I say it knowing everyplace at night is different than by day. What I mean is; because of the way Dallas is governed, at night it becomes something better than most other cities who proclaim themselves a nightlife destination. First of all, Dallas doesn’t believe in the annoyance of neon signs proclaiming to the world they have “Girls Girls Girls”. No, everyone knows it has girls so proclaiming them to others would be ludicrous. Secondly, Dallas doesn’t believe in doing what other cities have done and have only one entertainment district, no, Dallas has four and they are as different as one can get. One is quaint, one is cool, one is commercial and one is edgy. The four areas are called ‘Uptown’, ‘Downtown’, ‘Lower Greenville’ and the previously mentioned ‘Deep Elum’. If you’re wondering which one is cool or quaint you’ll need to visit them yourself because they’re constantly shifting due to who’s in charge of their respective descriptions; young people. Young people think old people are uncool and their definition of old is anyone who’s voted more than twice so young people change their preference of nightlife according to what was popular a few years back which makes it unpopular today. The lifecycles for these four boroughs of beverage intoxication go from edgy to quaint to cool to commercial and no amount of advertisement or promotion has been devised which can change the natural order of things.
“Okay, Johnny, I need you to drive around the block a couple of times.”
We’d pulled up about a half-mile from Bloody Mary’s and George stopped the truck so we could switch places while he crunched down in the back seat to remain as invisible as a seven-foot Werewolf could under the circumstances.
“You’re sure this is going to work?”
“Trust me.”
Do you think successful people became so by following the instructions of others whose only advice was “trust me”?
NO.
Good answer.
“Okay” I said.
Which proved why I was not successful.
“What am I looking for?”
“Anyone who looks suspicious.”
Deep Elum at the time was edgy so his advice was helpless. Every person we passed had something about them screaming “I’m suspicious!” from tattoos to blue hair to pants riding so low around their hips it seemed they were preparing to mark their scent or leave a calling card at any moment. The edgy establishments are what the commercial establishments once were and it is the prospect of enormous wealth which keeps proprietors of those unique watering holes in abundant hopefulness. If an edgy establishment gets the reputation of quaint then it makes money and becomes cool. From there it’s a glorious ride up the money train until the place hits its peak and becomes commercial. At commercial the nightclub is literally printing money but there’s a catch; it’s the end of the line. What a place makes in the limited time as commercial is what the owner pockets for a lifetime and, make no mistake, the profits generated by a successful club can keep a smart owner on easy street till judgment day. So why aren’t there lots of examples of successful proprietors living the good life?
BECAUSE THEY’RE STUPID?
No, because those innovators of entertainment do not own the brick and mortar which house the golden goose; the landlords do. As a club becomes successful and its lease runs out the amount of the new rental agreement will reflect the popularity of the club; the more successful, the higher the rate. It’s a fine balancing act the proprietors must make when treading into those territories because if, God forbid, their club all of a sudden is deemed uncool, and they still have a lot of lease left, then the club owner will be pouring his profits from the previous years of hard-liquor distilment into the hands of the landlord who will evict the loser the second a payment is late.
“Hey, George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“Who is Stephanie?”
“I told you. She’s Peter’s mate or, I guess ,she was before he got his head blown off.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s beautiful.”
“I kind of guessed that.”
“No, not physically beautiful although she is, more like beautiful in her approach to the family.”
“Huh?”
“She’s our Matriarch.”
“So, what, she makes all the decisions and stuff?”
“She could. She might be the most powerful Vampire ever. It’s within her prerogative to do so but she doesn’t. She allows all of us to speak our minds and gives us time and space to compromise. Not all Matriarchs do. In fact I can’t think of any others who have.”
“What do the others do?”
“Issue orders and demand loyalty.”
“But she doesn’t?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because she can’t predict the outcome, none of us can.”
“Huh?”
“Our system of family is set up so a Vampire is in charge but she is elected by the Wolves.”
“You vote her in?”
“No, we fight her in.”
“Okay, I’m not following you.”
“When a mated pair begin searching for a family there’s usually a relatively easy hierarchy to follow with the dominant Wolf’s mate chosen as the Matriarch. Usually the other Wolves accede to the demands of the dominant one and take their place accordingly with the second strongest Wolf’s mate as second in charge and the third, well, third in charge. A dominant Wolf is an Alpha and there’s really only so many to go around so in virtually every instance of family bonding the hierarchy is set and the family is whole. But every once in a while there are too many Alpha’s to go around. Now, we Wolves are born to kill and we’re bred to fight so when two Alphas get together the bloodbath which ensues could paint a town red.”
“I’m still not following you.”
“Peter was an Alpha.”
“Okay.”
“So am I.”
“Okay.”
“And so is Phillip.”
“Okay, so what does that have to do with…? Oh! Well, then who was in charge?”
“Peter.”
“But I thought you said you were all Alphas?”
“We are.”
“Then why was Peter in charge? Did he beat the two of you in a fight?”
“No, he submitted before we could fight.”
“Huh?”
“Peter came to me and did what I thought he could not do; he conceded any claim to be Alpha. He then went to Phillip and did the same.”
“Then how did Stephanie get to be the Matriarch?”
“Vivian and Trudy picked her.”
“I thought you said the mate of the Alpha was the Matriarch.”
“I did.”
“But Peter conceded.”
“True.”
“Then how…?”
“When Peter conceded the only two who could claim the Alpha were me and Phillip. We were both ready to battle when it dawned on Vivian and Trudy what Stephanie’s plan really was.”
“Which was?”
“To have me and Phillip inflict enough damage on each other when Peter reinstated his claim of Alpha neither one of us would be able to challenge him successfully.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t the two of you just rip him to shreds.”
“First, I’m not sure we could and, second, the girls got together and made a very interesting proposal.”
“What was that?”
“If we cooperated we could stake a claim as Clan Elders.”
The area known as Deep Elum looks, tastes and feels like a rundown warehouse district which was converted into a low-rent nightclub destination which is all true except the low-rent part. It’s located on the east side of downtown and is basically a bunch of older buildings who’ve seen their better days pass them buy and is traversed by one-way roads which lead to freeways in whichever direction one travels. It’s dark, dingy, dirty and, during daylight hours, depressing; but at night the place comes alive.
“Slow down, Johnny.”
There are many differing people who visit the confines of Deep Elum because the culture doesn’t discriminate, it allows anyone with the ability to do so the opportunity to come down and partake in the eclectic lifestyle of those on the edge.
“Take a right.”
Those people can take many forms from gothic anti-establishment to preppy Wall-Street mimickers to…
“Stop.”
… Werewolves.
“You smell one, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he? Oh, is he the guy right over there?”
“No, that’s not him.”
“Are you sure? Because he sure looks like he could be one.”
“Johnny, the guy’s got a Mohawk.”
“I know. A man-eating, head-ripping-off Mohawk.”
“Johnny, it’s blue.”
“Uh-huh. Makes him even scarier looking.”
“Do you remember when we told you we try to blend in with the local populace?”
“Yes.”
“A blue Mohawk isn’t a blending-in look.”
“Oh.”
“He’s over there, Johnny.”
I looked to where he indicated but didn’t see anyone who gave off the Wolf-man vibe, just a group of teenagers hanging out on the sidewalk in front of a dive which catered to the harder rock of the musical genre, two homeless men discussing whatever the homeless have to discuss and a hot-dog cart with a vendor sitting upon the low concrete wall the cart was parked before. I couldn’t see the vendor well because he was hidden in the shadow cast by the cart’s umbrella overhang which was under a streetlamp.
“It’s the hot-dog man, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“You’re going to kill the hot-dog man, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He opened the back door of the four-door pickup truck and exited the vehicle on the opposite side of the vendor as I climbed over the front seat and exited the passenger side. We were about three-quarters of a block away and, shielded by the truck, we made our plan.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“You’re going to walk up and order a hot dog while I sneak around from behind and take him out.”
Uh-huh, freaking Yin and Yang style.
Now, I know this may come as a surprise but I didn’t remember participating in any assassination attempts except on video games or in my dreams where I offed just about everyone and everything within a one-mile square radius. This time was different because of two very important details; first, the guy was alive and, second, so was I. Which meant two very distinct possibilities were about to occur; one, he was going to die or, two, I was going to die. I don’t particularly like the idea of dying which might’ve been the reason why what happened… happened.
“You got any spare change?” one of the homeless men asked.
“No” I responded.
“You don’t have even one dollar?” the other homeless man asked.
“No.”
“Well, thanks anyway” the first said and I responded with a nod as I kept moving towards the hot-dog Werewolf.
“Hey, are you going inside there?” one of the teenagers asked indicating the all-night shop located next to the hard-rock club which catered to the selling of all things tobacco related.
“No” I responded while still moving toward my destiny with death.
“Well, could you go in there and buy me a pack of cigs? I forgot my driver’s license” he said.
“No” I told the youth who looked all of fourteen.
“Why not?” he said.
“Because I’m going to buy a hot dog” I said which was the wrong thing to say.
I was within earshot of the hot dog stand and knew it because after I made my statement to the underage smoker the shadow of the Wolf stirred at the mention of his tasty product; but not only him, oh no, someone else heard it also.
“Hey, I thought you said you didn’t have any money?”
Yep, homeless wino guy heard it.
“What?” I said innocently.
“You said you didn’t have any money” he said accusingly.
“I’m sorry, I only have enough money for my hot dog” I replied with what I thought was a brilliant comeback considering I was making it up out of thin air.
“Hey, if you buy me a pack of reds I’ll give you a dollar and you can give it to him” the zit-faced annoyance said.
“Why don’t you have him buy your cigarettes?” I said disbelieving I was having the conversation at all.
“Because I’m not allowed in there” smelly, drunk, homeless guy said.
“You see? It’s a win-win situation for everyone” zitty smoker-boy said.
“No it’s not, I don’t get anything” I responded by stating the obvious.
“You’ll get to keep your hot dog money” the second homeless guy said by way of joining the conversation.
“What?” was my confused reply.
A right cross was his answer. As I was falling I remember thinking the old guy had a pretty good punch and I probably would’ve left it at that except they didn’t want me to leave it at that; they wanted me to leave it without my hot-dog money. So as I lay there on the ground, valiantly huddled in the fetus position, getting pummeled by two homeless winos and one zit-faced freshman I kept thinking ‘This is not how I pictured the life of an assassin’ and I probably would’ve given them my hot-dog money if not for my guard dog.
“That’s enough!” I heard George’s voice say.
“What? Who the heck are…?” one of the winos began.
“Holy crap!” the second wino said.
“I’m out of here!” zit-boy said.
And the pummeling stopped as quickly as it began so I opened my eyes and saw George holding the homeless guy two feet off the ground by his tongue.
“Watch your tongue!” George said to the man who was kicking his feet, waving his hands and, I believe, trying to scream for help but I can’t be sure because the seven-foot Werewolf had ahold of the man’s yelling appendage.
“Johnny, are you okay?” George asked.
“No, I’m not okay, I just got mugged” I replied.
“Is anything broken?” he asked.
I was about ready to tell him I thought my jaw, ribs and pride were but then realized I was in absolutely no pain whatsoever.
“Huh? That’s weird.”
“Wha
t’s weird?”
“I’m not hurt. I don’t feel even the slightest bit of pain.”
“Well, that’s a good thing right?”
“Heck yeah, that’s a good thing!”
“What do you want me to do with him?” George said indicating the wriggling man in his clutch.
I was thinking about having my Wolf rip the guy’s tongue right out of his mouth but couldn’t because the man looked so pathetic I would’ve never forgiven myself. He resembled a catfish being shown off at the weighing-in ceremony, wiggling and squirming while George held his tongue with his eyes bulging out and pleading with me in a way which silently screamed “Please throw me back in!”.
“Let him go.”
“You sure? No one would ever miss this guy.”
And Wino-guy’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Yeah, let him go.”
“All right.”
George set the man down by his tongue but before letting go he bent down, looked the guy square in the eye and said “You just got your second chance, there won’t be a third.”
Homeless wino’s can run real fast if motivated properly.
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“Where’s the hot-dog guy?”
“In the hot-dog cart.”
We wheeled the hot dog cart around the back of Bloody Mary’s and George fished in his pocket for a set of keys he used to open one of the back doors to the place. We wheeled the cart inside and I realized we were in the room where all of the backup liquor was stored.
“I’m in Heaven” I said.
“No you’re not, Nat’s in Heaven.”
“You know what I mean, George.”
“Yeah, I’m just kidding. It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t kidding, it was impressive. There was just about any type of liquid refreshment one could want if they wished to alter reality a bit; from sweet schnapps to smoky whiskey, from white wine to gold tequila, there was every delicious drop of life-killing swill in attendance. If, by some odd coincidence, you happen to find yourself trapped in the back room of Bloody Mary’s during the second coming of the Apocalypse you might want to consider Rumplemintz; a peppermint flavored liquor with just a hint of coffee bean served ice-cold so it’s cool to the tongue but shocking to the throat as it delivers its searing liquid down the esophageal pathway. You’ll probably wind up face-down in a gutter when you meet your maker but you’ll do so with minty-fresh breath.
“Johnny?”
“Yes, George?”
“Could you give me a hand here?”
It seemed whenever I heard the phrase I was handling other people’s extremities and this time was no different. The Werewolf stuffed inside the hot dog cart was as large as I pictured and there would’ve been absolutely no way for him to fit inside the push around cart if not for his head missing, which George removed from the bun warming compartment as I pulled out the last of the Wolf from the underneath storage bin.
“Man, he’s big” I said as I finally got him sprawled out on the floor of the liquor paradise.
“Yeah, that’s Joseph.”
“You knew him?”
“Oh yeah, I’ve known him most of his life.”
“Oh, man, I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
It should have been as obvious as the nose-on-the-face thing I was sorry he had to kill a man he’d known before but it was obvious to me it wasn’t obvious to him thus further reinforcing my previous opinion the nose is not an obvious thing.
“I’m sorry you had to kill your friend.”
“He wasn’t my friend.”
“No?”
“No, we Wolves don’t have friends.”
“What about Phillip?”
“He’s my family.”
“So?”
“How many family members grow up to be friends?”
“Oh.”
I got his point. Most family members grow up and see each other only a few times a year. Oh, they love each other and would probably fight for each other but they generally don’t remain friends and I think this is so because of one small detail; they knew each other when they were kids. Kids are cute, kids are innocent, kids are the future and kids are also the most sadistic little buggers in the world to other kids. They taunt, tease, poke, hit, spit and claw at each other with such regularity it’s a wonder they ever get out of elementary school. When families have kids they generally do so within the span of a decade so the children tend to grow up around their siblings during the formative phase of their lives, a phase which consists of rumor and gossip-mongering which would put the Hollywood paparazzi to shame. It’s obviously not their fault, their brains are still growing and all, but it tends to leave a bad impression on the smaller kids who’re generally the recipients of all the claptrap so it’s probably not a wonder when those children grow into adulthood they have a little reluctance to fully trust the sibling who once gave them a wedgie so high they walked around like a rodeo cowboy for a week. They probably don’t even remember the incident, relegating it as unnecessary and useless information but it undoubtedly still left a bad aftertaste like when you try broccoli for the first time; you don’t need to remember the actual flavor of the vile vegetable to know you don’t particularly trust it’s culinary promises.
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“What are we going to do with Joseph here” I said indicating the headless Werewolf.
“Cut him up and toss him away.”
The inside of Bloody Mary’s was a pulsating experience of bass and treble which shocked the recipient upon entrance with flashing lights and sinewy movement from shadowy places the eye couldn’t catch at first glance. We moved through the thin yet expanding crowd of future intoxicants and made our way to the main bar located near the north entrance where, once seated, we were immediately met by a bartender who could’ve been a pinup poster.
“Good evening, George.”
“Good evening, Jennifer.”
“What can I get you?”
“Just water, and get my friend here anything he wants.”
“Yes, sir. Hello, sir” the stunning blonde said to me.
“Hello” I replied back.
“What can I get for you?” she asked.
“A Bloody Mary” I responded before even thinking about it.
“Would you like salt with that?” she asked and I nodded I would.
I don’t know where or when the first Bloody Mary was concocted but it must’ve been a shock to the first recipient of the strange looking cocktail. It’s basically tomato juice and vodka with spices and other orts thrown in as the preparer deems fit but, for some reason, it works. I don’t think on my most experimental of days I would ‘ve decided I had the yearning for a vegetable slurry of red paste and pepper and I definitely wouldn’t have topped it off with a liquor which has the taste equivalent of spiced spit but, then again, I’m not the most inventive of individuals.
“Are you trying to put us out of business?” George asked.
“Huh?”
“The Bloody Mary, I told you we don’t make any money off of it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, should I get something else?”
“No, don’t worry about it, let’s just see how you like it” he said with a strange grin on his face.
“What…?” I began to ask.
“Here you gentlemen are” the beautiful blonde server of everything good said as she set our drinks in front of us.
“Thanks, Jennifer” George said.
“You’re welcome, George, can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No, thanks” he said.
“Okay, just yell when you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
He grabbed his water, turned to me and said “Bottoms up.”
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I clinked his glass of water with my glass of Bloody Mary, lifted the eight ounces of liquid relief to my lips, sipped, swallowed and searched desperately for the nearest restroom.
I returned to my barstool after visiting the public defecation center to find George sitting there with an innocent expression on his face.
“You knew that would happen” I said.
“What?” he said with a look of feigned ignorance.
“Don’t ‘What?’ me, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, you mean the vomiting thing.”
“Yes, I mean the vomiting thing.”
“Well, Phillip warned you alcohol wouldn’t work anymore.”
“He didn’t tell me I would puke my guts out.”
“He didn’t?”
“No, he didn’t, and please get that cheesy grin off your face.”
“Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“I know.”
“What the heck happened?”
“Your body won’t tolerate alcohol anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because alcohol is a poison. Your body will no longer allow you to put anything in it which has a negative effect on it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“What about pizza?”
“Pizza has nutrients.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
“But I don’t want to get used to it.”
“Sorry, it’s part of the deal.”
“What deal?”
“The deal where we allowed you to blood-bond with us in exchange for your life.”
“Oh, that deal.”
We walked around Bloody Mary’s for a while so George could visit the other bartenders and also get a feel for who was inside the place, namely, whether or not there were any other Werewolves or Vampires roaming around. I took my Bloody Mary from the main bar and secretly poured it out in one of the trashcans because I didn’t want Jennifer to think I didn’t like her concoction of instant stomach upheaval because, you never know, maybe one day me and her would make little Johnnies together and I didn’t want something like a little regurgitation to spoil it.
“Hey, Johnny, I want you to meet Ralph, he’s our bar manager” George said.
He then introduced me to the strangest looking man in the club. I say ‘strangest’ because he was the only person except for George and I who was dressed even moderately resembling a normal human being. He had on a suit and tie which pretty much set him apart from every other delinquent frequenting the establishment who seemed to think they were on special assignment from military intelligence and a dress code was something to be analyzed and broken.
“Pleased to meet you, Johnny” Ralph said as he shook my hand.
“You too” I said.
“Johnny, me and Ralph need to take a look at the books. Do you think you’ll be all right for a while?”
“Oh, sure, go right ahead” I said with a tip of my soda I’d obtained in order to remove the taste of bile from my throat.
The two walked away and I sat down at one of the few tables available in the place. It wasn’t so much the place was full, far from it, for it was still only nine o’clock but the place wasn’t designed to be a hang-out-and-be-seen kind of place; no, it was a drum-pounding, guitar-screaming, bass-thumping, synchronized cacophony of sight and sound which was both mesmerizing and thrilling at the same time. Still, it was only nine o’clock, so the only people hanging out in the place were the leftovers from the happy-hour which had started back at four o’clock, which left the die-hard ones, the ones who didn’t know when to go home, the ones who were now so drunk anyone they saw who even remotely resembled the people from the outside world who’d made them come to the inside world of happy-hour to forget the outside world were fair game.
“Hey” the drunk slurred.
“Yes?”
“Do I know you?
“No.”
“Oh, I thought I knew you.”
“Well, you don’t.”
“Oh, okay, it’s just that you look so familiar. Oh, I know. Do you know why you look so familiar?”
I really should’ve seen it coming but I was new to the place and didn’t have a good feeling for the kind of people who frequent nightclubs at the in-between hour of nine so I went along and said…
“No.”
“I just left a turd that looks just like you in the toilet.”
You see, it wasn’t my fault it started but it was my fault it ended.
“Johnny?”
“Yes, George?”
“Nice punch.”
“Thanks, George.”
“Johnny?”
“Yes, George?”
“Come with me.”
We snaked our way through the nightclub until we came to a back door at the rear of the establishment. George knocked once then entered.
“Johnny, me and Ralph have been doing a little talking and he told me something I think you’ll find interesting.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, go ahead Ralph.”
“Well, we were talking about Mr. North and how he was frequenting the nightclub as of late…” he began.
“Uh-huh” I said not sure where he was going.
“… and, well, he wasn’t frequenting it alone.”
“Uh-huh” I said because I still wasn’t sure where he was going with it.
“He always sat down, drank his Bloody Marys and waited for his guest to arrive.”
“Uh-huh” I said and nodded in the way the uninformed and ignorant do when acting as though they have a clue what’s going on.
“Tell him who his guest was, Ralph” said George.
“Well, like I said, I never got her name. “
“That’s okay, tell him what you told me.”
“Well, she would come in and sit next to Mr. North and I believe they’d discuss business, or at least she would, but it was kind of obvious Mr. North had other ideas because he’d really down his Bloody Marys while she was here. I mean, it got to the point where we had to stock a whole bunch of those bottles in the cooler in case he showed up…”
“Why did you remember her, Ralph?” George prodded.
“Oh, because she was extraordinarily attractive and had the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“What was so amazing about them?” I asked.
“They were purple” he replied.
We were in the back storage room and George was finishing up disposing of Joseph the Werewolf hot-dog vender when something occurred to me.
“George?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“Why didn’t Peter get sick?”
“Huh?”
“Why didn’t Peter get sick if he was drinking all those Bloody Marys?”
“Because they were virgin Bloody Marys, Johnny.”
Peter North was becoming an enigma to me because who in their right mind would willingly choose to drink a concoction of pureed hamburger toppings without the promise of alcoholic bliss accompaniment?
“George?”
“Yes?”
“You dropped a foot.”
The drive back was uneventful except for one thing… direction. It’s relatively easy to get turned around in a large city, all you do is make a few rights, a few lefts, and pretty soon you’ve lost all bearing as to which direction is north. Now, sometimes this is of no concern such as when a city has a tall landmark of some kind, like a mountain which the traveler can use to orient himself or herself accordingly, but Dallas doesn’t have a landmark.
“George?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’ve got to.”
“Johnny, don’t…”
“What direction are we traveling?”
“I… I don’t know?”
I sincerely hope any future road-sign designers are taking into consideration the idea of directional markings.
It really wouldn’t be hard, merely indicate in what direction the road is heading on each particular sign. I don’t even think it’d be expensive because what are we really talking about here?
AS USUAL, I HAVE NO IDEA.
The price of, at most, nine letters?
NINE LETTERS FOR WHAT?
As far as I know prisoners are still responsible for making the signs so the labor cost should be pretty minimal. I’m not asking the road-designers themselves because they’ve already shown their true colors and I don’t think making things easier for the commuter is anywhere in their plans but road-sign designers?
OH! STILL ON THE FREEWAY THING, HUH?
Maybe there’s hope.