The 12th Hour

The clock says it's been 12 hours since Los Angeles. According to the maps we're 150 miles north of San Francisco, 12 yards from Interstate 5. But this feels like Cronenberg country. Very seedy motel room. Cracked drywall rotting in the frozen rain. Note in the room said something about our "Understanding in this situation." The situation? What situation, man? Does the Judge know we're here? Three Willows police cruisers were parked scattershot in front of the motel, as if they knew we were coming. How could this be? Who narced to the swine? Not the Judge. Please, please, please — not the Judge. Bad omens emanating from all corners. Single ray of hope: the bar appears to have margaritas the size of a child's skull. Could this be the turning point? Pray for Mojo...

The 12th Hour