Entry 2: Boxcutter Brown

Boxcutter Brown had a peculiar habit.

On any given night, there you'd find him, careening around outside the Atlantic Avenue bars wearing a half-opened Hawiian shirt and madly swinging the implement that was his namesake at phantom attackers.

"Who's got the power?" he'd ask of all those who he encountered, both real and imagined.

Oddly enough, few of the Avenue dives had cut him off. Once within their confines, Boxcutter's worst sin was slowly passing out while grimly muttering a litany of complaints against society at large.

The next morning would usually find him nearby the bus depot, awakening in a puddle of his vomit and/or blood.

This morning was different however. . .he could feel it right away.

Slowly, as his encrusted eyes strained against the dreams, he became aware of his surroundings. . .which, by the looks of things, was the backseat of a foul-smelling yellow cab. There was no one in the front seat. . .

Next to him was an unconscious Hindu priest wearing a long white frock and matching skullcap. Boxcutter Brown inspected him further, only to find streams of blood oozing from the man's eyes, nose, ears. . .probably every orifice was breached.

Boxcutter frowned. Something was definitely wrong
here. . .but what?

And why were there emptied out Shasta bottles all over the car?