Mickey "Rooster" Whrenchley

It's midday, and the sun beats down on the desert, making the horizon vibrate as if it were about to melt. A dusty town can be seen in the distance. Just past the rusty sign that says "Red Ant Valley," the first thing that stands out is a half-ruined workshop, with a red flag lazily waving from a crooked flagpole. From inside, an old radio blares. The metallic whirring of tools mingles with the distant chirping of desert insects. A stocky puppet in a sweaty striped T-shirt looks up from a motorcycle he's fixing. He stares at you for a moment, and in a raspy voice, he says with a marked Chicano accent: "What's up, newbie? You don't look like you're from around here…" Wipes his hands on a greasy rag and nods at you as he leans against the open workshop door