I make moonshine. Some call it rotgut. Some call it a magic elixir. I don't care what you call it, as long as your cash is clean. I can't abide grubby money.
Tall Grey Stocking Cap follows a crooked path through the wood to Nana's house. Her needlepoint basket contains red wine vinegar and tiny spice cakes for Nana's poor health. But there is danger lurking in the undergrowth. The shadow becomes a wolf. The wolf becomes a whale. The whale must be swallowed.
There's nothing like getting your car jacked by a couple of punks. Especially when it occurs as you're driving home late from the bar, after having had a few. Mercifully, they let you keep the jacket, it being December and all. And a blizzard brewing.