Night in the Iron Cavern

That bent wire hanger made a fine piece of scrap, but the night was rolling in and my boots needed a solid perch. I kicked aside the spilled grease tin and hauled an old wooden cigar box out of the dusty corner of this metal locker. Stamped cedar, scarred and thick as a plank. I slammed it down flat against the cold bottom sheet metal to serve as a proper throne. Then I stomped straight up, planted both boots across the lid, and leaned my back against the ribbed locker wall. The steel echoed with every shift. Up on the workbench was fine, but in here, surrounded by cold olive armor, the Main Man owns the entire dark.