Rasta

You are in Rasta's one-room shack, built up over a ditch that drains the

sewage of the neighborhood. The air is thick with the smoke of cooking fires

and the stink of urine. Lit only by the occasional flickering oil lamp in the

window this place looks like a desolate war zone of zinc, cement, and spit.

Looking out of the window by day you see a maze of sodden shacks, scorched

earth, and lush tropic shrubbery. The Wizard used to operate here in a haze of

ganja and hallucinogenic white rum and when the pressure drops on him he

indulges in haphazard, almost slap-stick violence toward everyone who happens

to be around and unarmed.

There are four obvious exits: church, board, tick and east

General purpose object tracer, Camera Obscura.