Mikkish drove into the driveway of the mansion fashionably late as always, in a beater Honda Civic he bought on craigslist. In fact, "beater" might be an understatement. The front of the car looked like a scrunched up plastic bag, thanks to the hit and run tactic he pulled on whoever decided to park their car too close for him to get out. While the A/C still worked, the car quietly whistled in a high pitched tune whenever it ran. A large, dark cloud loomed after the car, emitted from it's muffler. It was odd to see this vehicle pull up to such an estate as the mansion.

Leaving the car, Mikkish' appearance certainly didn't match that of the beat up Honda. His long-ish hair was slicked black, shiny black sunglasses sat in front of his eyes. While he didn't want to overdress, the "fuck it" idea came to his mind earlier that day, and so a slim fitting black suit jacket covered his pressed blue button up. The dress shoes on his feet were shined so well you could see not only your own reflection, but the background also, in great detail. Despite his dapper clothing, however, something about him told anyone who saw him the story of someone who didn't consider the concept of formality, and rarely decency.

As he opened the trunk to get his luggage, one bag fell out, a duffle bag out of which, another small plastic bag fell out. It was the bag he had the last of his weed in. It fell out and scattered all over the grass. Mikkish let out a deep sigh.