In the parking lot of Jorgensen Iron & Steel, Judith Stroan sits down with a security guard, while local law enforcement winds audiotape around reels. The reels spin up, and Judith takes a deep breath.

“Please state your name.”

“Sir Cedric of Lenora’s Land.”

Judith blinks, and looks over to Doug Douglas, who is holding his hardhat in his hands.

“That’s Lyle, my nephew,” he says apologetically. “I think they did something to him.”

Judith looks back. “Lyle? Are you in there?”

“No!” says the teen. “The old Lyle can’t come to the phone right now. I am reborn in Lenora’s light.” His eyes narrow. “I am strongest kid.”

“What kind of prison did you say these people were from?” asks Doug.

“A weird one,” says Judith, sighing as she stands. “A really, really weird one. Ooh, those freaks get to me sometimes.”

---

You drive all night, taking turns behind the wheel. There are some scuffles on the back of the truck, but everyone’s still here when the sun rises.

Nobody died tonight.

“I can’t believe we all know Black Randolph, michi,” says Ono Michio. “What are the odds of that?”

“He’s so fucking weird,” says the Hamburglar, who is driving. “Which one of these is the clutch again?” They’ve been in second gear for the last ten miles and the engine is howling.

“Local burglar doesn’t know how to drive stick,” says Perd Hapley, the third person in the cab. “More after this break.”

“I usually commit crimes on foot, thank you.”

The cat hops down from the dashboard and presses the clutch down. The truck lurches as the Hamburglar upshifts. This is a logging road but there’s no reason to believe anyone else is out here.

“De nada, senhor,” says the cat, returning to its perch.

The road abruptly terminates in a clearing, where a chain-link fence surrounds a dilapidated warehouse and some outbuildings. The Hamburglar stomps the brakes and the truck stalls as it grinds to a halt. You dismount and discovered he came within a foot of the gate.

“Alright,” says Lysithea Von Ordelia nervously, “who here has known Black Randolph the longest?”

The velociraptor hisses and taps the ground with a claw.

“No,” says Dorothy Loudon, “I met him back in the ’40s when he was doing prop work out in Hollywood.”

You’re still arguing when a figure emerges from the main warehouse building. It is wearing a full suit of plate armor and brandishing a halberd.

“Oh here we go,” says Chuck.

“Interlopers!” cries a somewhat muffled man’s voice. He raises the visor and jabs the halberd through the chain link. “Declare thine intentions or taste my steel!”

“It’s us, Randy,” says Dorothy, gently pushing the halberd point away. “We have a business opportunity.”

Black Randolph looks the lot of you over. “Holy shit, I didn’t know you all knew each other, what are the odds of- uh, I mean, truly, strange stars hold court above, that such a fate has been prepared for-”

“Just open the fucking gate.”

You bring the truck into the warehouse, which is filled top to bottom with medieval armor and weaponry. There’s a wall calendar pinned to December 1969 that has bikini-clad women posing seductively on a siege engine.

“This is excellent stock,” says Black Randolph, stroking his dark beard as he examines a piece of steel he’s heated red-hot in the forge. “Not entirely period-accurate, of course, but some of my less discerning customers don’t care about the metal itself. Philistines.”

“We need a car,” says Dorothy. “Or, more like a van, really. Something that can hold all of us.”

“And guns, michi,” says Ono Michio.

“I traffic not in guns,” says Black Randolph, standing, “for they are the weapons of the coward and the cad. However, I have a cannon around here someplace. And I think I have a vehicle you can use.”

Ten minutes later you’re digging an old Volkswagen bus out of a snowbank. You open the side door and a bunch of suits of armor fall out.

“Shit,” says Black Randolph. “Forgot to clean that out at the end of the season.”

“Babe, I found your cannon,” says his wife, Darlene, pushing it out of a shed on a dolly. “Hey, do you kids need some extra ammo?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” says Kenny Rogers.

She comes back with a wheelbarrow full of cannon balls.

“So what are you going to do with the truck?” says Perd to Black Randolph as you help him push the van out onto the gravel driveway.

“Not sure yet,” says Black Randolph. “Maybe trade it for drugs. You guys don’t have any on you, do you?”

“Sorry,” says Perd, “they caught our guy. Who was Bob Dole.”

“Huh,” says Black Randolph.

You drag all the armor out of the van, reinflate a couple of the tires and turn the engine over. It starts up just fine.

“Fair thee well, travelers,” says Black Randolph, locking the gate behind you. “And return not to this place ere the heat is off. Godspeed.”

You drive for a minute in silence.

“You think the feds are ever going to bust his antiquities forging operation?” says Finn Edwards.

“I doubt it,” says Perd. “For one thing-”

Suddenly, a figure stumbles out of the woods ahead of you. The van screeches to a halt.

“Hello again,” says D. B. Cooper, making a show of dusting himself off and straightening his tie. “That hurt, by the way.” You’re speechless as he boards the van in silence.

D. B. Cooper (Hoju) has RETURNED.

“Anyone want to play the license plate game?” he asks brightly.

Day 4 will end Tuesday, February 2 at 7 p.m. EST.