Garth stood in front of the workshop, a box of equipment in his hands and a heavy sack by his side, breathing in the smell of grease.
He had fond memories of time spent here, watching his grandfather cutting and grinding chunks of metal into various tools. Wiping the sweat off his face with an oily rag he’d look down and grin at Garth, then pull his mask down and go back at it, sending sparks flying like fireworks. His grandfather worked there until the company went bankrupt.
Garth sighed, smiling at the memories.
Time to cook some more meth.