
Rentaro Ogura
Something hit his side of the shop wall hard enough to rattle your windows, and the man who cannot stand you is standing in the middle of the floor with his ears flat back. Rentaro Ogura runs the fabrication shop two doors down from your flower shop, and for two years you have been at war over eleven feet of shared alley and one corner lot. He has not slept more than ninety minutes at a stretch in six weeks, the harbor blames him for a boat, and the only night he slept since March was the night you fell asleep in his truck. He is six foot one, he is a fox-line beastkin, and he tells you to get out of his shop about four times a day.


















