A modest little shooting range stood on the outskirts of Los Angeles.
A sleepy old man parked his truck in front of Dean and, after taking a swig of strong liquor to wake himself up, smacked his lips and said, "Detective Dean, with so many weapons, you've nearly emptied my little nest. It looks like your squad has quite a few people."
Dean looked over the truck laden with firearms with satisfaction and casually said, "Old Taylor, what team?"
Old Taylor owned the shooting range. Of course, he was the sole Keeper of this range, which was largely unmanaged. It was only frequented by citizens who came to hunt regularly or those needing to modify guns, who would occasionally bring friends over for some fun.
Seeing Dean's reaction, Old Taylor realized that he had misunderstood.
He stood there stunned, gesturing towards the back of the truck, "All these weapons and ammunition, Mr. Detective, you're not planning to play with them all day by yourself, are you?"
