A Rock E. Canyon Mystery - A Trip to Venus

I hate buses. The smell of diesel clings to your clothes like a bad memory, and the seats are built for people without spines. Somewhere between Waco and Waxahachie, my right hip started barking again—the old war wound reminding me that comfort and cross-country rides don’t mix. By the time we pulled into the station in Venus, Texas, my coat was bunched under my arm, my tie was crooked, and I had the start of a headache that felt like a boot to the temple.

The place looked just like I remembered—small, dusty, forgotten by time and the mapmakers. A blinking neon BUS STATION sign buzzed overhead like it was trying to warn me. I stepped off that Greyhound like a man headed for the gallows, squinting against the streetlight glare, jaw tight, fedora pulled low.

The Greyhound hissed behind me and pulled away like it couldn’t leave fast enough. I didn’t blame it. Venus wasn’t the end of the world, but if you squinted, you could see it from here.