[Raylan manages not to jump, when his cousin and the dog he would prefer being related to appear from the designated alley at the designated time without a sound. It's his inclination, yes, but he manages to restrain himself to resting a hand on the gun at the small of his back.

Werewolves, wizards, magic. It's one thing to say all that business is a possibility in the world and quite another to stare down a rainbow doorway to Neverland, or whatever it was Harry called the place.

Fairies. Fairies.] Y'know, this would be substantially simpler if you Harry Potter folks could actually fly. Wouldn't leave me trying to explain how a man who was in Chicago this morning can be in Lexington this afternoon without apparently booking a flight through legitimate sources. Or, I don't know, ask that Marcone if he can spare you a plane for the day, there's a thought. Why not. Just wave your stick around and make it glow a bit and he'd probably give the thing to you for Christmas.

[He's rambling. He hates it when he does that unintentionally, so, reasonably enough, he stops.] How do you want to do this. Talk to your Paranet people first, or hear what I've drummed up in the mean time.

While I do my best to stay in character and remember the Raylan's backstory details as presented in the books and show, there's always room for improvement. Comments/concrit/etc appreciated. Anon is turned off, I'm afraid; if you'd like to offer critique I'd prefer it happens up front.

It had been a while since Raylan had gone far from Lexington for an assignment, the last time being his trip to California, he was fairly sure. Chicago was not his comfort zone, though the stigma of a southern accent did allow for most people to underestimate him. Just another Dixieland moron out of his league in the big city.

He stuck a leg out as his soon-to-be-informant staggered out of a bar apparently owned by a local mafia thug, Marcone, and the man - more of a boy in Raylan's opinion - crashed headlong to the ground and threw up on his way there.

Raylan grimaced. "Now, that just figures. Folks like you never can tell when they've had too much, and can't hold it even if they do."

He kicked the kid, lightly, to make sure he was conscious. The boy groaned and rolled over to show a recently broken nose and chunks of something Raylan didn't want to spend time identifying smeared over his face. Early twenties if that, with ragged brown hair that needed washing and scars from a teenage life of zits and fistfights, if Raylan was any judge.

"Evening," he said, and touched the brim of his hat. The kid stared at him. Raylan waited, then said, "This is where you say hello."

The kid tried to spit at him and Raylan brought the heel of his boot down between the boy's legs. The boy doubled up and rolled back onto his side with a squeaky wheeze.

"I do believe we'll try that again. Good evenin'. I'm Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens, and I would like to ask you a few questions."