Pain. What seemed an eternity of pain rained down upon my nerves. Poets speak of a thousand knives in the nerves, of papercuts grown into gaping obscenties of wounds, and other such crap. I don't know about art. I just know that it hurt, and it kept hurting, til the pain was everywhere.
And then it stopped.
I drifted, blind and unfeeling, yet somehow knowing that I was in motion.
Finally, eyes opened. I shook my head in confusion - - where was I?
Scratch that. I knew where I was. How I got there was another question.
Lucky's Malt Shop. There wasn't anyplace else this could be. I knew the colours, the scents, the sensations and sounds better than any dame who'd ever graced my path.
And there, behind the counter, another impossibility. Lucky stood, cleaning a glass like he always did, looking like he'd never seen the bad end of himself and the very shop I stood in. He looked over, tossed me the wink, and poured a double malt.
I wandered over as I always had, still rubbing my head; all this thinking was giving me a headache. Just like when I'd been trying to hunt ...
What had I been trying to hunt?
The double malt stood before me, promising sweet warmth and blessed oblivion. Lucky smiled and nodded toward the glass.
"What the hell," I thought. Lucky's malts had always been the best. So I took it and I drank, and it was every bit as good as the very first one he'd ever made me.
I raised the glass and toasted him.
I had to be dead, but if I was, then I was free. And Lucky had always been a good bartender.
"Drinks up, boys," I murmured, and drained the glass...