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...