The blatter of rain beat against my face, a craggy collection of features that even before I'd come to the city had never been what passes for handsome. The end result of shootings, stabbings, torture sessions, and the inevitable grief that came from the loss of the one woman who'd shown interest in me as anything more than a vehicle for slaking her lust for a night; well, let's just say my life hasn't done my homely mug any more favours, eh?

As the stinging droplets broke against my frame, sunk into my clothes and absolutely failed to eliminate the muggy heat that hung in the air like a haze, I mused quietly to myself, visiting the past; an occupation that tended all too readily to lead me to a nice comfortable place inside a bottle, as about the only small miracle in all of this is that somewhere in the cascade of backroom medical work I've undergone, someone performed a bit of medical work - experimental, to be sure, and likely as not half-drunk himself at the time - but whatever they did, it got my legs, so long little more than worthless weight, working again. This, incidentally, was one more reason I was unlikely to be recognized anymore. One does not readily associate my large, looming self with the same coolheaded, younger 'cripple hero' I'd been not just a few years back.

The other memories that dwelled down that road were steeped in sorrow, wreathed in pain, or drowned in ether - and usually some two of those three.

As I passed by one of the rail-lines, I could hear the warning clanging of the gate bells as they dropped to block the way. A sudden chill slid down the back of my neck and the length of my spine. I looked up ... stopped a moment, staring at a ghost in the passenger window. All too soon, the train had come and gone, carrying its cruel phantom away with it.

The dead should stay buried.

Two more stops til the end of the line, and, of course, there's Lucky's down that way. I wonder sometimes how much of the city filters through Lucky's place, like some sort of booze-enabled waiting list before you're sorted out for whatever unpleasant role the city has in mind for you. Also, the rain has gone from merely irritating to downright unpleasant, and the partial shelter of the old brick and mortar buildings would go some distance toward lessening the impect.

Paved blacktop gave way to cobblestones as I entered an older part of the city, where progress hadn't yet coated all the ground between buildings with a layer of all-concealing black tar.

Like the tar, so my mind; after a few winters, the seal is imperfect and memories drift to the surface. A dimly lit table and arguments over fish and rings. Verbal jabs exchanged in the streets. A darkened room, picked out only by flickering candles and a sort of desperate lovemaking, an odd class of tenderness and ferocity. And inevitably, the ringing of the phone. That dreaded inevitable ringing. Answered and a sudden pain and terrible numbness.

I pause a moment, throwing out a hand to catch the nearby lamppost, drawing in deep breaths, waiting for the spasm to subside; waiting for the uncontrolled clenching in my legs and chest to loosen.

And move on...