The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.

I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.

This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.

I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.

Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.

"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."

I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.

"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"

"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.

He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.

"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.

"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."

The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.

"It's not that, mate."

She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.

I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.

He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"

He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.

"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."

I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.

I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.

*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Mariposa was seated at a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.

Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.

A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.

Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.

A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.

Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”

“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.

“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.

“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.

“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.

With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.

“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.

“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.

Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.

The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.

“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.

Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.

“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”

Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.

“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped on the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”

Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.

Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.

“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.

Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.

“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.

Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”

Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”

Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.

“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”

“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.

Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”

“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.

As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.

*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24

Part 1: Old Saloon in a Street of Mud

Drops of rain bounced fiercely off the brim of my knackered old hat, dampening out any chances I had of hearing the crisp steady sounds of Johnny Stud, a young traveling fiddler from Arkansas who happened to be skipping to his upbeat tune inside the saloon I had now stood in front of. After two days of travel, my mouth was dryer than the Texas summers I had experienced as a boy, and tonight I fully intended on drowning myself in the warm clutches of the cheapest Tennessee Hooch they offered, either until I lost consciousness or when the bar keep, Mr. Silverstein, closed the bar doors locking me out for good.

The Gatlinburg mud stained the lower third of my elongated coat splashing against me in a fanfare of thickening muck, and I preferred it that way. I finished hitching my horse and was sure to double wrap the lead, then turned toward the yellow hue illuminating from the windows of the Black Forest Cantina. The end of my night hastily invited me in, however with much control, and no reason to rush, I realigned my lower back. I made sure to adjust my six-shooter while I snapped my waistband back into place and tightened down the straps.

Navigating up the stairs to the saloon I dipped my head underneath the sheet of water converging off the edge of the roof. Each droplet drilled a shallow ditch further into the ground forming along the perimeter of the porch. A wife and her leather-faced husband exited the bar tripping over one another. The man barely kept his legs under himself as most of his weight lay over her shoulders. She struggled to drag him toward his horse, yet somehow remained composed and ladylike in their oddly choreographed shuffle. I nodded to her.

“Ma’am.”

The responding scowl on her face carried the weight of years of embarrassment he must have burdened upon her. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence, and would be willing to bet he will be sleeping in the barn tonight with the cows, provided she managed to get him home. I sparked up a match, then flicked the remaining ashes off my previously half-smoked cigar, and forced the embers into an orange glow. A strong draw eventually illuminated my tangled beard, and thick musky smoke filled my mouth. I held it in for a moment dropping a shoulder into the porch post. My gaze followed the disorderly couple on their way home, and arguably well on their way to a divorce. I exhaled a cloud of relaxation into the air above me, watching it dissipate similarly to the way their silhouettes faded into the darkness, as they dipped into the shadows behind the general store.

Occasional hoots and yips from the patrons jarred my attention as the drunkards danced and sang to the ditties that Stud played inside. His fiddle stick kissed the strings quickly and witty, but not too complicated to follow, and carried a somewhat repetitive locomotive sound that chugged along and was accompanied by the clashing of the emptied glasses filling the room. It was a lively welcomed contrast to the isolating July monsoon I had just endured, having trampled through the mountains from Hot Springs, sixty miles northeast of here. A good stretch, a warm drink, and maybe a little attention from a widower looking for a few coins, would be all I need to set me up for another few days on my trip to Chattanooga.

With my cigar clenched in my teeth I shook off my coat, kicked any loose mud onto the floorboards, and folded my jacket over my arm. I then pushed my way through the folding doors to enter the Cantina, a regular stop for me when I came through. Somewhere in the corner of the bar, I spotted a stool that was close enough to the alcohol yet offered a view of the room that did not infringe too much on my security. Trust me, when you are in as many bars as I am you appreciate having your back to a corner. I sat down, jamming myself between a balding loud-mouthed fat man, and an unwashed tattered mess of a woman who was passed out in her vomit on the bar. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the worst place I stopped to have myself a brew.

The inside of the place was well-lit, centering around two large Chandeliers equally spaced above a somewhat-impressive main room, and stretching to the top of a lofted ceiling. The remaining light was accented by enough wall sconces you could lose count of. There were five dedicated gambling tables, three filled with poker players, and two occupied by dedicated blackjack players. Each was scattered among a dozen regular patron tables filled with mainly fur trappers, lumberjacks, and soot-laden miners. Everyone was attempting to strike it big, or at least enough to have a free night of partying. The place was dingy at its cleanest. A haze from the burning tobacco mixed with the gas lanterns on the walls filled the room. A hard-working musk punched through the air and lined the inside of my nose. It was the smell of a strong respectful work ethic combined with a lack of regular bathing. It was my kind of place and my type of town.

Johnny Stud romped his feet in the corner of the main room in unison with his infectious tune. The crowd followed suit. Some tapped their toes, a few nodded their heads, and the rest were slapping their hands to their thighs. They all seemed unknowingly hypnotized by his music as they shared conversations from across their tables. Stud was elevated above the crowd on a single-step stage tightly tucked away in front of a small piano. Reaching tall behind the stage was a staircase leading to an open-lounge loft that towered over the establishment, and accessed a series of rooms along the back perimeter of the upstairs. Roughly a half dozen saloon girls were working hard to get free drinks, attempting to acquire any extra cash however they could. They all pretended to be drunk, flirted robustly, and sat across the laps of what appeared to be wealthy businessmen. An experienced stout woman walked into my view leading a man up to her room, the fifth door from the top of the stairs to the left. They disappeared for a short while, then re-emerged. Their clothing was more frazzled and out of order than when they entered. One had become a little richer, and the other, of clearer mind, but both were satisfied when they parted ways.

My scanning of the room was interrupted by Mr. Silverstein.

“What’ll you have?”

I pulled my gaze away from the room.

“The cheapest dark you got”

He reached under the shelf and fumbled around for a bit, but finally came up with a full bottle, mainly untouched, of an unknown whiskey. His eyes widened with unsure followed by a shrug of his shoulders.

“Just imported from Kentucky, cheapest I got. Double for a nickel?”

I was reluctant, but when I patted my pockets, I was quickly reminded of the lack of funding I had brought with me, and ultimately caved to the inferior alcohol.

“No Choice I reckon. Keep ’em coming.”

Part 2: Dirty, Mangy Dog

A couple of drinks in and the warm welcome of the Kentucky mountains flooded through me. Though not hugely impressive, they made a stronger drink than I had initially assumed. Feeling more relaxed, entirely bold, and a little lucky, I slammed down another nickel.

“Filler ’er up Thomas.”

Mr. Silverstein shot me a stern glance over the top of his glasses while he filled my cup. The edges of his fluffed mustache provoked into a curl and met the bottom of his nose as his lips pruned together into a scowl. He never liked using his first name outside of his tight-knit circle. Hell, I guess I never did either, and knowing that I flourished a rise out of him, I put my hands up, waving them in submission, accompanied by a light-hearted chuckle. I leaned back into my chair choking on my smoke.

“Sorry, Sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curled with a grin slightly while he waved his pointer finger toward the tables.

“Go lose your money on one of those tables or find something to do, you grungy bastard. Just get out of my hair”

He snickered a little, while sauntering to the other end of the bar, and began wiping a disorderly mess left behind by the last rowdy customer. I turned toward the room unsure of which table I would decidedly join.

The room fell quieter than before as the Alabama man stopped playing, yet the patrons maintained a vibration throughout the room engaged in their hearty conversations. The echo of a fiddle being rested against a chair only caught the attention of a few. Then Mr. Stud made a short announcement to the room.

“I’ll be back after a long piss and a much-needed refill.”

A couple of cries in support of his chosen lack of sobriety sounded, while he stepped off the stage nodding to the house piano player who walked past him to take his seat at the keys. He started to fill the musical void by playing a local favorite, Maple Leaf Rag.

“You gon do sumtin, or just sit der lookin’ like a foo?” interrupted the loud-mouthed fat man adjacent to me.

He was barely awake, struggling to stay upright, and swaying within the ocean of his alcohol-filled gut. He misted the air around him as he talked as his lazy gut spilled over his unbuttoned pants, and jutted out below his stained shirt. I leaned back to avoid the cloud of spit shooting in every direction. With his current state, I refrained from responding, but I pondered as it had never occurred to me in all my observations that others could be watching me too. Perplexed with this thought, and unsure of how long I had been sitting there staring at the room, I rose out of my seat pushing past the sloppy drunk toward the room.

With a drink in my hand and some money to lose, I sat down at the first available seat that would deal me seven cards, and was lucky enough to have a good view of the stage. Completing the circle at the table among four other men, I threw down a few coins to buy into the next round. I scanned my competition while I got comfortable adjusting my seat. To my left donning a grey vest with matching slacks was a slick and orderly man who rose properly in his chair, and carried himself differently than most others in the room. Even well into his glass of Gin, he spoke with an educated vocabulary, and a sharp tone grabbing the attention of everyone at the table with each word, indicating to me he was either a traveling salesman, a lawyer, or perhaps worse, a politician. To my right sat two other men, both similar in build and age and as filthy as the ground I walked in on. It was apparent they made attempts to wash their faces and hands, but the soot and crud stained their skin regardless, with a dull and dead appearance. It was also evident that they had just come straight from work to be here and I assumed they were spending their entire day’s wages at this table. They could have been railroad workers, but I was certain they were miners, especially from the consistent coughing and occasional black tar that accompanied their spit. Just like many young bucks before them, these two seemed to be friends. They had most likely come from the same small town, working hard to make a little extra coin for their families, before the long treacherous winter came. Sharing a few jokes and joining in some laughs they kept their presence to a minimum.

The fifth man at the table was a bigger man who sat uncomfortably bent with age. He began dealing the cards out for a new round to each of us. His crooked fingers grasped the deck revealing his onset arthritis. Though, he moved more fluidly than one would expect with thickened and twisted knuckles. He managed to keep his head hidden under his tilted hat conveniently casting a shadow over his face. I figured it was his way of disguising his poker tells and creating a sense of mystery for those he played. It worked. Breaking me from my table read, he stopped dealing, and with a sudden poke of his brim, he flicked his hat to the top of his forehead to speak to a saloon server girl passing by. He leaned into the light turning toward the girl which illuminated a long and prominent scar on his cheek. It seemed quite familiar to me. He pointed at his empty glass and groaned out a few gritty words.

“Another one, ma’am.”

He flipped a coin unnecessarily high into the air above her. She followed it as if she was a cat tracking a bird, and snatched it carefully with both hands out of the sky in a similar feline fashion. Though most girls were happy to receive any money they could, her jutting chin followed by an obvious eye-roll suggested a mild irritation, as she walked away. The large gray-haired man turned back to the table passing out the remaining cards to the rest of us, but a shimmering light passed over an unmistakable evil eye. I could not help but glance more than once. I was transfixed; Hypnotized. His distinctive squint was maintained by a raised boney cheek. His scar reached far up his face to meet the bottom of his curled and arched brow. I slowly shifted my weight in suspicion and began opening my jacket. I fumbled through my pocket for a worn-out picture my mother had given to me many years earlier. My arm extended in front of me pumping with anticipation as I squinted for my final confirmation. All the men’s eyes around me shifted from their cards in my direction. In these parts, it was just as unusual to have a photograph in your possession as it was to be interrupting a poker game bizarrely holding one up in front of you. Therefore, I scored two, for oddly capturing the sole focus of the table, on me. In almost perfect coordination with the building pressure, a well-refreshed Johnny Stud entered the stage for his second set of the night. He picked up his fiddle and started in right away, stomping the hardened wooden stage, and sending shockwaves through the floorboards throughout the room. My heartbeat had already been slowly increasing but quickly increased to match his new intensity.

Before my eyes, I had the picture on one side; the old snake of a man in front of me on the other. I held it for some time, but my hand eventually lowered to the table allowing a raw and unblocked view. He stared back at me confused, yet lacked any intimidation or worry.

“You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

The tension had broadened to the rest of the room, and the men at my table all moved away from the anticipated ring of fire about ready to take place. I abruptly stood up tumbling my chair behind me, leaned over the table, and flicked the picture into his chest. I knew without a doubt, that I had just found my father.

Part 3: Growing Up Quick and Mean

Perhaps my father was not of right mind, or a fair amount of alcohol abetted him the night I was born, but without explanation, on November 15th, 1855 I was named after my great-grandmother. Though this is the origin of my pain, my bastard father managed to compound a series of bad decisions when he abandoned my mother and me, only three years later. I was cursed for the rest of my life. He left nothing for us; no money, no food, and certainly no fatherly guidance for a growing young boy. The only thing my daddy ever left us was an old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Growing up was quick for me. I became a man without knowing how to be one, and much earlier than most. I fought almost every day learning better how to brawl well before I could ride a horse. It was safe to say if my mother wasn’t dragging me out of the schoolhouse three times in one week, we were having a good week. In the heart of Texas, there was not a place for a boy like me. I challenged everything, especially their all-loving religion often asking myself and others, how a Just God could do this to a boy and still be considered “Just”. A fair answer was never offered nor concluded. We moved a lot, and each town we lived in seemed to mirror the last, a bane for both of us. We were judged everywhere we went, with the fury of the good book knocking us further and further out of the Lone Star state, and causing my mother an enormous amount of torture and pain. It is not good for a woman to be without a man who occupies her house, and she was regularly scolded for not being married. Her anxiety and probably my wild ways eventually led to her failed heart. Without faith, parents, or any friends, I soon became more suppressed from the public eye dipping further into the shadows for many years.

My name and my story traveled from town to town to hide my shame. I worked relentlessly after my mother passed wherever I could wrangle cattle, help in the stables, or brawl in a bar for money. I worked my way all over the south, but eventually ended up in Tennessee, today, in Gatlinburg at this old saloon in a street of mud. The years of pain, the death of a withered and broken mother taken too young, and the hatred for my abandoned youth filled my veins.

Part 4: The Mud, the Blood, and the Beer

My father glanced at the picture briefly, but discarded it onto the floor, effortlessly. He then looked up at me producing a scowl.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The fury of my entire upbringing blazed inside my body, and I began losing my ability to control myself. My muscles tightened, my fiery blood flushed my neck and face, and my fist hardened into stone as I ground my knuckles into a knot. We were meeting for the first time as grown men, but I knew, he knew, who I was.

“My name is Sue! How do you do?”

I clenched the end of the table promptly tossing it over my left hip into the adjacent crowd and aggressively strode toward him. The glasses of undrunk alcohol smashed onto the ground shattering across the feet of at least eight men, and the undrunk brandy splashed across the breasts of the women who accompanied their laps. The fiddle kept chugging along louder and faster. Most bands would have already bailed at the hint someone was going to fight, but Johnny kept playing hard and rough attempting to distract the crowd, yet he fueled my anger deeper. With a dead eye on my target and driven by only one motivation, a vow that I had made myself many years prior, I ragefully inched my way toward him belting out.

“Now you gonna die!”

He started rising out of his chair toward me as I wound up the iron ball of a fist and thrust the entire pain of my Texas childhood right between his eyes, knocking him back into his chair. The legs instantly buckled under the force of the impact causing him to launch further onto the laps of two men attempting to flee behind him. I surprised myself a little, and even took a second glance at my hand, impressed by the power I had just unleashed. I was confident any man would not have come back from that one, but just as he hit the ground to my surprise, he bounced up toward me faster than I had put him there. The crowd had fully encircled us clapping and yelping, and the honky-tonk was in full swing. The piano player joined Johnny and played along in a tension-building ditty. Women shrieked in the crowd distracting me for the shortest of moments.

“He’s got a knife!”

A shimmer of light from my father’s blade whizzed past my face and easily carved out a piece of my ear. The tip of the blade punched a hole through my hat, launching it off my head. I stumbled backward holding the area where the part of my ear used to be. The warm thickening liquid flowed everywhere; down the side of my face, over my fingers, and began filling my ear canal. We both were bleeding. His blood ran from the middle of his nose and onto the floor. He held his knife out in front of him as he hunkered toward me one slow step at a time. I hopped out of the way as he swung an extended arm toward me. We began to circle the room like caged animals. Another lunge and a miss, but it was much closer than the last. The crowd move along with us but began constricting us like a snake. Within seconds, I found myself backed up against the chair I had thrown earlier. He squared up to me inching forward with a smile on his face, Blood filling the gaps in his teeth. I squared to him eager for another go at that hideous smirk, and in an attempt to dissuade him, stared through his soul as I licked the blood off my hands. Without hesitation, he took two stutter steps to the side, and lunged again toward me, forcing me to duck under his arm. I grabbed the legs of the chair and came up swinging with all my might, meeting the front of his teeth. The wood exploded into more than a hundred splinters showering the crowd with wood dust, blood, and fine bits of teeth debris. We tumbled together off balance. The crowd gasped as the knife became air-born, flipping out of his hand and slamming tip-side down into the floorboards. Patrons began scattering out of the way opening a space for us as we crashed through the entrance doors, and onto the outside porch. We fought and bounced down the dampened stairs, swearing and yelling along the way. The thick muddy street cushioned our landing as we finally came to a stop having gouged a muddy slick in our wake. I was lucky enough to have landed mounted over the top of him.

The rain had not let up since I had first arrived. It showered us with water, washing away some, but not all of our blood. I slammed the side of his head with an open palm, then grabbed him by the throat attempting to squeeze the life out of him. He gulped for air, but instead of fear showing in his eyes, he seemed to invite death in as he fought back. His arms had great strength but even greater reach. He inched them up my arms to my shoulders and converged up to my forehead. He began squeezing my temples until my skull felt like it was going to cave in on itself and then began forcing his calloused thumbs harder and deeper into my eyes. I hollered in discomfort. We both bellowed our warrior grunts back and forth while continuing to inflict a relentless onslaught of pain on each other. The crowd that had followed us out, gathered at the porch. They cheered, clapped, and stomped in glee as if this was the best show they had seen in a decade.

We managed to roll into the steepening street a little further. I started gaining my feet and he punched me in the ribs, knocking me back to the ground. He then attempted the same. I kneed him in the gut, forcing the wind out of his body. We were almost at a stalemate, yet kept fighting to gain control or die. I tried to crawl away from him to gain my balance but he grabbed my legs and pulled his slimy body on top of mine biting a series of holes into the back of my leg. I overcame the agony instantly filling with rage, and twisted around like an alligator’s death roll. I sat up, grabbed his shoulders at the sides, and headbutted him square in the forehead.

I fell backward into the mud, sliding a few feet away, as he rolled a few times in the opposite direction. We were both in a daze, exhausted from combat, and certainly gassed from an enormous intake of alcohol. We slowly paced to our feet, slipping, crawling, and reaching for anything that could help us up. I eventually found my way to the porch steps, and he snaked himself to the watering trough. Before I could fully gain my stance, he got his feet under himself first. He rushed at me, landing a crushing blow to the middle of my back. I fell to my knees. His boot delivered another blow, launching me to my hands, bent over and almost defeated. A final blow to the side of my ribs laid me fully out. I was face down in the mud, covered in blood, and reeking of piss-warm beer. I thought I had learned from past fights, but I certainly underestimated the power and resilience of my enemy tonight. My father leaned against the porch post catching his breath. He spits up a large wad of blood into a puddle at the base of my feet. A piece of his tooth emerged from the quickly dissipating red mess. I would tell you I had fought tougher men, but I really couldn’t remember the last time I did. He kicked like a mule and bit through me like a god-damned crocodile.

We stood there looking at each other with the same stalemated stare, wincing in pain, and both sharing a competitive urgency to win. My breath was heavy, and my chest rose rapidly matching my need for oxygen, yet instead of self-care, I began to rise over my feet. His hand flipped his jacket over the back of his hip revealing his six-shooter, and his palm began grazing the cylinder. I felt then it was one of our last moments, either him or I, and so I went for mine. With more speed, more anger, and sheer will to survive, I pulled mine first. He stood there defeated, finally as I rose my aim at him. He released his grip causing the gun to fall, splashing into the mud below. I held him at gunpoint while I leaned against the railing of the stairs matching his stance. Both of us were steadfast and quiet. I had one arm wrapped across my chest bracing my ribs. In a baffling display of arrogance, or with a cynical sense of humor, my father began to smile down the barrel of my loaded gun.

Part 5: Different Points of View

I was taken aback by his display of happiness in the face of death. I took in the moment while I regained my stance, and shifted my aim. He grunted up another wad of blood, spit to his side, and cleared his throat while he chuckled to himself in defeat.

“Son, when I left your mother and you, I was in a bad place and knew I would do more harm than good for you both. I knew this world was going to be one hell of a ride, and if a young boy was going to make it, he had to grow up tougher than leather, and sharper than nails, especially in Texas. So, I named you after my sweet grandmother, your great-grandmother, Sue.

A few women on the porch awed a tone of forgiveness as they resonated in anticipation for the rest of his speech. They waved their hands rapidly onto their flushed faces and tearing eyes. Some were fortunate enough to hold a fan.

“Now I know you never met her, it was before your time, but she was the strongest mule of a person I knew; Kinda like you is now. I walked out that door before you could ever come to hate me for a thousand other reasons I would rather not re-hash, and I knew that you would be forced to thicken your skin quicker than a flash flood in a Texas drought, or you be killed and eaten alive by the ravenous world around you. It seems to me like that name helped you become one hell of a man.”

A couple of men in the crowd nodded and tipped their hats as they grunted in support, but others shifted around uncomfortably from the sappy tone this father-son fight had turned into.

“I know there is a fire in your belly and your hatred of me has been burning for some time. It shows in how well you fought. You fight with passion; asking questions later, and I respect that. Hell, I would not blame you to kill me now. I certainly gave you a damn good reason to do so, but before you do, I ask you to think about how you came to receive that gravel in your gut, and the spit in your eyes. No matter how horrible I have been to you, and all of the mistakes I have made throughout my useless life, I am still the son of a bitch that named you, Sue.”

The rain was the only thing that broke the silence throughout the crowd. It continued crashing against the beaten and tattered roof. One harsh droplet after another dripped down my head and streamed onto my face. I was speechless. My mind raced to calculate my next move. I stood there still, gripping my gun; sure to keep a bead on my father. The crowd was filled with individual statues, some gaping at the jaw, all motionless. Everyone waited, including me. On one side, I had an unbearable past, solely created by the man in front of me, and my revenge was just on the other side of a bullet. I was angry and seeking relief. On the other side, I had my old man who I never came to know, who stood in front of me alive, mercifully explaining his heart out, and showing me a different side to what I thought I knew all my life. What could I do?

I moved my mouth to speak, but could not formulate words. I got all choked up. He was right, I was a passionate fighter, but that passion could go both ways. I lifted my thumb to the cocked hammer, pulled back, and eased it forward. I lowered my gun and holstered it. My father stood still, but you could tell a sense of relief moved through his body. Tonight, I chose compassion.

“Pa, I reckon we’re gonna need a drink after this one.”

He took a moment, nodding his head in agreeance.

“We sure as hell are, son”

The End

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

, the weight of the city pressed heavier than usual.

The Joker’s arrival in Mumbai was as theatrical as it was horrifying. He commandeered an entire local train, replacing its passengers with mannequins dressed in traditional Indian attire, each holding a severed human head. The train rolled into Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus at rush hour, its horn blaring a haunting rendition of Saare Jahan Se Achha. The people screamed.

And the Joker laughed.

Draped in a tattered green sherwani, his face painted like a demented Kathakali dancer, he stepped off the train. His long purple hair hung loose, blending with the blood splattered on his face. “Namaste, Mumbai!” he cried, spinning theatrically. “Your new master of ceremonies has arrived!”

He lobbed a gas canister into the crowd. Panic erupted as the vapor seeped into the air. Those who inhaled began to laugh uncontrollably, their eyes rolling back as foam frothed from their mouths. They fell one by one, lifeless.

That night, Rajan tracked him to a desolate textile mill on the outskirts of the city. The Joker had transformed it into a carnival of nightmares. Twisted metal beams were strung with garlands of intestines, and flickering oil lamps cast ghastly shadows across the walls. The air reeked of death and decay.

Rajan stepped silently through the darkness, his every sense heightened. His voice, modified through his cowl, was low and commanding. “Joker.”

From the shadows, the Joker’s laughter erupted, echoing like a maniacal symphony. He emerged, twirling a cane tipped with a razor-sharp blade. “Ah, the great Rakshak! Mumbai’s very own cowled crusader. I was hoping we’d meet.”

The Joker’s movements were erratic, his gaze shifting unpredictably. “You know, there’s something about this city. The chaos, the noise, the... madness. It’s beautiful. It deserves someone who understands it.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Rajan growled, stepping closer.

The Joker’s grin widened. “Oh, but I do. I understand that you’re too late.” He snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a group of kidnapped children, their mouths gagged and their tiny bodies strapped with explosives, stumbled into view. A timer on their vests began to tick.

Rajan’s heart pounded. He activated his gauntlet, scanning the explosives. The timer read 60 seconds. His mind raced. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, trying to buy time.

“Because it’s FUN!” the Joker shrieked, throwing his head back. “Look at you—scrambling to save them, sweating under that fancy suit. You think you’re their savior? No. You’re just a puppet dancing on strings I control.”

Rajan dove into action. His grappling hook fired, pulling one child toward him. He swiftly disabled the explosives with a device on his belt. Thirty seconds. He moved to the second child, his hands steady despite the chaos.

The Joker watched with fascination, clapping mockingly. “Tick-tock, Rakshak! The clock’s running out!”

With a final, desperate leap, Rajan grabbed the last child. The timer hit zero. A deafening explosion tore through the mill, but Rajan had shielded the child with his body. He groaned in pain as shrapnel pierced his armor.

When the smoke cleared, the Joker stood over him, his cane poised to strike. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, leaning close. “But persistence doesn’t win. Madness does.”

Rajan, bloodied but defiant, activated his gauntlet. A surge of electricity coursed through the Joker, sending him sprawling. Rajan rose, his voice like thunder. “You underestimate Mumbai. It doesn’t need a savior—it has me.”

Their battle raged through the night, a brutal dance of fists, blades, and wits. In the end, Rajan outmaneuvered the Joker, pinning him to the ground with a reinforced net.

“You think you’ve won?” the Joker spat, his grin unbroken. “I’m not a man. I’m an idea. And ideas... don’t die.”

Rajan knelt, his eyes piercing through the cowl. “Neither does justice.”

The Joker was handed over to the authorities, but Rajan knew this was far from over. As the first rays of dawn broke over the city, he stood atop the Gateway of India, watching over Mumbai. The laughter had faded, but its echoes remained—a reminder of the darkness he would always fight to keep at bay.

Sherlock Holmes, the master of deduction, suddenly found himself in the uncharted territories of a bustling, futuristic city. Flickering neon lights and towering skyscrapers replaced the foggy London streets he once knew. The air buzzed with the hum of drones, and holograms advertised gadgets he could hardly comprehend. This wasn’t his London—this was a new world entirely.

As he began to piece together his surroundings, a voice interrupted him. "You must be new here." A woman in a long, dark coat with a high-tech visor approached, her movements precise and unflinching. She introduced herself as Captain Nova, a detective from this advanced world.

Holmes, intrigued by the bizarre circumstances of his arrival, agreed to join Nova in investigating a series of mysterious disappearances haunting the city. People were vanishing without a trace, and not even the advanced technology of this world could explain it. With Nova’s tech skills and Holmes’s sharp wit, they uncovered a complex web of conspiracies that stretched from the city’s high-rise elite down to the darkest alleys.

In the end, Holmes realized he’d been brought here for a reason. His unparalleled skills were essential for unraveling a case too intricate for even the most advanced AI. Together, Holmes and Nova ventured deeper into the unknown, facing challenges that tested the limits of their abilities.

The music is ambient, the lights are low. Scraping chairs fall into the beat of the soft jazz; the receipt emerging from the till yet another piece of percussion. I am sat with a laptop- the quintessential 21st century person.

Facing the entrance, I have seen every person who's entered the bottle shop since me. People come in alone, looking harried. Some come in unlikely partnerships whilst others look perfect for one another.

An email pings: something is expected from me. I type and click, my brain whirring. Productivity is a noble goal. I am excited for the buzz I'll feel when I achieve something, anything.

Breathing deeply, I press 'send' and take in the scent of frying ingredients, a real mix of vegetables and carbs. The door opens once more, a light December breeze aerating the space.

I am used to many things, having moved to Los Angeles, where anything seems to go. That doesn't stop a small gasp escaping my throat when this tall, mustachioed man enters, a firecracker scent reaching me from even meters away.

The barista audibly sighs, assessing the queue and balancing the lesser of two evils. He scurries from behind the bar, grasping the sleeved arm of the new presence. "The restrooms are this way," he scolds, the two men moving in tandem out of my view. A woman in the queue with a crop is already drafting her poor Google review.

Before he rounds the corner, the man catches my eye. A singular jet-black curl peeks from beneath a worn green cap. With a short wave of his wrench, he manages to connect with me for a mere second. Then, he's gone.

I recommence my tapping, waiting eagerly for the plumber to re-emerge. The barista clears the queue, again and again, as it goes from a matcha latte crowd to a local IPA crowd. The sun crests the building opposite.

December 27th, 2016

“You don’t see that every day.” Detective Walter Sanders said as he looked down and rested his hands on his waist.

"That’s for sure.” Jun Cho said as he snapped another picture with his digital camera.

"Helluva way to come away from his victory yesterday.” Sanders stood shaking his head.

Cho’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is he a fighter? He doesn’t look like it to me and he’s way too old to be in sports.” Cho’s attention went back to his camera.

-Click-.

-Click-.

"Nah, that’s Dave Larios. He’s one a’ those hot shot lawyer guys from Larios, Beale, and Webb. I take it you don’t know who Cal Stark is.”

Again Cho’s face hinted at ignorance.

"Caldwell Stark. The billionaire oil tycoon from Tribeca?”

The Asian man feigned comprehension, but it was a miserable attempt.

Walter didn’t feel like embarrassing the relatively new forensics tech for not knowing so he mustered on. “He killed, or should I say allegedly killed his wife last year. That was until yesterday when he was acquitted. The man you are snapping photos of got him off, scot-free.”

There was a creak of Cho’s knees as he rounded the body of Dave Larios, squatted again and aimed his lens for another shot. “Looks like his after party got a little out of hand.”

-Click-.

Walter wanted a smoke so bad his nicotine laced fingers itched. He was about to give Cho the finer details of the trial when he was interrupted by Mike Morris, one of the other on scene detectives.

"Hey, Sanders. Just got word.” Mike said, but didn't follow up with more information.

“Alright, out with it.” Walter waved his hands for Mike to continue but his mind was still dying for that smoke break.

“Oh, uh, yeah, Sloan is on his way. He said he needed to see this for himself.”

“Shit, is he bringing him also.” Walter’s craving for tobacco vaporized.

“Not sure, he wants to make sure it’s not a copy-cat.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar it is. You honestly think the Shoestring Killer is at it again? It’s been twenty years. That’s a long fucking hiatus.”

“Dunno, maybe he was locked up for something else, and just got out.”

Mike was pulling out his notepad, not to actually scribble down some notes, but it seemed more of a ruse to look busy when Sloan arrived.

"Geezzus Christ. I hope not.” Walter huffed out, dug his hand into his pocket and wrangled his keys in anxious frustration.

“What should I do?” Mike said to the senior detective.

“Depends on how much time we got. What’s his ETA?”

“Ten. Fifteen tops.”

“Alright, well. Let’s not rush the forensics boys, but clear a path for them.” Walter turned around to see the body again, with Cho still busy flashing away. He took a moment to button his shirt to the top and tighten his tie to a stranglehold. He could feel his pulse beating against his collar now. In his mind Walter was hoping the scene below him was just a one-time thing, he didn’t want a repeat of 1996.

The pale form of Dave Larios laying on the floor of the luxurious apartment seemed almost surreal. There will be one for lying, mouth sewn up with string, another for fun, a casual fling, one for whoring, her holes now shut, and one will be innocent, the skin left untouched. He remembered reading the note for the first time all those years ago.

Dave Larios looked almost peaceful except for the silly expression on his face. However, this time it was not so silly, it was eerie to see it again. Dear God. He prayed again that it was a copy-cat.

The mouth of Dave Larios had been stitched closed by a single shoestring. The crisscross work of the stitching went beyond the natural corners of his mouth almost to his earlobes. It appeared to give Dave a crazed smile, similar to Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas.

He hadn’t bothered to check the man’s pockets before, hoping that it was all a farce. But he knew that in a few moments Sloan would be here, and he would search for it. And his senses were screaming, knowing that it would be found. Another little note. Another little hint at victim number two. He should have retired two years ago when his thirty was up, but retiring then felt more like he was moving faster into the grave. Now, it was different. He didn’t want to do this dance again.

-***-

Weren't they just the pair Sanders thought. Sloan and Sherlock. Sloan's little pet. Sherlock walked with and air of cockiness about him that bordered on complete arrogance, and Sanders hated it. It may have been true, but when Sherlock spoke even though it was not that often; it was as if he was speaking to children who barely comprehend his words.

He wanted the cigarettes again now. The craving had returned, but he stayed to watch Sherlock work. The man hovered over the body. He leaned in. Gave a sniff here and there. Twisted his neck to view the scene from alternate angles.

The tall man moved his heavy coat aside and withdrew two pairs of metallic tweezers. He used one to lift up the pocket flap and with the second pulled what Sanders had known was there but dreaded to see. Sherlock inspected the paper. Then the writing on the surface, and gave the delicate paper a sensory sniff as well.

He placed the note into a plastic evidence bag and moved on. He dropped to the floor and examined the bottom of the dead man's shoes. With the tweezers he snagged what looked like dirt from the grooves in the sole. From what seemed like nowhere Sherlock had produced a test tube, he dropped the dirt and then from another pocket revealed a small vial of liquid which was added to the tube. The color changed from clear to light blue.

A stopper was placed on the tube and was handed over to Sloan to place into another evidence bag.

Sherlock although already standing seemed to stand taller now. "I've solved the case gentlemen. I shall explain. Follow along ... if you can."