text: [Themes: mystery / thriller, humor]
  
  I had finished preparing a lovely young woman who died after being struck by a carriage just outside on Main Street. The ordeal had been surprisingly not gruesome, given her tight corset and big skirts which had protected her soft flesh from the sharp, front corner of the carriage.
  
  She had, however, been hit head first, knocked unconscious and then ran over by the rear wheels.
  
  The driver had been upset, had said that the young woman dashed into the road as if she desired to be hit. But no one knew if she desired to die.
  
  I think the driver had gone slightly out of his way.
  
  Regardless, I was not the police, who arrived at the scene some twenty minutes later. And I had not witnessed the event. I was actually coming back from lunch when I saw the police folk outside my shop.
  
  But I had not necessarily a shop. I was an undertaker. I suppose my shop could be a shop, just for the preparation of the dead and payment thereafter.
  
  Perhaps I rather dealt the dead.
  
  This young woman was twenty-nine. Her name was Edithe Zilonis, and she had no known relatives.
  
  Police believed she was from out of town but had searched the local cities for anyone of the same surname. They found absolutely no one. She hadn't any personal belongings other than a small purse with her name stitched within it, and some coins and a bottle of perfume. It was in the safe and I would set it into her hands when the time for her funeral came.
  
  But I did not know if this dear Edithe Zilonis would even have a funeral. The carriage driver had come back twice to check on her. Perhaps he would ask for a funeral for her, but that meant he would also have to pay. And the man seemed kind but not too kind.
  
  It was unfortunate for everyone, because I just cleaned up a corpse and would not be getting paid. I assumed.
  
  So to soothe my lamenting, I spoke softly to Edithe Zilonis.
  
  When I first met her I said to her, "Hello Miss Zilonis. I'm your undertaker. I hope your stay will be pleasant for you. You are very beautiful, and that is a shame."
  
  And Edithe Zilonis was very beautiful. She had fair skin and blonde hair. Her eyes were brown had they not been bloodshot, and she had a small frame. She had not had any children, from what I could tell, and very little stress either. Her skin was soft and her dainty little face had no wrinkles or blemishes. It made my heart sink.
  
  Poor girl, I thought, You could have had anyone at your feet, and now you're dead.
  
  I was curious. I was very curious most of the time. I revelled in the stories of my clients. I loved hearing what families had to say about their sweet Leola, or handsome Damon. How Tessy was such an affectionate grandmother, and how Alford had been taken from us much too young, Gods bless him.
  
  I loved these stories because most of them were just stories.
  
  I allowed the families and friends and lovers to relish in their pleasantries, but I knew the truth. I knew the dead far more intimately than the living.
  
  > Damon Ellsworth
  Damon Ellsworth was interesting to me. He was a very attractive man of thirty when he came in to me.
  
  He had thrown himself off the twelfth story of the apartments on Cherry Avenue. Every bone in his body was broken, which made his mending long and tedious, but he charmed me all the while.
  
  He was prideful, because on his way down he had cleverly covered his face with his arms. Shattered his left shoulder but his face remained in tact.
  
  I think he only jumped for attention.
  
  A young girl and her mother had been walking the sidewalk when he fell, completely traumatized the girl.
  
  Damon Ellsworth had been known for his writing for the Blackwood Chronicles. He had a small following of avid readers. I never discovered why he jumped, but I think while he was popular and handsome, he felt a lack of true affection in his lifetime.
  
  The papers wrote, Damon Ellsworth, Writer of Blackwood Chronicles, Falls to Death After Drunken Tumble Over Balcony.
  
  He was very sober, not a trace of anything in his system, besides depression.
  
  > Continue
  This Edithe Zilonis was stubborn. I began to think that she intended to run in front of that carriage, as if it would have magically stopped once she was there. It did, but it stopped her too.
  
  I added some rouge to her cheeks to liven her up. It was pretty on her white skin. Then I tapped at her cheeks, tried to wake her.
  
  Usually I can prod someone only a few times before he or she awakens to speak to me. This Edithe Zilonis required not exactly a slap on the face but not exactly a pinch either.
  
  And when she awakened, she slapped me on my face. I recoiled and held my face.
  
  Usually they don't awaken with such ferocity, but Edithe Zilonis certainly did.
  
  I hollered and Edithe Zilonis cried, "Why did you hit me? Who are you?"
  
  As far as I understood, the dead are aware that they are dead. Lost souls aren't lost, they just aren't sociable. And howling ghosts are just having a bit of fun. But Edithe Zilonis was furious I had awakened her.
  
  Usually they're only furious when they're old and prepared to die. Edithe Zilonis was quite quaint being dead, and at least old folks can't hit hard.
  
  I bit back the faint tears in my eyes and said, "I'm your undertaker. It's a pleasure, Miss Zilonis."
  
  "Why did you hit me?" She demanded again.
  
  She had a heavy eastern accent. It was charming, except she was shouting.
  
  "I didn't hit you," I said.
  
  "Oh you certainly didn't pinch!" she argued.
  
  Perhaps I could focus her anger on something else. I hoped I could, lest she strike me again.
  
  I had finished preparing a lovely young woman who died after being struck by a carriage just outside on Main Street. The ordeal had been surprisingly not gruesome, given her tight corset and big skirts which had protected her soft flesh from the sharp, front corner of the carriage.
  
  She had, however, been hit head first, knocked unconscious and then ran over by the rear wheels.
  
  The driver had been upset, had said that the young woman dashed into the road as if she desired to be hit. But no one knew if she desired to die.
  
  I think the driver had gone slightly out of his way.
  
  Regardless, I was not the police, who arrived at the scene some twenty minutes later. And I had not witnessed the event. I was actually coming back from lunch when I saw the police folk outside my shop.
  
  But I had not necessarily a shop. I was an undertaker. I suppose my shop could be a shop, just for the preparation of the dead and payment thereafter.
  
  Perhaps I rather dealt the dead.
  
  This young woman was twenty-nine. Her name was Edithe Zilonis, and she had no known relatives.
  
  Police believed she was from out of town but had searched the local cities for anyone of the same surname. They found absolutely no one. She hadn't any personal belongings other than a small purse with her name stitched within it, and some coins and a bottle of perfume. It was in the safe and I would set it into her hands when the time for her funeral came.
  
  But I did not know if this dear Edithe Zilonis would even have a funeral. The carriage driver had come back twice to check on her. Perhaps he would ask for a funeral for her, but that meant he would also have to pay. And the man seemed kind but not too kind.
  
  It was unfortunate for everyone, because I just cleaned up a corpse and would not be getting paid. I assumed.
  
  So to soothe my lamenting, I spoke softly to Edithe Zilonis.
  
  When I first met her I said to her, "Hello Miss Zilonis. I'm your undertaker. I hope your stay will be pleasant for you. You are very beautiful, and that is a shame."
  
  And Edithe Zilonis was very beautiful. She had fair skin and blonde hair. Her eyes were brown had they not been bloodshot, and she had a small frame. She had not had any children, from what I could tell, and very little stress either. Her skin was soft and her dainty little face had no wrinkles or blemishes. It made my heart sink.
  
  Poor girl, I thought, You could have had anyone at your feet, and now you're dead.
  
  I was curious. I was very curious most of the time. I revelled in the stories of my clients. I loved hearing what families had to say about their sweet Leola, or handsome Damon. How Tessy was such an affectionate grandmother, and how Alford had been taken from us much too young, Gods bless him.
  
  I loved these stories because most of them were just stories.
  
  I allowed the families and friends and lovers to relish in their pleasantries, but I knew the truth. I knew the dead far more intimately than the living.
  
  > Tessy Pirie
  Tessy Pirie was sixty-three when she passed away in her sleep under unknown conditions. She had been otherwise healthy and mostly happy, but Death waits for no one.
  
  She was an fascinating soul. She had witnessed the last war, worked on the fields as a nurse. She had sharp eyes and always a half-smile on her lips. She was fiery for a woman who went so peacefully.
  
  She had married three men, the last two died and the third one wept on my shoulder while I put her away in the freezer.
  
  She seemed kind, if misunderstood.
  
  When she was eighteen, Tessy Pirie ran away to live with a man her parents did not admire. I think they cursed him, because he died when he was only thirty-four.
  
  Tessy Pirie was a lover and it was apparent. While the cause of her death was labelled Unknown Cause, it was obvious her immune system had been weakened and finally caught up with her.
  
  Her husband had said, She loved me with all she had. She told me I was her everything.
  
  She loved a lot of folks, certainly.
  
  > Continue
  This Edithe Zilonis was stubborn. I began to think that she intended to run in front of that carriage, as if it would have magically stopped once she was there. It did, but it stopped her too.
  
  I added some rouge to her cheeks to liven her up. It was pretty on her white skin. Then I tapped at her cheeks, tried to wake her.
  
  Usually I can prod someone only a few times before he or she awakens to speak to me. This Edithe Zilonis required not exactly a slap on the face but not exactly a pinch either.
  
  And when she awakened, she slapped me on my face. I recoiled and held my face.
  
  Usually they don't awaken with such ferocity, but Edithe Zilonis certainly did.
  
  I hollered and Edithe Zilonis cried, "Why did you hit me? Who are you?"
  
  As far as I understood, the dead are aware that they are dead. Lost souls aren't lost, they just aren't sociable. And howling ghosts are just having a bit of fun. But Edithe Zilonis was furious I had awakened her.
  
  Usually they're only furious when they're old and prepared to die. Edithe Zilonis was quite quaint being dead, and at least old folks can't hit hard.
  
  I bit back the faint tears in my eyes and said, "I'm your undertaker. It's a pleasure, Miss Zilonis."
  
  "Why did you hit me?" She demanded again.
  
  She had a heavy eastern accent. It was charming, except she was shouting.
  
  "I didn't hit you," I said.
  
  "Oh you certainly didn't pinch!" she argued.
  
  Perhaps I could focus her anger on something else. I hoped I could, lest she strike me again.
  
  I had finished preparing a lovely young woman who died after being struck by a carriage just outside on Main Street. The ordeal had been surprisingly not gruesome, given her tight corset and big skirts which had protected her soft flesh from the sharp, front corner of the carriage.
  
  She had, however, been hit head first, knocked unconscious and then ran over by the rear wheels.
  
  The driver had been upset, had said that the young woman dashed into the road as if she desired to be hit. But no one knew if she desired to die.
  
  I think the driver had gone slightly out of his way.
  
  Regardless, I was not the police, who arrived at the scene some twenty minutes later. And I had not witnessed the event. I was actually coming back from lunch when I saw the police folk outside my shop.
  
  But I had not necessarily a shop. I was an undertaker. I suppose my shop could be a shop, just for the preparation of the dead and payment thereafter.
  
  Perhaps I rather dealt the dead.
  
  This young woman was twenty-nine. Her name was Edithe Zilonis, and she had no known relatives.
  
  Police believed she was from out of town but had searched the local cities for anyone of the same surname. They found absolutely no one. She hadn't any personal belongings other than a small purse with her name stitched within it, and some coins and a bottle of perfume. It was in the safe and I would set it into her hands when the time for her funeral came.
  
  But I did not know if this dear Edithe Zilonis would even have a funeral. The carriage driver had come back twice to check on her. Perhaps he would ask for a funeral for her, but that meant he would also have to pay. And the man seemed kind but not too kind.
  
  It was unfortunate for everyone, because I just cleaned up a corpse and would not be getting paid. I assumed.
  
  So to soothe my lamenting, I spoke softly to Edithe Zilonis.
  
  When I first met her I said to her, "Hello Miss Zilonis. I'm your undertaker. I hope your stay will be pleasant for you. You are very beautiful, and that is a shame."
  
  And Edithe Zilonis was very beautiful. She had fair skin and blonde hair. Her eyes were brown had they not been bloodshot, and she had a small frame. She had not had any children, from what I could tell, and very little stress either. Her skin was soft and her dainty little face had no wrinkles or blemishes. It made my heart sink.
  
  Poor girl, I thought, You could have had anyone at your feet, and now you're dead.
  
  I was curious. I was very curious most of the time. I revelled in the stories of my clients. I loved hearing what families had to say about their sweet Leola, or handsome Damon. How Tessy was such an affectionate grandmother, and how Alford had been taken from us much too young, Gods bless him.
  
  I loved these stories because most of them were just stories.
  
  I allowed the families and friends and lovers to relish in their pleasantries, but I knew the truth. I knew the dead far more intimately than the living.
  
  > Alford Salono
  Alford Salono was sixteen when he died. It was shocking and saddening to me. The dead get younger as the living get older, it seemed.
  
  He was shot walking the street when a gang fight erupted.
  
  Or so the police said. No one was willing to admit the Mayor's son had started the fight and shot three other boys with his gun before they got him back.
  
  I found a knife in his left pocket. He was not willing to speak much to me, as if the afterlife granted him immunity because he was the Mayor's son after all.
  
  He had a hole in his chest, right through his heart. I commended whoever shot him. A good marksman only needs one bullet.
  
  The hospital had sewn him back up, poorly, so that he was still bloody when he got to me. Leave it to the undertaker is what they say at the hospital.
  
  While stubborn, Alford Salono was respectful. His father had beat him.
  
  That day, the Mayor recited a long and dull speech about Alford Salono.
  
  A woman jabbed her elbow into my shoulder when I laughed at the Mayor's false affection.
  
  > Continue
  This Edithe Zilonis was stubborn. I began to think that she intended to run in front of that carriage, as if it would have magically stopped once she was there. It did, but it stopped her too.
  
  I added some rouge to her cheeks to liven her up. It was pretty on her white skin. Then I tapped at her cheeks, tried to wake her.
  
  Usually I can prod someone only a few times before he or she awakens to speak to me. This Edithe Zilonis required not exactly a slap on the face but not exactly a pinch either.
  
  And when she awakened, she slapped me on my face. I recoiled and held my face.
  
  Usually they don't awaken with such ferocity, but Edithe Zilonis certainly did.
  
  I hollered and Edithe Zilonis cried, "Why did you hit me? Who are you?"
  
  As far as I understood, the dead are aware that they are dead. Lost souls aren't lost, they just aren't sociable. And howling ghosts are just having a bit of fun. But Edithe Zilonis was furious I had awakened her.
  
  Usually they're only furious when they're old and prepared to die. Edithe Zilonis was quite quaint being dead, and at least old folks can't hit hard.
  
  I bit back the faint tears in my eyes and said, "I'm your undertaker. It's a pleasure, Miss Zilonis."
  
  "Why did you hit me?" She demanded again.
  
  She had a heavy eastern accent. It was charming, except she was shouting.
  
  "I didn't hit you," I said.
  
  "Oh you certainly didn't pinch!" she argued.
  
  Perhaps I could focus her anger on something else. I hoped I could, lest she strike me again.[Themes: modern, anti-hero, thriller, dystopia, grimdark]
  
  Surely made to lose your mind.
  
  [Author's Note: A getaway driver goes on a quest for revenge.]
  
  > Surely made to lose your mind.
  On your tail. Not cops. Gangsters.
  
  The Marino Outfit owns this part of town. Hit one of their places, it's an attack against them. You're not dumb. You wear a mask, you took the plates off your car, and once you get these poor fucks out of here you're torching the car in the desert.
  
  Heart racing like a jackhammer. Blood pumping battery acid. Eyes darting around quicker than a hare on cocaine. Reaction time just as fast.
  
  Sharp turn into this alley. Quick u-turn on this road. It's busy. You picked a common car. You'll be hidden well. Even if not, you rigged it with a Porsche engine. 0 to 60 in three seconds flat. Fast enough to get away from these schnooks if they somehow manage to catch up with you.
  
  You pray they do.
  
  You turn on an empty road. They follow.
  
  Your prayers are answered.
  
  Faster.
  
  This is what you live for. Life in the fast lane.
  
  > Continue
  You're a getaway driver. Have been for seven years. Started out drag racing, then doing smalltime jobs with friends, eventually making your way up in the food chain. Still take smaller jobs when money's tight, and this is one of those occasions; liquor store, two gangbangers who don't know what the fuck they're doing.
  
  Behind you, one of your pursuers swerves out of control, hitting his ally. They crash and burn, taking a few more cars on the road with them, eventually causing a small pileup. Behind your ski mask you smirk. Guess they weren't lucky.
  
  It's not long before you make it to the designated drop off, a bar miles away from Marino territory. Guess they want to toast a job well done. Well, they might as well enjoy what little time they have left, soon enough the Marino Outfit will come after th-
  
  You hear the click of a gun cocking behind you.
  
  "You're making a mistake," you say.
  
  "Yeah, sure," the guy behind you says. He fires, hot steel tearing through the back of your seat like a knife through butter and lodging right into your back. Slowly, you slump against the wheel, and darkness engulfs you.
  
  > Continue
  You dream of days gone by: a long cool woman, black dress tailing behind her, just a 5'9 beautiful tall. Nights spent in rundown motels, they didn't have much usually but they had beds, and the two of you put them to use. What you'd give to have those days back.
  
  Breathe.
  
  Open your eyes.
  
  The alley is dark. The only sound is collected rain from a gutter dripping onto cracked asphalt. Drip. Drip. Drip.
  
  For a moment you think you're dead. Then you flex your fingers. Then your toes. Begin to sit up. Stand. Walk.
  
  You're alive. You're not sure how you feel about that.
  
  Supporting your weight using a dumpster, your memories pool back in. A job. Driving. Arriving at your destination. Betrayal. "You're making a mistake," you said, and boy were you right; they made a mistake by not blowing your brains out.
  
  The last mistake they'd ever make.
  
  You're nowhere near the bar anymore. They must have made sure to dump you after shooting you. It seems you're in the warehouse district, which spans for miles and miles. It's a popular choice for criminals, places to store hot items.
  
  As things stand, there's two options: look around hoping they left something behind, or head to the bar to see if they did go there after they shot you.
  
  > look around
  They might have left some clue here, something you can use to track them down. Each step you take makes you feel wearier, all you'd like to do is just lay down and sleep, but no. You have to keep pushing through.
  
  Trash. The dumpster is filled with trash. Not surprising of course, but what is surprising is how among that trash, easier to see than a diamond in a sandstorm, is a gun, its silver barrel gleaming in the moonlight. You pull it out, check the clip. It's missing a bullet. This is the gun they used. This is the gun you'll use.
  
  After all, there's nothing more fitting than killing a man with his own gun.
  
  You tuck the pistol into your waistband, and walk on.
  
  > head to the bar
  About an hour later, you find yourself at the entrance of the warehouse district, in a parking lot. There's a Mustang there. It's one damn fine vehicle. It'd look better with you driving it.
  
  Not a few minutes later and you're speeding down the road to the bar. It's in Midtown, few miles away, but you know you'll get there soon. For now it's just you, your car, and the open road before you. You feel right at home.
  
  This place looks like shit. A seedy bar in an even seedier part of the seediest city. Boarded up windows, thick reinforced metal door, the only sign that it's not closed down and condemned being the flashing neon sign reading 'open'. You head up to the door and rap on it, once, twice, three times, and a man slides open a peephole and looks you in the eyes. "C'mon in."
  
  He opens the door and you enter. A few people are sitting at the bar having anything from a plain stiff of whiskey to a fancy looking cocktail that glows green. Some others sit at tables, though you pay no heed to them.
  
  Behind the bar is a plump man who looks like he should cut back on the chocolate bars, currently cleaning a glass.
  
  You approach the bar. The bartender does an upward nod of greeting towards you, then asks what you want. "Information," you reply.
  
  He raises an eyebrow, "What do you wanna know?"
  
  "Two guys come in here recently? One tall and burly, had red hair and a beard, the other short and scrawny with a shaved head."
  
  "Yeah, they did. Zeke Woodward and Sonny Cassidy. They got an apartment half a mile or so away, had to send them there in a cab a few times when they got too shitfaced. What're you looking for them for?"
  
  "They shot me. I'm looking to pay them back."
  
  "Hmph. Never liked them much anyway. Address is 2590 Vinnerva Lane, can't miss it."
  
  You slip him a ten for his time and head out the door, bumping into a man in a trenchcoat as you do. He mutters something about "kids these days", before heading to the bar.
  
  You drive.
  
  > go to the apartment
  You pull up to the apartment, a two story brick building. Taking a glance at the mailbox, you trace your finger across it until you run along one of the names the bartender told you. E. Stone, J. Callahan, R. Cole... There we go, S. Cassidy, room 104.
  
  You head down the hall to the room, like Death coming to claim a poor soul before his time. Not bothering to be careful, you lift up your leg and kick the door with all your might. The flimsy thing goes down like it's made of cardboard, and you step into the apartment.
  
  It's trashed. It looks like someone was in a hurry to get out and packed just the essentials then left. Great. They're on the run now. From the Marino Outfit no doubt. You could sift through the remains, see if they left behind a clue as to where they went.
  
  Or they might have forgotten something important. They could come back, and you would be waiting for them.
  
  > search the apartment
  Rifling through piles of discarded paperwork and various other miscellaneous items, you come across one that's particularly interesting. It's a bill of sale for a building downtown, dated two days ago. From the looks of it, they knew the job would cause heat and are planning on hiding out there for it to die out. Smart of them.
  
  You crumple up the bill of sale in your hand and leave the apartment.
  
  > go to the address
  When you arrive at the address, the facade that greets you is a two story red brick building, a faded sign reading 'Kinko's' above the door. When you kick in the door, you find the bumbling duo who somehow managed to get the drop on you. They curse when they see you.
  
  They begin to run out the back door.
  
  > chase after them.
  You bolt after them, but by the time you're out the door they're already in a car. They're screeching out of the alley, one taunting you from the open window. No hope to catch them now. At least not on foot.
  
  You head back to your car, hotwiring it quickly and driving after them. One takes potshots at you, a bullet actually manages to shatter the windshield. The bastard, fucking up a beauty like this. You're gonna make sure he pays double just for that.
  
  They lead you to a busy street, dodging traffic.
  
  > go hot and heavy. Let loose on the road.
  You tear up the asphalt, letting out a holler of excitement as your eyes sharpen. Sheer ecstasy grips you. Heart racing like a jackhammer. Blood pumping battery acid. Eyes darting around quicker than a hare on cocaine. Reaction time just as fast.
  
  This is what you've always lived for.
  
  This is what you would die for.
  
  The road.
  
  The roar of the engine.
  
  Life in the fast lane.
  
  Sirens. Cops. They're gonna catch you.
  
  No they won't.
  
  You pull up closer to the bastards, bumping them around like a hockey puck. They keep trying to get away from you, but then you push back twice as hard. Force them to head downhill. Into the downtown area. Into Whore Town, as the citizens call it.
  
  The cop chasing after you shuts off his sirens as soon as you enter Whore Town, and turns around. He's not the law here. The girls are the law. You hope you can convince them to let you out alive once you take these sons of bitches out. If Elise is still around it would definitely make that easier; she owes you a favor after that night.
  
  You're still racing down the streets of Whore Town when it hits. Sharp pain in your side. It makes you feel woozy, light-headed. No. Not now.
  
  Grip loosens on the steering wheel. Eyelids feel like they're made of lead. The car swerves, before crashing into a street lamp as you lose consciousness.
  
  > Continue
  You wake up to the feeling of your feet being dragged along the ground, your arms flung over the shoulders of two people. Vision blurry, mouth dry. You try to croak something out but the two carrying you pay you no mind. The light fades once more.
  
  When you awaken once more you're on a cold steel table, shirtless. Something sharp digs into your stomach. It hurts like Hell, but you can't even make a sound. Before long you're out again from the pain.
  
  The third time finds you with your head back on straight in a bed. Your eyes adjust to the light and you see a silhouette of a woman at the foot of it. Focus.
  
  Elise's face, twisted into a scowl, greets you.
  
  "You're a real bastard, y'know that Charlie?" she asks, walking around the bed so that she's only a few feet away from you, still staring into your soul with burning eyes. "Leavin' right outta the blue then showin' up a year later justa bring trouble our way."
  
  "Nice to see you too, Elise," you crack. Her scowl intensifies, if that were possible.
  
  "And now you're actin' like an idiot, treatin' it like it's a joke or somethin'."
  
  "Just trying to lighten the mood."
  
  "And doin' a piss poor job of it." She leans against the nightstand beside the bed, cocking her head slightly. "What'd the guys do to ya? The ones you chased in here."
  
  "They betrayed me over a small time job," you begin, "Shot me and left me for dead. I'm gonna pay them back."
  
  "You always were one to hold a grudge, Charlie."
  
  "Maybe I am. Can you help me out?"
  
  "Really? Can I help you out? I don't owe you shit, Charlie."
  
  "Yes you do. Don't you remember?"
  
  Her eyes narrow at you as she ponders on that, before sighing. "... Guess I do, don't I? As if me patching your sorry ass up wasn't enough to pay you back... Fine. I can tell you where they're at and tell the girls not to give you any trouble, but I can't do much more than that."
  
  "That's all I ask," you say. You stand up and walk over to your clothes, laid out on top of a dresser. You slip into your pants and shirt, before throwing on your jacket and slipping into your sneakers.
  
  "They're at a bar a few blocks south of here, the Daisy Duke. You'll know it when you see it." Nodding, you walk past her to the door, but she stops you. "And Charlie..."
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  She leans up to kiss your jaw. "Don't get yourself killed."
  
  "I won't."
  
  You open the door and leave.
  
  > Continue
  You look up at the brick facade of the bar, the old neon sign proclaiming "DAI DU E". What is this, the second bar they've led you to? Third? You've lost track. All that matters is this: those men are inside the Daisy Duke and you've got bullets with their names on them. You walk up to the door and open it, your eyes scanning the room.
  
  The bar is empty save for the bartender and the two men sitting at a table nursing their drinks, the faint sound of some Johnny Cash song playing over the jukebox the only sound in the bar. You lock eyes with Zeke. Yours narrow while his widen in shock. "F-fuck, Sonny, he's here!" Sonny jumps out of his chair and whips around to look at you, his face a mask of terror.
  
  > do what you should've done hours ago: shoot them.
  Instead of chasing after them like you did last time, you just pull out your gun and shoot the both of them. They fall to the ground, dead, clean holes in their foreheads leaking blood. The bartender, a buxom woman in her late 30s, looks at you and quirks a brow. "What the hell'd they do to you?"
  
  "They fucked up my day," you say, turning and walking out the door.
  
  Outside the bar, you walk up to a nearby sports car, smash the window, unlock it, and hop in. Hotwiring it is child's play; within a few seconds, the engine hums and you grip the steering wheel.
  
  You drive.