Mikal slides back into the corner booth, shaking his head in bafflement. His fingerless gloves twirl the tipper a few times absently.

They never will get it right, he muses. All of the race, the dark man, the possum. Even Magoo and the boys failed to show up. How the hell can a man seem threatening with just one low-life on a hog?

Ah well, there's whiskey for you; all fire and flavor with just the same kick as cheap grain for all it does. The game will run again, it always does when the Guinness runs out.

No one knows what it's like, to be the bad man, To be the sad man, Behind blue eyes.

No one knows what it's like to be hated, To be fated, To telling only lies.

But my dreams they aren't as empty, As my conscience seems to be. I have hours, only lonely. My love is vengeance, that's never free……..

He walks out the door of the juke joint, running one hand over the faded paint on the Harley's fat bob tank. Next time there should be a cabin, he thinks. Perhaps a trading post long forgotten on the river…

He reaches out and plucks at a mote in the air before him, twisting it just so. The mote becomes a door. He goes out…