The night in this city is as dirty as it can be and even the constantly falling rain hasn't washed away the filth.
You stand on the corner of the street, out of the circle of light from a dying street lamp, and light another cigarette. The motion of flicking the lighter's wheel feels alien to you but touching the flame to the cigarette's tip and then sucking the fire in feels like a kiss from a lost lover. Comprehension will take it's own sweet time, but you take a deep drag anyway. The grey smoke curls from the corners of your lips, from your nose and clarity dawns. You are waiting for a package and the girl who was supposed to deliver the package is late by twenty minutes. The clock in your head tells you that it's twenty past eleven. You trust it. That's why you don't wear a watch anymore. You rub the cigarette against a wall and decide to look for the girl yourself.
By now, the rain has slowed in its intensity and it's only a half hearted drizzle that gives the sidewalks a wet, glistening look. It always rains in this city.
You stop under another street lamp and take out the business card from your coat's inner pocket. Your hand brushes past the comfortable weight of the gun in your shoulder holster. The writing on the card is immaculate, all the letters are formed so perfectly that it looks like it's been printed. You like it. You'd not accept anything less from your own handwriting.
The address on the card is few blocks away from where you stand. You decide to walk. The wait has been long and you feel like stretching your legs for a while. The taxis pass you by on the road, few of them blink their lights in hope of picking up a passenger but you don't pay them any attention. At this time there are very few people on the sidewalk, and those who are outside are hurrying to one place or the other. You pity them and their rat lives. Always rushing, running, trapped in the same routine.
Another car blinks its headlights at you and then it starts to turn towards you. Before you can move out of the way, the car stops, its headlights pointed at you on high beams. You shade your eyes from the glare and someone bumps into you on the sidewalk and as you fall, you feel a hand make its way inside your coat. You roll with the motion and get up in a crouch, your hand pats your shoulder holster for the gun, but it's gone!
You look for the person who bumped into you but the sidewalk is empty. The taxi is still pointed to the sidewalk, though. You walk up to the driver's window and look inside. The driver's throat is open from ear to ear, a grin from hell etched on to his throat. Written in blood by something sharp and nasty. You don't need to feel the driver's pulse to know he is dead.
A creature of habit your hand moves to your pocket for the cigarettes and you feel something heavy in your pocket. It's not your gun. You grip the thing by its handle and take it out.
It's a knife with a nasty blade and the blade has blood on it.
Somewhere behind you sirens start to wail.
Part two, tomorrow.