Torne looked to his left at the likewise pathetic drunk.

        “How you doin’?” he asked him.

        “Bleh- e-yeah.” The drunk opened his eyes. “Oy, you hear about that cemetery thing. Fuckin’ corpses walking?”

        The bartender raised his voice.

        “There’s no corpses walking, you stupid fuck. They been robbed.”

        The drunk hunkered down and pressed his eyes to Torne.

        “Corpses - They walk straight up and tear your limbs straight from your body!”

        Torne didn’t blink.

        “Yea and what’s so wrong about that?”

        The drunkard’s mouth twisted.

        “Well, they’re not allowed. It’s breaking the law. Murder!”

        A snake appeared on Torne’s leg and crept to his calf. Its head emerged and sank its fangs into the drunkard.

        “Ah!”

        “Shut it,” the bartender said.

        The drunk collapsed.

        “Don’t believe anything that man says. Look at him fake for sympathy on the floor.”

        “He’s not getting back up.”

        “He’ll have another drink in half an hour.”

        “He’s dead and so will you be.”

        “Yeah and why’s that?”

        “I was behind the grave gig. I’ve made my way from Hell to get here.”

        “As loony as him.”

        “You can say that now, but try sayin’ that after your tongue is ripped out and your eyes popped.”

        “And who would do that to such a fine barkeep?”

        “Sitting in a bar is not doing something. Soon as I rack up a kill count then something will happen.”

        “Yeah and what? Prison?”

        “No. I haven’t a clue what will happen. It’s just a matter of ‘I’d be a problem that needs a solution’ according to them, ya know?”

        “Yeah. Then why me?”

        “Why not? You’re breathing aren’t ya?”

        “So it don’t matter who?”

        “I wouldn’t look at it as such a bad thing. Doesn’t make you unlucky. It’s what I do - friend or not. What’ll you have me do? Let you leave the city? Suppose I see you again. Just leave you to running your whole life? That’s not much of an existence to me.”

        “Death ain’t existing either.”

        “Sure it is. Plenty of people in Hell. You can feel their presence in the air. Giant, low clouds of red. Not unlike the purple ones the other night, 'cept more engulfing.”

        “So, I can either run or be an air molecule in a place for sinners?”

        “You could be more. Just have to get your head straight. You learn.”

        “Can I get a drink here, pal? Scotch on the rocks.”

        The bartender fixed the drink and stepped back over to Torne.

        “What say I end up in Heaven?”

        “Wouldn’t happen. Especially not if I killed you. You haven’t a guardian. God has no list for you. You kiddin’ me? No one within this surrounding city has one.”

        “Purgatory?”

        “Not if I kill you.”

        “And so how come someone hasn’t stopped you?”

        “Haven’t killed anyone important. What’s a few hundred more in Hell?”

        “So when would you kill us all? Why are you havin’ a drink?”

        “Just takin’ a moment to observe.”

        Torne raised his glass to the man. The bartender had seen the salute all his life. Torne drained the glass and held it above his head. Droplets fell – one, two – The bartender’s eyes focused on the last drop that slowly rolled its way toward the lip of the glass. Sweat ran down his face in a torrent. He spun around, grabbed a glass and the bottle of gin and held it out, still pouring.

        Torne’s eyes sank.

        “A bartender.”