Part 4

Across the city, under the pale glow of a streetlight, a disheveled man stood, swaying gently. His hair stuck out crazily in every direction, matted and uncut. His suit had once been expensive and sharp-looking, but was now little more than a rumpled rag on his body, stained and torn in several places. People walking past averted their gaze and hurried along their ways.

Under the apparent state of disrepair, intense, cunning eyes darted about, forever seeking something which had long been lost to the man. His tongue would sometimes escape from his lips for a moment, running over them with a dry, rasping sound and then retreating again. Slender fingers twitched almost constantly, as if longing to continue some unfinished business.

He was close. He knew he was getting very, very close now. Signs had presented themselves; The torn article, the ticket receipts, the growing sense of impending conflict. And the closer he got, the more his mind and body came back into focus, repairing themselves and awakening senses he had long forgotten how to use.

I'm going to catch him at last, he thought with a feverish grin. He had no idea still who it was he was seeking, but there was no way to miss the signs.

Signs such as the one he passed before entering a subway car, which read, "Downtown Limited Service Access - Route 45."

It was going to be a satisfying night for Bob.

Part 3

Fog curled around Brofnakken's feet as he stepped down from the subway car, feeling more than slightly confused. Night had set in for good now, broken apart here and there by the surreal glow of sodium lights recessed into the terminal roof. As the subway pulled sluggishly away from the station, he turned and made his way through the exit gate.

Brofnakken's fingers curled around some random coins in his pocket as he walked down the terminal stairs, and he pulled them into view. About a buck fifty. A flash of red danced across the quarters, drawing his attention up to the neon signs before him. Fast and Loose. It was a bar, and a questionable one at that, but it was as good a place as any to go waste a little time. He clearly felt a compulsion to enter.

The interior of the bar was a strange reflection of the outside. It was dark, muggy, and poorly lit, with random signs promoting beer and sex. Brofnakken sat at the bar and ordered a Red Rat, his favorite cheap beer. A crudely drawn sketch of the named animal curled around the long-neck bottle. Dim memories were triggered by the image; Nothing substantial enough to go on.

As he took his first sip, a hand with delicately-painted and manicured nails settled onto his shoulder, and a soft voice whispered into his ear.

"Broffy. Just the man I wanted to see. I've got your package."

And the memories came rushing back.