Stumbling halfheartedly down sinister back alleys, a quarter full pint in one hand and the other hand clenched in a damp jean pocket that held a $10 bill found in a nearby public park's river just ten minutes before. Nothing matters; no cares other than lifting a bottle of Jack Daniels up to his mouth with the least amount of spill. Tender thoughts of an ex-wife's big bust are the only solace in a blinding hurricane of suicidal thoughts. A gun cocks.

     "How much money you got in them pockets, man?", the mask asks. The drunkard turns toward the mask and presents his tattered clothes and physique.

     "What the fuck are youuuu gonna to doo with that pistol?", the drunkard lets the alcohol do the talking. The mask responds by lowering the gun.

     "Fuck, man. What the fuck ya doin'? Just point that mother fucking shit right here!", the drunkard points to the middle of his temple.

     "You're crazy, dude", the mask says as he shakes his head and turns around to walk away. Uncontrolled rage boils in the drunkard's head, and he takes this once in a lifetime clarity to rush the mask and grab the gun.

     The mask is pushed to the ground, and as soon as he rolls over to get up he finds himself gagging at the heavy smell of the man trying to wretch the gun out of his hand. The heated struggle, over time, masturbates the sense of inner survival enough for the mask to squeeze the trigger, forcing familiar echoes of crime down the length of the alley. Blood slithers fiercely across the drunkards hands, which are wrapped tightly around the pistol's barrel pointed at the drunkard's heart.

     The drunkard slumps over to the side and slams, face up, on the rough asphalt. A chuckle and a smile are the only reactions reached before death glazes over the drunkard's bloodshot eyes. The mask stands up to look over his first kill, spots the bottle of Jack Daniels near the drunkard's legs and picks it up take a quick swig.