I exit the Black Mail House. Tarred and feathered. A teller ticking time bomb finally releasing me from the cell above the mob. I am afraid, and there is nausea in my gut. Just keep on going, just keep on making those steps. One after another.
The bar and the Bergers crisp charred on the grill behind me. Hieronymous Bosch’s portrait of Hell hangs above. It is February. I am so alone, and I don’t think anyone understands.
Musette and I have a reservation for the restaurant beneath hers. It is for eight thirty. The plan is to pay for our meals with the credit chips she got from working at her restaurant. It’s all part of this electronic and digital war. Many fronts.