I am walking somewhere; I know that much. Where, though? That mook with the bug-eyes is watching me, at least, I think he is. Let's see: I'm wearing sturdy boots and a waterproof jacket with the hood pulled down tight on my head. It was raining? The street's not wet. That guy is really looking me up and down; I'm going to cross the street. I jog the last part and notice my feet hurt like I've just run the New York Marathon. I've been walking for a while, then. Also, there's a noise, something that sounds like maracas in my pocket: it's a jar of pills. Side effects include... Memory loss. Frickin' excellent.
My stomach growls: I haven't eaten for some time. I've skipped breakfast I think. What time is it? Whoa! Nice watch. Six in the A.M. I chance a look around: can't see Bug Eyes anywhere. Good. Pain in my side. I run my hands over my ribs and nearly puke from the agony. I've got a crazy-bad feeling about all of this. What are these pills anyway? Please be pain-killers. Nope: anti-anxiety meds. Makes sense.
I feel around in my other jacket pocket and feel something metallic and heavy. Madonna! It's a gun! No... There's no grip. I pull it out for a cautious glance. I nearly drop the damned thing but catch it just in time: it extends with a loud snapping sound. I see. It's a telescopic baton... And there's blood on it.
I duck down into the subway and hear footsteps echoing behind me. I stop to 'tie my shoe' and casually look back at Bug Eyes. Give up! Can't you see I'm dangerous? I see my reflection in the window of a slowing train: I have some bruising around my eye. Did I always look like Rocky Marciano? Then my stomach effervesces like I've just hit the drop on a Coney Island coaster: he's a cop! Bug Eyes is a frickin' plainclothes bull. I'm going to stand up all calm-like and then I'm going to leg it to a body of water where I can dump my twenty-five-to-life exhibit A.
I lift my carcass and my knees go weak. I want to run but my feet just aren't having it. I drag one foot in front of the other and then a hand grabs my arm. The rest happens real quick: I pull the baton out before I know what I'm doing (I'm an efficient thug/standover man/killer or whatever the hell) and I extend the thing like that kid with the laser-sword from those Starry Wars flicks. One smack to the side of the head and Bug Eyes goes down. Another smack to the left knee means he won't run after me; he'll just remember me every winter from now on. I go to deliver a blow to knee number two and he yells something like: 'No, you don't understand!' This gets my attention.
"What am I missing here?" He's panting like my neighbor's dog; hey! I'm remembering stuff! I help him up: it's the least I can do. He just points at the baton at first, then he says: "I live on the streets." A homeless cop? "You said you'd take care of 'em one day and you did." Then it comes flooding back. Some toughs were hassling my boy Bug Eyes and I took exception like a bull shark to a diver. They started by hitting him up for cash. When they got bored of that they just straight-up hit him. One night I was walking past and they started dousing him in kerosene: that's when I lost it.
That hand is on my arm again and this time I know it's a gesture of appreciation. "You're coming with us, tough guy." I turn my head and lock eyes with a cop: a real one this time. "You assaulted this man. Also we got some questions about another fraccas downtown. You know anything about that?"
The cuffs are on tight and Bug Eyes pleads for my release to no avail. Wish I could take a couple more of them memory loss pills.