The Watchman

by


He felt dark, black as all pitch, and he wondered what it meant. Felt the contraction of his heart and marvelled at it.

Not something he'd ever feared. Bullets? Yes. This pain, threatening to unman him, to pull him into the abyss where all was night and void forever? No.

Didnít want to look. Had to.

For Bodie was the flash of light on honey-dark scotch, he was a thousand smiles in the polished glasses, and he was a whisper in the bartender's ear.

And Doyle glowered from the dark and wanted him more than he would ever want anything.

-- THE END --

April 2006

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