The Slums.
Tombstone is at a run-down dive bar in the middle of the slums. With his classic trench coat and hat, people know who he is. They give him a wide berth. As a result, he’s almost entirely alone at the bar – standing behind one man.
A glass of full whisky sits on the bar before them.
The man speaks.
“When I was a boy, I enjoyed the rush of a small tipple.”
“The way it made my young self feel was unlike anything I had ever experienced.”
He sighs.
“That feels like a lifetime ago.”
Tombstone takes a seat next to the man, who now leans on the bar, his head now level with the whisky drink.
“But I remember it well. I remember how it tasted. I remember the flavor dancing on my tongue, sliding down my throat and the warmth in my belly. I don’t remember much, yet I remember exactly how much I indulged.”
His eyes are shown widened from behind the glass, sunk beneath the liquid therein.
“You might call me an addict.”
“I was.”
“And just perhaps… that’s why I was terminal.”
Tombstone’s eyes remain fixated on the man.
“I was addicted to the way it made me feel. The more I drank, the more I wanted. It became a cure to the mundane inane necessities of life. Could you imagine such an escape, Ferryman? A place you could go that no-one would ever join you unless invited. Alcoholism became my solitude. It was a fortress against the world and when it beat at the door, I drank until I could no longer hear its demands for entry.”
The man closes his eyes.
“I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t help myself. I’d do anything for just one more drink… for just one more taste.”
He looks at Tombstone.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
The Ferryman lets out a deep and knowing sigh.
“A weakness can make one weak if they allow it to. Have you ever heard of Harvey Escher?”
The man nods his head.
“A violent serial killer, not much unlike yourself in that he too is an addict. He too suffers a weakness. He would do anything for one more victim and the adrenaline rush that provides. He enjoys the way their blood feels sticking against his fingers. He remembers how their fear tasted; how delectable it felt in the gullet and the warm feeling in his belly.”
Tombstone stands up. The man looks back in fear.
“His fortress, his solitude, it has been long crafted by the blood, flesh and bones of victims.”
He places a hand on the man’s shoulders.
“As was yours, wasn’t it?”
The man bursts into tears. He stands up too, saddened.
“Come…”
Tombstone declares.
“It’s time.”
Reluctantly, the man looks back at the drink.
“Just one more?”
He begs.
“There’s always just one more, isn’t there? But not for you. Not for Harvey Escher. There is no more. This is the end.”
The man cries.
“But neither you nor he should fear the end. The end is where we meet.”
“And I will send you… on your way.”