Public Enemy Number One

[jdillinger]

He feels like he's been walking down this corridor for ages.  He doesn't have any cigarettes, it's cold enough to be winter in Chicago, and he's tired.   A light at the end resolves itself into the shape of a door.  Beyond, he can hear the sound of music playing, glasses clinking, and happy voices.  Sounds like a good enough time.  Maybe Hell isn't as bad as the pastor made it out to be.

He pushes the Door open and steps out, breathing a little sigh of relief. 

A bar.  The corner of his mouth curls up in a lazy smirk.  Well, all right then.

[ tiny recently deceased tag: John Dillinger ]