The Irishman would cock his standard crooked grin as he sat by his lonesome in Lou's. The sun barely creeked in thru the windows as the side of town barely had been kissed by the orb in the sky. One half empty bottle of Jameson, persipiring some from the room tempurture, and the glass surprisingly filled to the brim that barely seemed touch. The tender was sorting out supplies and carting bottles on shelves as she occasionally looked towards him saying "Jack. You would off been on the fourth round already. Whats a matter?" However her words would escape his ears as blue hues in his head reflected back towards him from the surface of the Shot, as if a narrative of some sort was unfolding. And it was for certain.

As the ripples of the drink shimmered, a fire was brewing in it. Was it a fire? Jack couldnt off been certain. Not until the ringing in ears began and he realized it wasnt the shimmer of embers cackling in the air. It was a man struggling to breath. The fire was the man willingness to live, as A controlled hand rested on the neck, forcing the man to infixiate into what appeared to be a toliet. Like a sudden rush of euphoria and sense, Jack was in the Cell. He was the hand holding the sadist into the toliet, giving him a pervial swirlie to find out what had happened to the missing girl. There was Irony to be had in the sense of justice bing distributed, but some eggs had to be cracked a chef once told him. Or was that the scene in batman?

Jack head tilted lighty as he continued to observe the reflective surface of the drink, not long before his left hand would grip it with his fingers, lifting it to his lips non shulanty and taking a more than friendly swig. The lips almost catching a blaze, making his head want to jerk from the potency of the drink, And not before long it would viciously to the right, chin hitting shoulder

But was it from the drink? or the fist of a gangbanger resisting arresting and splitting the Irishmans Lip? Felt like resistance being met and hard impact of a mallet, as Jack visualized a Baton breaking knee and his boot cracking the face of a man who had assaulted a woman alla American history x style. There would of been a bloody mess of the perp, who later Jack would of recalled a was a corrupt cop. Retribution, in all its forms, wasnt selective, rather Inclusive. And Jack was at her mercy at times.

The glass with hit the counter top as he tapped the bar once more for the additional round. Jack would watch the hips of the woman saunter over to pour him a controlled burst of Jameson, or Krageur as the man had come to know it. She would have quite the number on as she would say to him 'Jack, we need to get ya out off that mood, dont ya think?" and his head would cant up looking her over like a man with a plan, even if that plan involved extreme womanizing. He would close his eye briefly as he took the freshend Double up and slugged it bet as he felt a wave of heat rush thru his body from the Whiskey and slight touch of the womans hand

Or was it the nails dugged into his back during a romp? the tussle off his hair as he took some barroom dreg and showed her hundreds of year in shovanistic tradition? The man was layered simple at best, with shimers of things that were hard for surface thinkers to catch. Of course, with the life the man had lived before becoming a Irish immigrant, he was alright with that.

Jack would simply continuing looking to her as said in a Thick accent "Oye, Poig moi thoin I say in the end, and may the hairs on my arse never wither to a cinder" Jack clearly finishing the last of the Whiskey, and in that moment, it seemed all the thoughts that would of come to mind, would somehow come to life. Thru machinations outside his control at times, maybe they would. The Bartender would smile a flirtatious one at best and say simple "Welcome to Hathian alright"

Never a truer statement.