I walk down the flickering hallways of this old junkyard spaceship, the dust-cover control panels long dead, snatches of Frank Sinatra playing ‘Stormy Weather’ while the flies and spiders get along together.
In places, I find the inch-deep clawmarks he left. I run my fingers along them, remembering his paws the size of your head, how menacing they looked trailing cigar smoke in the murky light.
That menace, it was his thing. No matter how well you thought you knew him. He was what he was.
I sigh, bone-weary, rub my eyes. Why the fuck am I still here? Floating in this empty rust bucket, drunk on memories.