We went to Broken Dreams Avenue, right after Lost Highway.
At the corner was this elder dude with his back and eyes as broken as the place. He’d been there since the street was baptized, he told us. Since before the war, even. I wondered what war he was ranting about but my partner didn’t want us to stop here. We needed to go deeper into that hole of gloom and darkness, full of scum with no horizon. Couldn’t figure out why but eh, I owed him.
- C’mon, gentlemen, you two be kind and I’ll tell you a story, a good one.
But the old man wouldn’t let go.
But the old man couldn’t let go. He was sort of the great mighty guard of the frontier and the tin box he waved was his weapon to defend what was home for him, with two of his own teeth inside, ringing for charity in a place where it didn’t exist. Where it couldn’t exist.
A guard ‘tween them and us, he was, ‘tween us lot here and the big wealthy folks from upper town I reckon