Logan sits at the bar. Cigar in his mouth, beer in his hand.
He watches the whore hit on the sailor. He wants to stop her.
He wants to tell her that this man is not a man. That he is not interested in sex. That he is not alive.
But he’s been living on the fringes of humanity for too long. He can’t find it in himself to really care.
So he watches as the young woman entices the dead man.
Watches as the sailor gives her the gold coin.
Watches as they walk out into the alley together.
And when he leaves the bar, just before dawn lightens the sky, he’s not surprised to smell her blood splattered on the bricks.
He clenches his fists and walks on by.