There was nothing more to say or do. The situation was hopeless; his future looked bleak. His throat seized and cramped, sending shooting pain down the front of his neck, and to his chin. His face contorted in an effort to shake the cramp. Anyone watching might have thought he was having a seizure, not that he cared what any onlookers might think.

            The October wind was a lazy wind, too lazy to go around you, so it went right through you. The gusts, carried dirt and debris, that peppered his face and hands. The air temperature was such as to drive the blood from your fingers and bring a flush to your cheeks. His coat tails flapped in the breeze. The bus stop was crowded with people waiting for their ride to work, or whatever destination, their day’s activities would take them. The street was filled with taxis, delivery vehicles, and passenger cars. A lonely shaft of sunlight streaked down through heavy broken clouds and presented the only bit of bright in what was sure to be a very gloomy day. His arms hung at his sides, a duffel bag in each. Everything he had left in the world was inside those olive green bags, his entire life, all he was, all he would ever be, reduced to their contents. The only item he still possessed, that was not in the bags, was the 18th century katana hidden inside the left breast of his long canvas coat. He prayed he’d not have to use it this day.

            Izzy was tweaking bad. The rave the night before was a blur of disjointed memories. What ever he had dropped had hit him hard. He was still experiencing tunnel vision and the roar in his head drowned out all other sounds. He sat at the back of the number 11 bus clutching desperately to the chrome pole in the aisle beside his seat. He looked at the floor of the bus, the grooved rubber track seeming to twist and swirl, making his stomach lurch. When he did look up, the visages of his fellow bus riders were those of monstrous beasts in street clothes. Snot ran down the ring in his nose and onto the barb sticking out of his lip just above his chin. His studded wristband hooked the ring as he attempted to wipe his face, jolting him from his stupor, momentarily. Startled and scared he felt his waistband for the reassuring bulge of his .38. The bus stopped and took on more passengers. One in particular got Izzy’s attention.

            A cold rain began to fall, umbrellas were opened, and newspapers raised overhead, to provide protection. He had neither and so stood solemnly without reaction. The thwap thwap of wiper blades joined the patter of rain, thrum of motors, blare horns, and chatter of pedestrians. The rain plastered his dark hair to his face, and dripped off the end of his nose. His demeanor made others at the bus stop uneasy; it afforded him a decidedly larger amount of personal space. While others stood shoulder to shoulder, he stood, relatively, alone.

            The bus splashed through pooling water in front of trash clogged sewer grates, and came to stop in front of the waiting, wet, would-be riders. Umbrellas closed and newspapers, now soaked and bleeding streaky ink onto hands and shoulders, were shook out or discarded. The soaked citizenry, with practiced orderliness, climbed the steps into the bus, deposited their fares, and took their seats. He was the last to enter; the door closed behind him. He stood dripping at the front of the bus, a puddle forming at his feet; his eyes sought out a suitable place to sit.

During the morning commute, seats were at a premium; he required seating for two to provide for the bulk of his bags and the item in his coat. The only available seat fitting the bill was in front of some stoner freak at the back of the bus. He moved to take it.

            Auditory hallucinations joined the visuals painting Izzy’s day and the pounding footfalls of a tall shape in a trench coat, drew his attention. The figure had great huge fists at the end of long lanky arms, and glowing red eyes peering out from under the skullcap of a dark dripping mane. Its coat tails billowed out around it with each passing step. Izzy freaked.

            The stoner freaked as he moved to take his seat on the bus. His eyes were glazed and blank as he stood and screamed at the man in the long coat.

            “Don’t come any closer demon!” he screamed.

            The man in the coat stopped and set his bags on the floor. Passengers in seats near where he stood crowded against the bus walls and watched the impossible unfold.

            His hands loosed the bags and they fell to the floor. His head hung low. His right hand gravitated to his forehead and swept the soaking mat of hair out of his eyes and straight back over his head, exposing his piercing dark eyes. He raised his head and met the stoner’s gaze.

            The stoner screamed in fear as their eyes locked, he pulled the .38 and swung it in the direction of his hallucination and squeezed the trigger.

            In a blur of practiced fluid motion the man in the long coat, threw back his coattail, drew the concealed sword, and brought the blade across the barrel of the gun. The impact of the ancient steel against the machined barrel of the .38, collapsed the side of the barrel as the firing pin struck the primer pad, igniting the gunpowder and expending the projectile. The lead lodged in the restriction sending a backlash of expanding gas back in the direction of the stoner. The force threw him back against the rear of the bus, minus a few fingers.

            Women screamed at the sight of the explosive conflict. But it was over just that quick and the man whisked the sword back into the concealment of his coat, picked up his bags and turned back to the front of the bus. The remainder of the passengers were panic stricken and evacuating the bus. The stoner lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor. The bus driver had long since jumped off the bus and was flagging down a cop.

            In the commotion, he was able to slip away and disappear into the crowded streets. He made his way back to his apartment. She was still at the table. The look on her face as he entered was less than welcoming until she saw the blood on his face.

            “Oh God! What happened?”

            “Nothing. I’m sorry for my behavior. I promise it won’t happen again. I’ll remember to put the seat down, and flush the stool, from now on.”