I remembered red in her voice, a bit of harsh rasp in it as she withdrew the cigarette from her lips and spoke smoke like wisdom caressing the wanton energy of buzzing air particles.
"You don't want it that way. It's too long. Too bloody. It's asking the snake to bite you."
I remembered this now, upon a step in one of one thousand puddles linked like seas along the latitude line of been there, destroyed that. Back again, not finished yet. One more thing to say. One more ending. The asphalt between tall black walls was lined with discarded things, sometimes a steel door rusted to uselessness, many boxes and trinkets left as furniture for rats, sometimes the crumpled remains of a discarded man, looking up only momentarily, lacking the strength to crawl toward his next meal. At some length, the cavern was subverted by the growing clap of footsteps and horns from traffic.
My shortcut spilled me out onto 84th & Main, in the midst of three million simultaneous rebellions, abdicating thrones of humanity in throes and throngs, swaying to ten seconds of respective songs before decaying behind me in clouds and distasteful apparitions. And so I stepped, against the flow, and produced my own rhythm to sidle in between the frequencies. There was to be only one end.
The rain had ceased an hour ago. The sun was not strong enough to pierce the clouds and evaporate anything, but thousands of shoes had produced the familiar gray on the sidewalks, enough to make for some comfortable passage, the brisk traffic resolutely setting a pedestrian freeway pace. Walking to this side of town always inspired insipid contemplation. The ground-level windows of every building wore protective bars or barbed wire companions, every wooden door was carved and riddled with decay. It reeked of piss on the streets, trash strewn about as though there were reason to suspect it would disappear. It didn't. This was the edge of the bad part of town, the result of a freeway overpass intersecting a portion of the good part of town and forming one downward positioned knife, a small stab into the business district. This is what created the crowd. All of them, all bleakly professional in melancholy black, emanating a trace of style with their Oakleys and imported cigarettes. Along the sides of the walk, more people sitting on small stairways simply watching the passers by, making an effort to panhandle here or there. Most were ignored because the importance was focused on a cellular conversation. I was headed further North, the direction from which there was only a hurried mass of black ooze. Not far ahead, the tall columns of intimidating concrete were becoming more focused.
This is where I detoured again, hunched myself into another shadow and followed an alterior path around the river. There were not many people around here at this time; most of these edge dwellers had jobs and had gone to them a while ago. I just listened to the thunking of the overpass as tires met connecting joints and increased my speed so that I would arrive at the next main rue at the calculated time.

"I don't care about any of that. I'm prepared to accept fates, if you wish to plague me with your interpretation of them. I am simply waiting." There was a tall and wiry woman in front of me. She wore perfectly round eyeglasses with delicate silver rims. She was covered with gray business attire, black hair, sharp blue eyes offset by the vibrant red of her lipstick. Her hand produced whorls of gray smoke. In her current position, it blended in with her overcoat, seeming to be rising directly from the shoulders themselves.
"Waiting? You cannot wait for something like this. You waited for me to come to you, I am here, but I was late. This involves expectation. If I did not appear, you would simply be lost." The breeze ruffled trash bags; something metallic softly clinked onto pavement. the four corners of this particular alley were empty for a moment.
"There is a difference between expectation and belief."
"If you want to be technical, yes. But essentially, they are the same."
"You can justify yourself on the basis of assumption. It changes nothing."
"Funny, I thought I just said that." And she ended her signal, stamped it out, turned and walked away.

The din again grew louder, complaining against the sad solitude of my unfortunate canyon. I hurried just a bit, came to the edge of the sidewalk, turned onto it (much less busy than the last, it was possible to simply flow onto it this time). The protruding orifice of the restaurant here was made of thick wood, only about 5 or so feet from the alleyway itself. It created a nice alcove. And so I waited.
The man was easy to recognize in his conspicuous tan suit. He was young, had shaved his head and his eyebrows. He wore a thick brown goatee and a small ruby in his left ear. As he passed by, the smell of the pungent smoke from his pipe conspired with cooking fish, it resulted in a short sniff. The man turned slightly after my second step, almost spoiling the surprise when I shoved him stoutly, a formulated action that engaged his head with the far alley wall. He fell summarily to the ground, began to fumble for something when a foot connected with his ribs. This forced him onto his back, he grabbed for the injured area, grimaced, and after a bit calmed. Click.
"There is nothing in this for you." He sputtered. There was a small hiss as the smoldering ash of the pipe was extinguished by a growing pool of blood. The scattered pieces lay around the man, underneath him.
"It is not about a thing. It is simply the result. Cause and effect."
"And this is reason enough for you?" A glint in his dark eye.
"I hope you are ready for truth."
A muzzle flash; the distinct prostration of an end.