There was something not right about it. The whole thing stunk. Like a bad smell that just couldn't be shook. And in the end the realization was that you were the problem. You were the stench that you couldn't run from.

Your own nose betraying you. Your own mind agreeing with the swift judges hammer, or the executioners sword. Take your pick, because they ultimately both meant one thing. That the fuckn cat was a ghost.

It had to be. No-one else was battering an eyelid about it being in the bar. The room was full of smoke and booze drenched egos. That's why he was here. A place to escape the harsh realities outside, in and away from the social climate.

A bit of drink, sniff and some bare tits. Although he was pretty sure the overly aroused half nude brunette wasn't a Hubble Bubbles special. She was amusing though. In a my penis just smashed against my zipper kind of smile.

That's what made it all the more peculiar. These people were more out of their minds than he was. On some of the hurry up. Some lines of self confidence. Something to boost the already jacked up personality.

As if being a souless and selfish asshole wasn't enough. Let's just turn that dial all the way up to fuckn 10 and see what happens, shall we? Cocaine was a hell of a drug.

So how they couldn't see the cat sitting on the bar top was ludacris. It's tail flailing about. Happy as a cat that had died and somehow found its way, back? That red head springs to mind, too. Funny that. For all her wisdom she gave him more questions than answers.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe that's wisdom itself. To not know, instead of knowing. Who knows.

The sound of a hammer pounding away woke Seraph up from his self induced escape. A tradesman was hard at work in the vacant yet soon to be something site across the road. The sun beat down, as it did. The perfect way to kick off a hangover.

Seraph pushed himself up and took in his surroundings. Another ditch somewhere. Another random night running from himself and his demons by way of liquor and narcotics. It had been awhile since his last relapse, though.

Some positives to take away, Seraph thought, as he rubbed his throbbing head. That and the memory of a cat in a bar. A fuckn ghost cat. Maybe seeing the redhead wasn't so bad after all.

The Broadway in Chicago affiliate stood up and dusted himself off. Time to face reality, like everyone else, by denying he had a drinking problem and pushing through the self pity. But first, time for coffee.