YOU’RE DROWNING.
The entirety of your fragile head plunged deep down into the watery business end of a porcelain toilet inside the men’s room of Ralph’s Tavern in Albany. The water is cold and tastes vaguely of rust and urine as it enters your mouth. You’re on your knees, hands pressed flat against a piss-stained floor, the cold hard steel of a pistol barrel pressed against your spine, a bear claw of a hand shoving your head deeper into the toilet with each thrust.
“Who sent thee?” the poet barks.
Pulling you back out by the collar on your black leather coat, you spit out the rancid water and make a desperate attempt to inhale a dose of fresh restroom air. You want to be cooperative, being this man is your client, whether he knows it or not. You truly
