The headlights reflect off the rain-scarred streets. I saw her eyes,twisted, bloodshot red, dazed, she looked at me. She didn't see the gunshot wound. It wasn't the first , and I know it wouldn't be the last . I fucked up. Its hard, fucking hard, trying to make a quick peso, a fast G, in the back streets of Marseilles. I sipped the last drop of bouillabaisse, took a long taff, an asked for another nasty Richard. Enough, I was bleeding, I asked the Marocaine toiletgirl , to call her sister. She had stitched me up before. It wasn't a problem, I'm a fast healer.
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