He clutches the stick with both hands. He doesn't shift from his chair, he doesn't move from his stance. He is coiled, yet broken. His cheeks are grey and his eyes see nothing. He taps a tune with a bony finger - tap-a-tap-a-tap-tap - something he knew in another life, in another place. There was a woman that smiled, or was it a man that leered? He couldn't remember, it didn't matter. His wrists ached, his fingers throbbed, the stick was heavy and the seat was hard. He'd sigh if it made a difference, but it didn't. He listened for the shadows. He felt sure that they were getting longer, bolder, more excitable, even nervous. It was near time. He clutched the stick even harder, his hands nothing but sharp bone, yellow nail, and distended purple vein. A feint smile passed over his dry lips. They can wait, those demons. Let the fuckers wait.