The day's clock was ticking down at the speed of molasses on a cold day. Every noise became very apparent to the two occupying the car at the time as they waited for Chance. Trash being rummaged through by a person down on their luck, crackle's and pops from a hobo fire sitting at the edge of an alley way, Trent wasn't liking how long it was taking. 

	"If we don't get that squirrelly bastard out here soon we are gonna start having people get curious about the car." Head bobbing back and forth from window to window to make sure he wasn't missing anyone approaching the car. "Easy killer. I am sure Chance will be back shortly..."

	"Drive!"

	The door slammed behind him while whipping the bag of drugs to the back seat. "Have a bit of a hangup or something back there?" Lisa would try to ask before getting cut off with another demanding "Drive!" Move now and ask questions later she guessed. Popping the old, rattling, Lincoln sedan into drive she slammed the gas pedal and they were off. Chance was stiff, tense, the veins popping out of his neck became even more visible once his mask was whipped to the ground. All his friends could do was watch him in pain.

	"What the fuck happened back there man?!" Trent's mind began to race. [i]Mothefucking cops were there weren't they? Damnit, they might be following us! No, maybe other thugs were there? Two faces guys perhaps? I am just weaving together some nonsense right now.[/i] No answer would come. His only response was a determined hand being thrust into his pocket in search for something. Maybe a pill to pop to cool his nerves.
	
	A paper. A fucking paper was unfolded and Chance began to scan it. All of his focus was set on these names and phone numbers it would seem. It was an old employee directory that was fairly easy for him to find on his way out "Give me something, anything, something!" trembling in undeniable rage as he stretched the paper out with an audible [i]pop![/i]. "This is my bitch right here!" 

	At this point Lisa and Trent just stayed silent. With a train of thought set and them in high speed to return home they just let him decompress. Well, so they hoped their silence would help him out on this intense drive home.

	Screeching to a halt as they made it back to their home near Port Adams. Chance busted into the house and went straight for the computer. A rush of wind and clicks were heard as the old piece of junk turned on. Creaking doors were heard behind him as the other two goons brought the bag of meds straight down to the basement door to begin organizing them for distribution. 

	[i]Come on, come on, give me something google. That sadist's name was what? Dr. Richard L. Klineman. Alright, let's go.
 	
	Ideally, a hospital will populate with his name and I can search for his home from there. Wait? You have got to be fucking kidding me![/i] Fists slamming into the table as the words came across the screen. "Dr. Klineman at it again with another fundraiser for his Pediatric care practice! This mother fucker!" Chance's eyes picked the story apart piece by piece. The blinders were up and the world fell silent to him. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart as it supplied his rage with the energy it needed to flourish. 

	"Gotham Gazette you are the voice of the people I tell ya." These words fell in sync with the bottom of the article where information on the good doctor's home sat. More than likely left for anyone wanting to send donations, aid, or for all he knew thank you notes from people who weren't aware of this demon's past.


[b]Upper East Side[/b]


	"Yes hun I know...yes dinner will be ready by the time you get...I know babe I burned it last time but that's...yes hun...alright hun I will see you when you get home then...I love..." the phone went silent as she hung up on him. Klineman let out a long sigh of grief as the water began to spill over onto the stove from the scalding hot pot. "Shit! Why tonight?! Why!?" whipping the drawer open to grab some pot holders, he tried to get the pot off the stove as quick as he could. Didn't go so smooth for the Doctor as the water burned the ever living hell out of his hand. With a scream he got the pot moved. 

	Klineman chucked the pieces of cloth to the ground and flexed his hand. Trudging over to his favorite recliner he leaned back and tried to breath easy. Stories would wiz by the TV screen from the same old stories of Gotham. [i]Police chase this, robbery that, potential murder victim over here, drug ring broken up over there, maybe we need to finally get out of this town. It seems to always be oozing with degenerates on every corner.[/i] His hand trailed under the coffee table so he could fish out a Motor Trend Magazine. At least mechanics didn't have some crazy mind you had to figure out. Problems can normally be traced back from bracket to brace and boom, the issue could be pinpointed. Cars wouldn't tell him that he was a shallow shell of what he once was. Trucks wouldn't sputter under the exhaust that he was a piss poor lover. Ah fuck it, Klineman needed a drink.

	Laphroaig quarter cask, now that was a solid choice. That smokey flavor would do his mind right by taking him back to the few times his wife and him would go camping when they first started dating. Sitting around the fire, staring at the stars fly by, you could say they were living life in the easy lane. 

	The damn TV would have other plans for him. Poking in dark subtext to his memories with him hearing clips of news stories. "This TV could do for a break for a bit don't ya think?" he would say to himself as he reached for the remote.

	"Nah Doc, I haven't watched this story yet. Let it roll just a bit fucking longer"

	Klineman froze. When one speaks to the wind he doesn't exactly expect a response. Especially from a male voice in a home that he only shared with is wife. A final shimmer emanating from that fire long past would lay in his mind. It would be snuffed out by a blunt, fierce, pain exploding from his temple created by the butt stock of a pistol.