cigarettes drift lazy lines from straight day to day people out for the night. kano weaves through them and the jazz. he's a narrow hatchet of a man; hair cropped short; small goatee across his chin; purple almost black suit in a straight cut; crimson shirt; polished bright black shoes to reflect the path.
kano has a gun; it's a .45 with bullets that have been signed with his name; that's the type of story he's in.
there are dozens of stories.
there are dozens of styles.
kano levels his .45 at victor.
victor's in this story too; his stare is resigned; so whispers from his lips and is lost beneath the sparked thunder.
