Luck Ran Out, But Smart Was For

Once Upon A Time – For That Is How All Stories Should Begin – There Was A Boy Who Lost His Mother.

He Became Merely The Broken Statue Of A Beast, Now Without Another's Fear To Animate It.

Each Man Dreams His Own Heaven.

The Detective Was Different. Not That He Wasn't A Good Man; Willie Had Heard Enough About Him To Understand That He Was The Kind Who Didn't Like To Turn Away From Another's Pain, The Kind Who Couldn't Put A Pillow Over His Ears To Drown Out The Cries Of Strangers. Those Scars He Had Were Badges Of Courage, And Willie Knew That There Were Others Hidden Beneath His Clothes, And Still More Deep Inside, Right Beneath The Skin And Down To The Soul. No, It Was Just That Whatever Goodness Was There Coexisted With Rage And Grief And Loss.

It Was An Overcast Late November Morning, The Grass Splintered By Hoarfrost, And Winter Grinning Through The Gaps In The Clouds Like A Bad Clown Peering Through The Curtains Before The Show Begins.