He used to be mayor of the steamy bars, the back-alley after-hours clubs, and caustic basement dives. Everyone hopped up on a stream of substances. They used to give him the rounds for free. The beer was warm and the Scotch on the rocks. Old joints fold. Titles fall away. He went down, three fingers up. It wasn't the first time. The mayor had drowned before and still managed to come back alive. And now he's struggling to pull it all together. His crowd is so disappointed. He needs to hit upon a hint of recognition in any pair of eyes fronting any half-alive mind. She takes his hand and cooly whispers, "My, how well you fade."