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Dec. 1st, 2000 10:51 amA few blocks northeast of the 4th and Elephant stop of the London Underground is a neighborhood where they'll still tell you it's 1892. There's thick black factory smoke in the air. Horse-drawn buggies. Everything. 1892.
Hard to find neighborhood.
The street urchins were dying of influenza, and the toughs were starting to get under the weather as well. I popped over a few blocks, got some echinacea, some zinc lozenges, heating pads, vitamin C, and orange juice. I sort of forgot the whole thing. (This was a few weeks ago.)
Today, one young gentleman known to his gang of ruffians as "Ghostman" Jack Bartleby showed up on my doorstep, and told me that he, and his, would lay down their lives to repay my thanks. They're relocating to be around, should I call.
So that's the happy news. Some old-style gangsters have got my back.
Hard to find neighborhood.
The street urchins were dying of influenza, and the toughs were starting to get under the weather as well. I popped over a few blocks, got some echinacea, some zinc lozenges, heating pads, vitamin C, and orange juice. I sort of forgot the whole thing. (This was a few weeks ago.)
Today, one young gentleman known to his gang of ruffians as "Ghostman" Jack Bartleby showed up on my doorstep, and told me that he, and his, would lay down their lives to repay my thanks. They're relocating to be around, should I call.
So that's the happy news. Some old-style gangsters have got my back.
