So, I'm walking through the French Quarter of New Orleans at night. It's late but the night's warm and there's still plenty of people wanderin' around the colorful old buildings with the wrought iron trellises.
It's always an interesting mix of people you see on Bourbon Street around that time. Suit wearin' business types usually here for some convention. They've all been let out of their conferences and are eagerly scurryin' around, taking in the sights with wide eyes. Most of 'em are from the Midwest and they're not used to seeing this kind of night life.
Then there's the street kids wearin' filthy clothes and knit caps sittin' on blankets with their dogs, playin' guitars for change or scraps of food.
You've also got the retired tourists and grandparents pushin' strollers with exhausted toddlers around. They're just wanderin' clueless past the head shops and prostitutes beckoning from doorways.
Then ya got what I like to call "the plain old freaks" - talkin' to themselves, reachin' into their pants, jumpin' at shadows and looking around with wild scary eyes. You have to watch 'em close - they're capable of anything.
While weaving through the crowds, the trash you get to step over is almost as interesting as the people. Mostly it's brightly colored, plastic beads, used condoms, cigarette ends and drink cups.
Long green, plastic beer trumpets and mixed drink flumes are littered everywhere. There are a lot of bars that you can just walk up to and they serve ya drinks right there on the street. The containers they hand out are plastic, so there's no glass shards when they are inevitably thrown into the road by the drunken hoards.
I was accessing some old files and not payin' attention, when I stepped right in the middle of a shimmering puddle of puke and booze. The stink wafted straight up and hit me like a wall. Smelt like sadness and desperation… kind of reminded me of the old "drunken master" himself Lei.
The thought of that creep was just starting to ruin my evening, when I saw someone sitting at an outdoor cafe. I'd have recognized this guy anywhere from that distinctive "x" shaped scar in the middle of his sulky face.
He was eatin' a prissy little crepe or maybe it was some fluffy, dainty sugar encrusted French pastry - all that crap looks the same. I watched as he pursed his fragile, princess lips to gently blow the steam away from the delicate, china coffee cup he was holding. Whatta scream - I could barely contain myself. Naturally, I had to walk right up and say hi.
"Raden! What's shakin'?" I said in my most friendly voice.
He just stared at me. In kind of a non-friendly way. So of course, I pushed it a little and gave him some good natured ribbing.
"Hey Raden - come on man - don't give me that ol' silent treatment! What're you sippin on there? Some kinda foamy, hazelnut, cream-drizzled, mocha, latte? Seriously, Wow - I had no idea they served that to men!"
Laughing, I pulled back the other metal chair and plopped down at the small, decorative iron table across from him. But he just kept starin' at me and he was startin' to look slightly irritated… But I guess that might not have meant anything, because the little guy always looks kinda pissy.
Then, before I could even order a drink, he gets up and looks at me over his shades and says, "Name's 'RAVEN.' You're confusing me with that stupid-ass Mortal Kombat dude."
That kinda caught me by surprise, and I just watched as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone at the table. Eventually, the check came and I realized - the sunuvabitch stuck ME with the damn bill! That sissy-ass coffee, and the little fairy-cake cost me twenty bucks!.
Coulda sworn his name was Raden too. But when I accessed my files I realized I had gotten it wrong. Shit - why don't I check these things before I open my mouth? And what the hell is Raven's problem anyway? Can't he take a joke? What the hell is he doing in New Orleans? Maybe Dragunov's right about that guy.