This is one of my "Written at 12:30 p.m. because I couldn't sleep" stories. I got the idea from a song called Hey Mister by Chad Brock. So I guess this is a songfic, but not really. The narrator's identity isn't really important, he's just a random Joe.

Disclaimer: Yeah, I own these ideas. That explains why I'm writing fanfiction. Blah, blah, woof, woof. The characters aren't mine, so don't sue. I don't sue you, so please be nice.

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He walked into my bar, and I could tell he was one of them. I call them the Hey Misters. It's always the same story, a man left to survive in a world without love. This time he's a man in his sixties, defeated. He walks with the aid of an exoskeleton. They're fairly common nowadays, but this one look as worn as it's owner.

The man sits down next to the window, near the TV that was silently reporting the days news.

"Coke and whiskey." He orders, pushing a faded photograph across the counter. I glance at it. It's a picture of a beautiful woman in her twenties. Brown tresses frame her smiling face. He catches my look.

"She was going to be my wife. Mister, please take this picture, cuz I don't want to miss her anymore. Although the corners are tattered and torn, she's still the one adore. Please take this."

As he told me his story, my heart broke for this shattered man, trying to survive.

"She dropped into my life just when I needed her most. She was my personal angel. Never gave up on me, even when I wanted her to.

It took me a year to realize what I had. It was almost too late, but sometimes miracles happen. Funny, she always said I was one of the few people she trusted."

I hand him the drink, and notice the writing on the back. Although the blue ink is faded from years of tears, love lost but not replaced, it's still legible.

i I was lucky the day I found you.

I'll be here for you no whether

You like it or not.

Max /i

I'm sure I know what's coming next, but it still hurts to hear the story, it always does.

"Three days before our wedding, she went out for gasoline. For her baby. A black Ninja 650, she was so proud of it. Nobody touched her bike. The supply ran out at the wrong time. Some psycho who didn't get his gas pulled out a gun and open fired. Max used herself to shield a little boy and was hit. She didn't survive the night."

"I'm sorry man." My words wound hollow and meaningless to my ears. I don't now what anybody could say, no words could bring this man the peace he needs.

"That's not the worst part. I read the coroner's report, despite being warned. She was five weeks pregnant. They don't think she even knew."

He finishes the coke and slides from his seat. A man with more then his fair share of pain, a broken man left my bar that night. I put her picture in the drawer with the other ones like her.



It was a few days later when a familiar face was flashed on the local news. 67 year old Logan Cale, a high ranking journalist and member of Seattle's crème du la crop had died in his sleep. I guess he doesn't miss her anymore.

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What do you think. Please review, I'm a junkie. I was going to have the man Alec, but my shipper heart wouldn't allow it.