A/N I can't upload very fast like I used to do with my other stories because the chapters end up being short and not very well written. Also, it's very difficult for me to get through the beginning of the story that sets the backdrop for the interesting stuff without losing interest or going too fast and losing important details. Hopefully this beginning was ok and soon we can get into the interesting stuff! :) Thanks for reading and be sure to review.

The next day at work was quite different than most other shifts.

A dark-skinned, exotic woman had stayed at the bar next to Pouncival all night, even after two fights broke out and he had to break them up. She introduced herself as Cassandra, and only ordered martinis all night. The alcohol content in each different drink she requested went higher and higher until Pouncival himself could tell she was barely holding herself together.

Completely smashed, she would ask him questions about his love life (of which he had none since junior year of college), his job, or where he lived. "Who was the last girl you slept with?" She would drunkenly slur as he shot her a pitied look.

"You're drunk, Cassandra. Get a taxi and go home."

She giggled and belched. "So you're a virgin, then."

"That's none of your business." He said, filling a growler with the house beer and handing it off to a gentleman at the bar. "You need to go home and sleep. Don't drive home."

"I'll stay 'till I damn well please," Cassandra replied. "And I don't have a car, silly. No one has a car in Venice."

Pouncival's ears perked up and a shadow of a smile graced his face. "Venice? You're from Venice?"

"Oh, now I got you talkin'. I lived in Venice my whole life 'till my boyfriend kicked me out. Then I wanted nothin' to do with the place."

"What is it like?" He inquired, wiping the droplets of water out of a wine glass. "What are the canals like?"

"Beautiful. Just like you." Cassandra slurred, downing the last of her appletini. "You ought to go to Venice, it's a treat of a city." She paused, "Maybe I can take you some time."

"No." Pouncival countered. "I'll go by myself. The only place you are going is home."

/

He called the bar the next night and informed the owner of his leaving.

"That's swell," Said the man, a gruff tom named Gus, "I was going to fire you anyway." There was a click as the line went dead.

/

Pouncival took all of his parents' money out of the bank that day, too. It seemed foreign, like he was twelve again and snatching notes out of his father's wallet.

The teller smiled as she handed him the paper. "Going somewhere?" She quipped. She was a chipper little thing with long, blond eyelashes.

"Yes," Pouncival replied. "Italy. And I don't think I'm coming back."

/

The Ca de Gallo was a small but cozy inn. It had rustic brown walls and high, white ceilings, and Pouncival's room was cramped but enjoyable. It had a twin bed with white sheets and a table with a coffee machine and a TV on it.

Venice was all terra cotta and tall buildings, dark rippling canals, large market squares, and cramped alleyways. Pouncival's inn was across a canal from a dark building that read Carta di Fiori and all the letter I's were chess pieces. The two buildings beside it seemed to shrink away in it's shadow.

The sun started to sink into the horizon, but Pouncival wasn't tired. He wasn't sure if there had been a time zone change or not. He changed his shirt, grabbed a few Euros and locked the door to his room.

There was a bridge that crossed the canal between the Ca de Gallo and the Carta di Fiori, but it was about a block away. The warm air was breezy, but he didn't mind.

Pouncival stopped on the crest of the small bridge and looked into the murky waters. Several boats with varying amounts of passengers passed under him. Some of the gondoliers sang, but most were silent, their eyes on the twists and turns of the canal.

/

The Carti di Fiori, translated as paper flower by the Italian dictionary he had bought, was a large, dark club. It wasn't a club by British or American standards, where flashing lights and exotic bevs were rampant and people grinded the night away, but it was a club where the people of Venice met to play card games, gamble, and smoke. There was no dancing or bellybutton shots here, only the quiet and stillness of the cloudy air and the sound of shuffling cards.

There was a bar, however, and Pouncival sat at one of the stools. A bartender looked at him expectedly.

"Uh… Whiskey, on the rocks." He said, and apparently, he didn't have to look through the dictionary because the bartender nodded and grabbed a glass from the shelf behind him.

The club wasn't very crowded. Several tables were set up for some kind of card game, but the cards there had suits that he had never seen before. There was a pool table where three men were playing, an active poker table, and two more tables where people were card games.

The lights surrounding it at the base suddenly illuminated a round stage he hadn't noticed before. The bartender looked at his watch as he set the whiskey in front of Pouncival.

"What is it?" Pouncival asked, pointing at the stage.

The bartender turned around again and said in a slight accent, "The six o'clock show is about to start. Signorina Rosella."

A group of mixed tourists and Venetians entered and dispersed, some going to the bar next to Pouncival and others sitting down at the card tables.

"Si," the bartender intoned fondly, "our six o'clock is always the most popular show."

The heavy velvet curtains moved aside. The chatter in the club died down as Pouncival watched the poker and pool players set down their cards, their chips, and their cues. The heads turned towards the stage, and the smoky air seemed to clear as every person in the club drew in a breath of it.

The queen on the stage was tall, curvy, and scarlet. Pouncival scarcely had time to admire her appearance before she placed her hand on the microphone stand, opened her mouth and started to sing in a throaty, velveteen voice.