Frost's world became surreal. Tied to the chair, in the storage room lit only by a single bare bulb, he couldn't distinguish night from day. How long had he been here? A day? Two? Three? He'd lost track. His time had been spent in a seemingly endless loop of waking up, having Ivy or Freckle or sometimes Mitzi bring him a sandwich or a slice of cake from the café twice a day, followed by them trying to talk to him. He would nibble on the food in bitter silence. Then he would ask for whiskey, which they always gave freely, and he drank just as freely, guzzling the cheap alcohol down until he was numb. Then he would pass out

He would scream sometimes, yell at whoever was outside of the door, cursing them as cowards. He would invite them to come in and finish him off. If it was Freckle guarding the door, the young man would end up having enough of the heated monologues, open the door and tell Frost under no kind terms that he had no designs on killing the gunman, so he'd may as well be quiet. Zib, the bandleader was even less entertained. Frost could tell the cat was the miserable, wallowing sort, and the musician would often open the door and respond with something along the lines of;

"Would you knock that off, pal? Bad enough I gotta stand here watching a door. I don't need to hear you screaming like a dying man." Zib gave him a lot of liquor.

The bartender…Frost wasn't sure how he felt about that one. Viktor mainly ignored him, allowing the captured mercenary to rail and curse and threaten as much as he wanted without making a sound in reply. It irritated Frost. If any of these wretched souls were going to end his misery, it would be the large Slavic cat. The next time he knew it was the gruff bartender outside his door, the gunfighter redoubled his efforts at eliciting a merciful bullet from his enemy.

"I know you're out there." He growled. "You're a veteran, huh? Bet you saw a lot of Hell…blood and guts over there, didn't you? You know what it was like…not like these fucking kids." There was still no answer. "Put one in me. Do it…know what it was like, cyclops? Your brother…shot up…guts spilled out in the mud…begging for it to end? You did it. We all did. That's what I want." The door cracked open, and Frost stared at it as Viktor slowly leaned in the opening.

"Vhat…in Hell you say?" The tall cat grumbled severely.

"You heard me, doughboy." Frost returned just as darkly. "You can end it right now." Viktor stared at him a moment, let out a low growl, and stepped into the room. "That's what I thought. A soldier can kill a guy. Soldier can pull the trigger."

"Ugh…" Viktor groaned. He picked up Frost's bottle and dosed the killer with a couple of shots. "I think you kill too much. Make you crazy."

"I was off my fucking nut before they sent me to that shitpit." Frost returned. The orange cat just shook his head.

"I meet vuns like you." He stated. "You come back…broken…cannot sleep. You stare at valls all day. Mailman and lady on street are Germans…coming to kill you."

"Shut up…" Frost snarled. "Shut up. I ain't…one of those gutless nancyboys…curled up crying like a baby…while the men fought. I fought. I chopped up lot of guys."

"I'm sure you did." Viktor replied matter-of-factly.

"The fuck does that mean, big six?" Frost shot back hatefully. He felt his stomach turning over. "I wasn't no coward! I chopped 'em up good. They gave me a medal."

"And you got broken." Viktor rumbled, a hint of understanding in his tone.

"Go to Hell!" Frost boomed. "You think I'm some deserter…some fucking pansy?! I killed them! I chopped them up good! You motherfucker!" Viktor stuffed the neck of the bottle into Frost's mouth.

"Maybe this shut you up." The big slav said irritably. "I get point. You kill Germans. You beeg tough guy." Frost drank down another two shots' worth of whiskey, finishing the bottle off. He spat it out, sending it to the stone floor. "I still not kill you. Now shut up." With that, Viktor left the room. Frost could feel tears boiling up in his eyes, and he tugged and pulled at his restraints until he passed out.

He awoke to the sound of voices outside the door. He cocked his ears toward the low speaking. It sounded like Mitzi and Rocky. Insofar, the musician hadn't been posted at his door, as far as he could tell. Finally, the sound of the speakeasy owner's shoes clicking against the stone floor of the tunnel grew fainter and fainter. Frost remained silent for a moment, then he heard the door being unlocked. He watched curiously as it slowly creaked open, and Rocky stuck his head inside.

"You still tied up?" The musician asked. Frost raised an eyebrow. "Fantastic." He stepped into the room and stared appreciatively at the assassin for a moment.

"What?" Frost muttered.

"Huh." Rickaby scoffed. "Not so tough now, are you mister menacing triggerman? Heh. Bound to that chair…tied up as a ship at a dock. Why you're as helpless as a wee baby bird."

"Untie my hands, minstrel boy…" The gunman growled. "And I will show you helpless." Rocky gulped nervously, then steeled himself and continued his antagonization.

"Aye…you may threaten and bluster all you wish, my dear Mister Fisher…" Rocky smirked. "But your boasts portend nothing."

"I see." Frost muttered sarcastically.

"And you'd better not try nothin' funny, either." Rocky went on. "Because I have…I have…" He looked around the room quickly before drawing a mop from a bucket in the corner. He brandished it toward the killer like it were a spear. "I have cleaning supplies!"

"Terrifying…" Frost growled, not even looking his way. Rocky saw the futility in his performance and put the mop back into the bucket.

"Aw…you're no fun."

"Well…I am tied to a chair, Socrates." Frost returned. "I can't exactly shoot at you right now."

"Yeaahhhh…" Rickaby sighed. "So…why are you trying to kill us?" He asked.

"Why do you steal other people's liquor?"

"Uh…eh…it's a living?"

What do you think I do for a living, smart guy?" Frost inquired coldly.

"Rrrrright…the whole hired gun thing…" Rocky muttered. "So it's nothing against us, per se?"

"Per se." Frost answered indifferently. The wily musician rubbed his chin.

"So if we compensated you better than your current boss…"

"Forget it." Frost stated. "Little corner stand like you. You can't afford my rates. Besides, my contract isn't complete." Rocky's ears flattened a bit and his face fell.

"So even though you were defeated…and the people who hired you probably think you're dead right now…and probably don't care…you would still kill us if you had the chance?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Rocky pressed. "Aren't people's lives worth more than a few measly bucks?" Frost raised his head and looked Rickaby in the eyes for a moment.

"No son…" He answered truthfully. "They're really not."

"But…" Rocky stammered, taken aback by the lifeless attitude of the gunfighter. "Isn't yours?"

"Less."

"Maybe that's why you lost." Rocky stated. "Ever think of that?"

"What…"

"You were fighting for a stack of greenbacks, and we were fighting for the people we cared about."

"Musicians are artists. Artists are dreamers." The gunman said. "Philosophers don't live in the real world."

"And exactly what is the real word?" Rocky asked. "Because it kinda looks like your philosophy of carnage just lost out to a gaggle of professional street urchins fighting to protect one another. That must be a vexing counter to your doctrine."

"There is much more in heaven and Earth…than are dreamed of in your philosophies." Frost sighed. The cat in the blue suit grinned.

"Hmm. Oh day and night, this is wond'rous strange." He spoke. Frost huffed a scoff in his direction. They were silent a moment. "You want a drink?"

"Yes."

"Good. My arm pains me something most fierce." Rocky said back. "I could use a libation myself." The musician exited the room and returned with a bottle of whiskey. "A drink amongst enemies?"

"When there are no allies…" Frost replied quietly. Rocky opened the bottle and took a swig. He made a sour face.

"Blech! Like turpentine…" He wiped his mouth and offered the bottle to the gunfighter, who allowed the musician to pour a couple shots of the strong liquor down his throat. When he was finished, Rocky took another, bigger drink and sat down on the floor.

"So…I hear you were in the war?"

"Get…the Hell…out…" Frost rumbled threateningly. Rocky smirked.

"Nope. You're stuck with me for the next two hours, old pal." He returned. "Might as well have a lively conversation." The gunfighter grunted and narrowed his eyes at the other cat.

"Know I'm going to kill the shit out of you, right?" He asked.

"Eh. Probably." Rocky shrugged. He took a swig of the whiskey, then made sure that the assassin had a long drink. "So…about the war…"

"Fuck." Frost spat. "Yeah, I was in the war. I killed Germans." Frost's eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"

Rocky shrugged. "Curiosity. Plus, it's either talk to you or play solitaire with my one good hand. And let's face it, you're more interesting than fifty-two cards right now."

"Goddamnit. Fine. What do you want to know?"

"What it was like."

"Remember what it was like…in there…" Frost nodded towards the door. "When I came to cut the lot of you down? The noise...the fear...the absolute bedlam?" Rocky nodded. "Like that. But worse. Hell. Now shut up."

"It was bad, huh?" Rocky sighed. Frost's pupils shot over to the younger cat for a brief moment.

"Yeah." He grunted. To his surprise, Rocky's head drooped and he took a sip of whiskey and sighed desolately.

"I'm sorry." The musician said.

"Why? Why should you care?"

"Eh?" Rickaby shrugged. "Just seems like a really horrid thing to have to go through. Drink?" He offered the bottle to Frost, and the gunman allowed Rocky to give him another swig. Then the musician stared at the green bottle a few moments. "Don' you worry, we have more where this came from. Whoo…been quite a while shinsh I partook of such copious amounts of aqua vitae…"

"If you think you can get me drunk…and I'll talk…you're screwier than you act." Rocky swallowed the last gulp of liquor in the bottle.

"Huh? I washn't tryna get youse to rat." Rocky slurred. "I just wanna drink wiff someone right now…and you're the only soul who gets bein' torshured…"

"Fuckin' lovely…" Frost growled. "Stuck in a maid's closet with a drunk jazz singer…"

"Hey!" Rocky interjected, dragging another bottle over to himself. "I play violin, thank you sir. I ish quite accomplished at it ash well…would you like me to fesh my dee-vine instrument an play you a sonata?"

"I'm going to cut your liver out if you do." Frost warned.

"Sheesh…don't gots to be such a cricket." Rocky groused as he twisted and pulled at the cork. It came free with a loud pop.

"I hope Mizz M didn't hear that…I washn't a'posed to steal her supply…" He whined. "Ohhh…I'm such a terrible person, Mishter Fishter. I do don't deserve her friendship…I'm a rotten egg…a miserable grifter." He took a long drink of the Canadian whiskey, and somehow managed to pour a few drams into the assassin's mouth.

"You like the moll…" Frost said, sensing a chance to use Rocky's drunkenness to obtain some information for himself.

"Begorra I do!" The mournful cat replied. "She's an angel…the salt of the earth she is!" He looked at the bottle in his hand and sniffed. "I'm sorry Mizz M…"

"She's your boss…the leader of this racket…" Rocky looked up, and gave Frost a drink.

"Yeah…but she alsho took me in when nobodys else would…took me in off the street. She gave me a home and a job and a…" Frost could see tears in the musician's blue eyes. "…a family." Frost narrowed his eyes.

"Family…you're a bunch of crooks." He stated.

"You know what, Fisher? We are!" Rocky declared. "But unlikes the likes of those vile persons what paid you to shoot us…we care…about each other." He gave Frost a drink then took another himself. Now, Rocky had tears on his cheeks, wetting his fur. "Ain't you never had a family? Nobody that you loved?"

"No." Frost answered bitterly. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No…never…"

"Maybe thash why you're such a sourpuss…" Rocky slurred. "You don't got any bosom pals."

"Shut your trap." Frost growled. "I don't want to hear another word about goddamned family." Rocky looked hurt.

"Yeah…sure…" He muttered. "Whadya want to talk about?"

"Nothing."

"Well shir…you are in luck…" Rocky returned. "I can do that alllllll night."

"Just pop me in the head you dumb bunny…" Frost grumbled.

…..

"You shee?! It's so brutally…painfully clear! In the future…we'll all be living on factory bread, I tells ya!" Rocky ranted on. Frost stared at him boredly, a literally captive audience. After lamenting and crying for half an hour about disappointing Mitzi, the drunk musician had been going on about this bizarre topic for five minutes now.

"Oh horror…" Frost muttered cynically.

"Bread…imagine thish…bread…whooollle loafs...loves…loafeses…made of plants created by mad scientists deep in their labs…combined wiff sawdust and…and…" He clenched his fists before him tragically. "…engine lubricants!" He made a few drunken, melodramatic gestures. "Made on assembly lines like automobiles! The horror!" He leaned toward Frost with a pleading expression. "The absolute and perfect horror of it, Mister Fisherrrrrr!"

"I was hired to kill you." Frost stated. "Without a care for who you were…"

"Yeah?" Rocky said hopefully.

"Now that I see what is rattling around…in that bug-Irish skull of yours…"

"Uh-huh…" Rickaby grinned.

"It would be a mercy killing." Frost stated darkly. Rocky's smile fell.

You shir…are a brute." He stated.

"And you are a drunkard."

"Rocky?" Ivy asked as she opened the door and peeked into the room. "Miss M sent me to get you."

"Oh…ish it time already?" Rocky asked in reply, looking back at her. "Time mosh certainly flies when you're having fun…" Ivy rolled her eyes.

"Ughhh…are you zozzled?" She groaned. Rockey did the most uncoordinated spin she had ever witnessed.

"Nonshense Mizz Pepper!" He rebutted. "I'm a shober ash a bird!" His expression became more gloomy. "Please…Pleeeeeaaaase don't tell Mizz M…I jus…needed to forget things…" He teared up again.

"Ohhhh…" Ivy sighed, sitting the paper bag she'd been carrying on the floor. She placed an arm around Rocky's shoulders and firmly seized his coat sleeve with her free hand. "Come on, Gloomy Gus, let's get you to bed." She said in a motherly tone. "Zib?"

"Everything alright…" The bandleader began, entering the room. He took one look at Rocky and let out a sigh. "Oh alright…come on Rocky…" He took over from Ivy and led the inebriated cat from the room. Ivy shut the door and turned to Frost.

"And you mister, shouldn't have let him drink that much. I'm awfully ashamed of you." Ivy chastised the bound gunman. He stared coldly at her, and the teen girl smirked. He rolled his eyes.

"Droll, miss Ivy…" He muttered. She giggled.

"Hope he didn't annoy you too much." Ivy said.

"Oh no. No bother. We're the best of pals. Couldn't you tell?" Frost growled irritably. The young woman shook her head.

"You should be glad him, me and Freckle took up for you." Ivy pointed out. "Everybody else wanted you in the ground."

"Why didn't you?" He asked dryly.

"I…I dunno, honestly." Ivy returned. "I don't like seeing anyone hurt if it can be helped. And you saved my life. I guess I owed you one."

"You owe me nothing, girly." Frost answered. "Those fucking goons deserved what they got."

"Still…thank you." She said. Frost averted his eyes. "I think you don't like seeing people hurt if you can help it either."

"Dry up, you double-crossing flapper." He returned. She winced.

"Okay, okay…" She sighed. "I brought you some food. Do you like meatloaf?"

"I eat." He said simply. Ivy picked up the bag and dug out a meatloaf sandwich she had made before closing the café for the day. She unwrapped it from the parchment wrapper and held the sandwich in front of the gunfighter's mouth. He reluctantly took a bite, chewed it twice and swallowed.

"I hate…being fed like a fucking baby." He commented. Ivy retrieved a bottle of Coca Cola and popped the top off, giving him a drink.

"Well, I'd eat at a table with ya, but you'd only try to kill everybody in the room, so…"

"We are at an impasse." He said. Frost paused. His ear twitched. "Fuck…"

"What? What is it?" Ivy asked.

"Nothing." The assassin returned. "So that is a Coca Cola. Never had one. It's sweet." Ivy looked at the bottle in her hand.

"Yeah…that's kind of the point I think." She said, and gave Frost another bite of the sandwich. He chewed on it a few times and swallowed, washing it down with the soda Ivy gave him. He grunted. "You like it?"

"What did you do, put strychnine in it?" He asked, making Ivy giggle.

"No, but it's my own recipe." She answered. "How you like it?"

"A broad who can cook. Congratulations." He muttered.

"Oh for the love of…ugh! Would it kill ya to be more polite?!" Ivy rebuked. Frost couldn't help but smirk a little.

"Probably." He said. His tail swished. "What do want from me, girly?" She huffed.

"I want you to eat your dinner and enjoy it." Ivy said in a nagging voice. "I went to the trouble of making you a delicious meatloaf sandwich, so you wouln't have to live on ham and stale cake. Now enjoy it." He looked up at her suspiciously as she gave him another bite of the sandwich and another drink of the sweet beverage.

"You're fussy." He finally complained. "Too fussy for a woman." Ivy grinned and winked.

"I…take that as a compliment." She boasted, striking a proud pose, her hands on her hips. He scoffed.

"Should. They're all a bunch of tight-ass sneakthiefs." Frost grumbled. "Walkin' bunko jobs in heels." Ivy laughed.

"Oh come on now…" She replied. "Not all girls are that bad."

…

Mordecai sat in a chair across the desk from Sweet. The hatchet man had his hands clasped before his face, and both of the cats stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak first. It had been three days. Three days since Frost had informed Heller that he was planning to launch his attack on The Lackadaisy. Three days since anyone had seen or heard from the gun for hire. Whatever had happened, it didn't look good.

"What do you propose that I do about this?" Asa finally asked in a low voice.

"We need to know…sir." Mordecai stated grimly.

"What do I do? Call over there and say 'Hey Mitzi…seen my high-dollar button man around?' Say he did get himself killed, Heller. I say anything to her, she's going to know it was me that sent him."

"And what makes you think she doesn't already know?" Mordecai asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who else would have sent a rabid gunman into their establishment at this juncture, Mister Sweet? Trust me on that concern. If Frost entered that speakeasy with a firearm, Mitzi May already knows why."

"Damn it." Asa growled. "Fine. The suspense is killing me anyway." He picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk.

"Be discreet." Mordecai advised. Asa nodded.

Mitzi sat at the bar, her left elbow propped up on the countertop as she listlessly ran the index finger of her right hand around the rim of an empty glass. Between her deep meditation and Viktor and Zib's more dour than usual moods, the place felt like a tomb for the two regulars sitting at the bar. Sedgewick nervously sipped his cocktail, his eyes almost continually on the back of her head. It was so unusual for her to be so silent.

"Is…something troubling you, madam?" He finally ventured to ask.

"Aside from the…trouble…I told you about?" She returned.

"Ah yes…the knowledge that some thug has placed a price on your head must be a…worrisome affair." His blue eyes drifted over the bullet holes and splintered woodwork on the backbar. "He certainly did a good amount of damage."

"Yes…" Mitzi sighed. "Not to mention the damage he did to our last running vehicle…and the doctor's bill…" She shook her head. "Now we got that monster locked up in a cell like a caged bear, with no idea what we're gonna do with him." Wick saw Mitzi lay her head in her arms. He felt terrible for her. There was only one thing he could do, and he knew it. Sable pulled out his wallet and took out a fifty dollar bill. He sat it on the counter and gently slid it up against her left arm.

"Yoohoo…" He called gently. "Mister Grant would like to speak to you…Mitzi?" She raised her head and looked down at the bank note.

"Are you sure, Wick?" She asked softly. "This is a lot, honey."

"No, no…it's fine." He returned. "Can't have my favorite drinking establishment looking like a firing range now, can I?" He chuckled. "Besides, this Bull Market has been quite good to me. Never thought my investments would earn this much interest. Go on then." The fingers of her right hand reached from under her left arm and slowly slid the bill underneath her.

"Thanks, Wick." She said with a genuine smile. He raised his glass to her.

"Anytime, Mitzi." He returned. The telephone rang. Her eyes shot over to it. It rang again. Viktor slowly reached over and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" He said. His eyes narrowed. "Is for you, Miss M." The bartender sat the entire phone on the bartop for her, and Mitzi took the bakelite receiver in hand.

"Yes?"

"Mitzi…" Asa greeted stiffly on the other end of the call. "I seem to be missing something." She smirked deviously.

"Oh…if you're referring to that grizzly undertaker of a trigger man you sent to pay us a visit, then yes…I would say you're missing something, dear." She replied in a faux-sweet tone.

"Damnit…" Asa grumbled. He looked up at Mordecai, who stared at him with an upturned eyebrow. "Did you kill him, Mitzi?" Her dainty laugh over the phone only fueled his anger.

"We may or may not have your missin' equipment on ice in one of our storage rooms. Would you like it back, or should we just throw it in the river?"

"Ugh. Throw it in a ditch somewhere for all I care." Sweet answered. "It was defective and unable to do its job anyway. Too expensive for a flash in the pan too." His uncaring tone made her frown. Did he really care that little about the people who were willing to kill for him? "So, how'd you manage to do it, Mitzi?"

"Oh, Asa sweetie…you should have known better." She answered. "Doncha play chess? A king should never ever try to take a queen."

"Bet you're reeaaal proud of yourself, aren't you?" Sweet said darkly. "I wanted to play nice, but since you want to do it this way, fine. All bets…and gloves are off. Do you understand?"

"Oh I understand, Asa." Mitzi replied. "I understand that you're a yellow, underhanded, four-flushing thug. And you're itchin' for a scrap you don't have the wits to win." She held the phone from her ear as Asa slammed his down hard.

"Arghh…" He growled. "Frost's dead alright. Somehow that skirt and her sneaky little bastards did him in." He picked his cigar up from the ashtray, lit it and puffed on it in anger for a few tense moments. "Alright…I want this done. I'm going to request some aid from higher up the ladder. I want a crew brought in to take care of this thorn in my side."

"A…crew, sir?" Heller asked slowly. "Are you certain that is the best course of action?"

"It's the best one I have, damnit." Sweet shot back. "Mitzi wants to play war…I'll bring the army."