A new short bit of prose

I don't really care what anyone thinks, but I really enjoyed writing it so I thought I would share it with a bunch of strangers!!
Enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it.



Jack's Walk

Jack O'Rourke slipped quietly into the dark, crisp night. The cold,
bracing air whipped itself into a whirlwind around his body. His
breath fogged up in front of him like steam on some kind of phantom
express. He pulled his shoulders close to his ears and dragged his
collar close round his neck, pretending the one inch of material would
make the slightest bit of difference. He shoved his hands hard into
his pockets, the plastic bag on his left hand, rebelling against his
knees. His weather beaten face, hard and cold in the midnight blue,
turned away from the warmth and set off for one more time.
He walked like a man on a mission. The cavernous dark space in between
each street lamp held nothing but fear for a woman who was on her own.
But when Jack looked around, the street was deserted. The only things
that seemed scared tonight were the moon and the stars, for they had
refused to reveal themselves again.
Jack stopped. He saw an abandoned swing in a neglected school on his
right. Some young punks had broken it in half. There was some broken
glass in the school windows as well. Those kids had gone to town on
the school. But this was no business to Jack. He had to be somewhere.
He carried on walking, the freezing air hitting his throat and drying
it out. He coughed and it echoed off something in the far distance.
He looked down to the plastic bag on his left hand. A vulgar yellow,
'Mad Mikes Mags' scrawled on the side. He felt like a walking bill
board that didn't get paid enough. Inside was a casual magazine to the
casual reader. But to Jack, this was as good as the bible. And it had
taught him more as well. It wasn't life-style, or sport, or a girlie
mag. It was Jack's way of raising his wizened middle finger to the
establishment and saying. 'I am an important part of this race. I am a
unique individual surrounded by the brothers I've yet to meet; this is
my family, my fellowship, my kindred'
With these noble thoughts in head, Jack reached the tunnel under the
tracks. Being sheltered from the wind, he stopped. His right hand
reached up from his right pocket, drawing out a crushed pack of
cigarettes. There was only four left. He straightened one out, put the
pack away and with a match, lit up. With his breath fogging in front
of him, he couldn't tell when he'd stopped exhaling. So, smoke in his
mouth and hands back in his pockets, he set off once more.
A homeless guy stopped him and asked for spare change. Jack knew he
had a twenty and some shrapnel but refused. The homeless guy then
asked him for a smoke. Jack offered his pack to him. The homeless guy
blessed him, and Jack thought it was funny that it used to be priests
that blessed him, now its street people. The homeless guy turned away,
as did Jack, then remembered the guy had never given him back his
smokes. He ran after the man, asked him for one back, making up some
excuse that the store ran out or something. The guy then started up
some kind of a conversation so Jack made up his excuses and left. He
knew he wasn't a good liar, but he had somewhere to go.
As he crossed the street he saw a light go off in an upper storey
floor of a house. It felt like a near mythic reality that you can
sleep at this hour. He checked his watch. Ten after one. AM. He was
late. He had to pick up speed.
There was a garbage can thrown across the street, litter was
everywhere. Dirty diapers and cereal boxes paved the way. He hated
this town sometimes. Well, maybe not the town, just the punks in it.
He side stepped an old newspaper and his right foot landed on the
road. It should have landed on the path. He felt an agonizing pain
shoot up his right leg. A muffled cry escaped.
He limped the next fifty yards up the street. He saw a bar called 'The
Crazy Horse'. He checked his hands one more time, turned the handle
and walked in. It wasn't especially busy and at first glance the crowd
seemed non intrusive. This is what he wanted. As he sidled up to the
bar, a pretty blond barmaid shouted over to him, 'Hey Jack, you're
late tonight, you OK?' He looked her in the eye and replied 'I'm a
busy man these days. Can't always be relied upon'. She poured him a
drink while Jack took out his brand new magazine, 'The Modern Drunkard
Monthly'. With a wry smile, 'Amateurs' is all Jack can say.

shiv

Intriguing stuff, avatar's not bad either
What happens next?