Act 1: A Chance Encounter.

You put your clothes back on as the girl you just slept with observes silently. She leans towards you and begins caressing you all over.

"How about another round, John?" She whispers in a sultry voice, her hands beginning to roam dangerously near your crotch.

You manage to shrug her off dismissively. "Fixe your prices first, then I'll think about it." You pick up the almost finished bottle of whiskey on your way out, finishing it as you exit the room.

You stagger out of the cheap brothel and step into the night as the crisp winter air turns your breath into small clouds. Rubbing your hands together, you decide to walk the streets for a bit and let your mind wander. The year is 1930. After spending a few months in the streets, you've gotten used to it. Though the thought of getting used to such a degrading way of living leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You sigh; your inability to find jobs has been astonishingly bad. It's not like people lost their memory, everyone knows who you are, and yet, not one position opens up for you anywhere. These depressing thoughts sober you up a bit. You sit on the sidewalk with your head in your hands. This sucks. This really sucks. You can't remember the last time you went to church, but you stare at the sky, uttering a small prayer to whatever God there is to help you.