"Take me wand'rin' through these streets, where bright lights an' angels meet..."
Mort still hadn't adjusted very well. On the road, there had been no such thing as 'safety'. You slept when you could and you ate what you could, because you'd never know when you'd need to run, you'd never know for how long you'd have to go without. Safety was dangerous -- how was that for doublespeak? It was, though. Safety lulled the senses, dulled the edge of the knife. Safety was a false promise, easily broken when they came again. And they always came again.
"Stone t'stone they take me on, I'm walkin' 'til the break of dawn..."
Mort's voice was soft in the quiet of the night. It was low and growly, a younger Tom Waits with less talent and less control. His voice would have never won him American Idol, but it was serviceable enough. He sounded pleasant enough on the easier songs: while he shouldn't be trying anything early-era-Whitney, he could kill at upbeat little ditties that didn't require much belting. Paolo Nutini? Definitely in his wheelhouse.
"Hey, I put some new shoes on an' suddenly everythin's alright. Hey, I put some new shoes on an' everybody smilin's and it's so right..."
His sleeping pattern still irregular, Mort had woken up right before dinner and, after eating a little and reading some, he had gone out, armed with his shotgun and a sturdy baseball bat, now caked with black blood. The night had been kind to him: seven kills, five shallow scrapes on his arms and legs and zero bullets fired. Also, he had found a snazzy hat in some old vintage store. There was a pleasant ache in his muscles: time to get on back to the Library before he got tired.
"I'm short on money but long on time, slowly strollin' in the sweet sunshine..."