The Universe's Mixer

By all the gold in his hoard, this place was strange. He woke up, under the same damned bridge he had originally come to the City under, feeling just as awful. What exactly had happened over the course of time until he woke, he didn't know. What Sweeney did know, was that there was not nearly enough alcohol in his blood, nor smoke in his lungs to have an Irishman of the blood chipper about his cards in life.

What in the name of Bran was goin' on with this god-forsaken place? The last thing he remembered, the very last thing, was a lovely bit of a drink with that Pirate fellow. Jack, not Coke? Captain, not Coke? Jack and Coke? Captain and Coke? Hell, no matter which way it was mixed, the man was alright by Sweeney's standards. Quite alright. Except the the Irishman was distinctly not alright, as he felt like death himself had come and tossed him back under the damnable bridge like a sack of potatoes.

He stepped back out into the City and patted the pockets of his old denim jacket in search of the pack of cigarettes he couldn't recall if he put back in his jacket. They were there, of course, but no lighter.

Well, wasn't that just dandy.

"Hey!" He shouted out to the first person he saw, "got a light?"