Gregson and Tony wanted a soft landing, but main street was anything but soft; they landed on their butts, hard.

“Yesterday beat me up; if this is the second round, I don’t want to continue,” Gregson said.

“We’re alive,” Tony suggested.

Gregson huffed, turning the key in his apartment complex, and walking up the rickety staircase. He entered apartment 302. The first thing Tony noticed was the smell of orange peels, coffee, and a lingering bathroom aroma.

“Cleaning lady will be here later this afternoon,” Gregson said reassuringly.

There were rotting Chinese food containers in the kitchen sink and books on criminology stacked to the ceiling. Gregson punched his coffee maker and the drip started dripping. His golf clubs were in the corner in a leather Titleist bag, where the rats had eaten through the bottom, undoubtedly looking for his forgotten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A Steinway Piano was propped up in the corner, and his bed in the bedroom was surrounded by half-eaten boxes of raspberries.

“Home sweet home,” Gregson said. He pulled a needle out of the kitchen drawer and stuck himself in the butt. “I’m going to bed. Help yourself to the coffee and turn on the diffuser.” Lavender filled his apartment mixing with the musky atmosphere.

Gregson went to sleep and dreamed about the woman inside the bull. He knew her, but she was dead. His ex-partner?”

“Gregson! Gregson!” Her voice was calling from the grave. He hurled out of bed, like a drunk with a bad hangover.

“We’ve got to dig up my ex-partner!” He shouted.

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