He turned away from the plane and walked back into the shadows of the city. He had a drink to catch up on, and a new story to write in the next volume of his life.
As he navigated the neon-drenched streets, he felt the weight of his own history. He was a "product of postmodernism," as some might say, trying to reconnect to the primal act of telling a story. His life was a collection of one-word chapters: Narrative, Heat, Limits, and Error. Bogart Vol 01 No 01
"I got held up," Bogart replied, his hand tightening into a fist. "Now, where's the girl?" He turned away from the plane and walked
"Goodbye, kid," he muttered to himself, echoing a ghost from a past he could never quite shake. "Hurry back". He was a "product of postmodernism," as some
He started his investigation the only way he knew how—by finding the nearest bad guy and punching him in the face. It didn't matter if the guy knew anything; in Bogart's world, everyone was guilty of something.
"You're late, Bogart," Roy growled, flicking a cigarette into the dark water.