Jim was working as a waitress at cocktail bar, at least that's what he was imagining at the moment, that much was true. "Don't you Want Me" playing in the background on another Thursday night at Arnold's Aromatic Launders. There was a rotation of exactly 16 songs that played on loop, the loop lasted about 1 hour. Meaning that for the 5 years Jim had been working at Arnold's, he had listened to that same loop of 16 songs over 5000 times. The next song was "Roxanne" by the Police. The red light outside read "Arnold's Aromatic Launders". The 'o' in Arnold and the 'a' Aromatic were completely out, and the 'L' was starting to flicker. The 5 years at Arnold's was Jim's meal-ticket while we worked himself through college. He was entering his 5th year at the local community college, studying computer science among the three other majors that Jim had accumulated during his tenure there. Arnold was pretty flexible with hours and the work was easy. Overall, not a bad gig.

More often than not, Jim would work the midnight shift. Arnold prided himself in the fact that his laundromat was open 24 hours. Meaning that somebody had to be there in the wee hours of the morning. That somebody was Jim tonight. The clock struck 3am. Jim was sipping a sugar-free Red Bull, while absent-mindedly working on homework. His mind came awake as a customer walked up to the counter. He hadn't seen him come in. "Dry cleaning for pickup", said the stranger, as he handed over a ticket. Jim looked at the ticket, got up and walked to the back with only a polite smirk and nod acknowledging the stranger's request. Jim quickly found the item, in the back. It was a small pride for Jim that he could find dry-clean tickets faster than most. It was a suit jacket, with a brown plaid pattern, shoulder pads and a leather rim to the coat. Jim grabbed the jacket by the hanger. The plastic of the dry-cleaning bag crinkling overpowering the sound of "Roxanne" from the over-head speakers. A small metallic clang sound emerged. Jim looked down to investigate. At first, Jim was confused, he knitted his eyebrows puzzling what it was as he bent over to pick up the item. It was a bullet. A bullet with a silver casing. A silver casing that had the name "James Dormer" inscribed on it in cursive lettering. He was James Dormer. What the hell? The lights in the drop ceiling flickered and died. A sharp crack pierced the darkness. The clattering of a door coming off its hinges. Fast, rapid footsteps. A dull sickening thud. Grunts and growls of a struggle. Punctuated by a bang and a sliver of light illuminating the scene. Blood.

The lights raised. Jim groaned and sighed and looked down at his blood-soaked clothes and the mass of ineffective mass at his feet that used to be another human being, "son of a bitch, not again."