He shift-stuttered down to the fisherman’s warf, streetlight’s malarial fingers reaching down from skyward, casting sick silhouette shadows from him as he went. The shadows knew how to dance, though he was certain nightclub vampires had decided he couldn’t — he envied the ghosts cast from his tormented shape and their ability to both draw smiles from the bloodthirsty and for the moves he could only mime when the music thrummed in his bowls and groin.

None of the times he’d trod these dock had he’d seen a fisherman in the Greek wool caps decorated with braid on brim. Nor anyone bringing fish to dock after high seas or in competition with orca whales. He was probably either too late in the past or too early now, though it approached the witching hour as he shambled along. The sole convenience store had sold him snuff when he was still almost a tourist, a newcomer. Maybe the fisher king did reside here.

He wished he had some snuff now; perhaps it would chase away the writhing shapes pouring from the honeycomb brickwork now, moray eels looking to taste his mind. Instead, he shook his katana, still sheathed, red tassels threatening the mouths and hands reaching for him.