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Broke, bamboozled, and bloodied. That's how Jimmy found himself out on the streets. He knew he had a little too much, he knew he let his guard down just a bit, and then they got him; the rat fucking bastards, that other Jimmy -- damn, what a funny coincidence -- and he got burned for it! Nothing to do but try and get home? Get away, anyways. His thoughts ran wild. His blood ran down his forehead and all over his face. Jimmy ran through a back alley, over a sleeping street person, away from those rat fucking bastards that were surely only a block away.
Was it a few minutes, or more like a dozen? No, he was only at Broadmoor, so he couldn't have been running for more than a few minutes. Were those guys around the corner cops? They had a little too much swagger for that, this late at night and below Manhattan's main blocks. They probably went for a more legal drug than Jimmy did. Maybe not just booze, maybe some kinda stimulants. They weren't out for Jimmy, but they gave him a bad feeling. Sometimes you gotta stand up to the paranoia, though, and remember to smoke a different strain next time; Darmstadt Dream wasn't the best for hanging with people who had it violently in for ya, so Jimmy figured. Even in the circumstances, he could learn a lesson.
Jimmy ignored the drunks, rounded the corner onto Broadmoor, and barreled down the street. 'Nother seven blocks and he could catch a lift to the main blocks. Twenty, thirty, forty yards. Eighty-eight yards and he hit Roswell, 'nother thirteen and he was past it and another eighty-eight took him to Trudeau. His hair, or a drop of blood, or a bug, passed between the corner of his eye and a streelight, and that flicker felt so menacing in the moment. Maybe paranoia could be useful, if it wasn't too much. They would still be on his trail. He was going to have to drive. Straighten up, Jimmy. Stay on this.
Six more blocks, and he was in the home stretch. Up the lift, oh god, I don't wanna deal with people right now. Nobody in the lift? Oh, thank heck. Oh, oh, oh fuck, that knee hurts, man! Jimmy realized that he really needed to take a week off from all this stuff he'd been up to lately. Once he skipped and gave the other Jimmy's goons the slip, get some peace and quiet. Get that schmoney and besides that, stay the fuck in the crib. A five minute leisurely walk to and through the parking lot as if Jimmy wasn't running for his life and didn't have a visible head wound and that cabby totally didn't just give him the strangest goddamn look and a twenty-minute drive through the perennially-crowded airways of Manhattan's capital continent later, and Jimmy was home. They knew where he lived, of course, but things weren't that serious. A week or two on the East Side would make sure that they stayed that way.
In his room, finally, Jimmy could breathe. He locked his unit's door, wiped his head off, called it good enough. Yeah, he was fucked up, but he should still take care of himself; mouthwash -- then, finally, Jimmy threw himself into bed. He stayed awake just long enough to double-check he had nowhere to be tomorrow, and think that maybe things could have been different, somehow. If he had any dreams, he didn't remember.