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He sat alone in the semi-light of predawn listening to an old Dylan album playing over and over again on the juke box.  The beer bottle in his hand was nearly empty, room temperature and flat from where he'd nursed it through the night.  It was an ancient ritual from a slightly happier time that seemed removed now by eons.  He was thirty-two, unremarkable looking in the early morning haze with his three day beard and dirty clothes.  His eyes were glassy as they struggled to find focus on something beyond the tangible world around him.  What he was looking for was a memory, a name from his past that seemed determined to elude him yet again.  What had it been?  Nothing.  A face then, some physical manifestation of that person perhaps?  The memory was there, lurking down some dimly lit mental avenue in shades of gray that mocked him.  A voice, distorted and distant called out with words as unclear as anything else in the hazy landscape swirling through his mind.  The song begins to skip.  He hurls the near empty bottle, shattering it against the jukebox's side.  The record skips again with an unintelligible screech before the needle finds its track.  A harmonica wails into the night around him.

A bar, some honky-tonk dive outside of town with a grinning cowboy holding a noose over the door for a sign.  The Judge?  No.  The Gallows?  The Hangman!  That was it.  Looking through the loop of the rope hanging over the front door of the doublewide trailer turned bar off the main road into town he was starting to remember what it was he had been looking for.  Blue eyes or maybe green that had reflected something so perfect, had meant something important to him once.  A perfume, something common that seemed so spectacular on her skin.  Vanilla and lavender with an underlying hint of something... rank.  He struggled up from the lawn chair staring out the front door.  If I'm doing this, he told himself internally, I'm gonna' need another beer.  He staggered around the bar, ignoring the broken glass and dried crimson stains across the laminate floor.  He reached into the cooler near the cash register and fumbled for his brand.  Popping the top he took a deep, satisfying swig of the amber bitterness that had sustained him for the last few nights and stumbled back to his seat in front of the bar.  He tripped over the shotgun propped against the chair.  It clattered into the floor and he was happy to leave it where it was.

Amber.  Her name was Amber.  Now, why was that so important?  There were pictures on a corkboard by the door, an album of sorts for the regulars.  The sun was shining its first orange rays through the shattered windows now, bringing new life to the old stills.  Most were drunks, biker babes and men with scruffy beards and dirty clothes.  One picture stood out though.  A pretty girl with red hair and glasses.  Her shirt had something witty written across the front but he was too far to make it out.  She was smiling, happy with a man's arms wrapped around her waist.  They were big arms that looked familiar with a scar running from the middle finger on one hand all the way up to the elbow.  He looked down at his right hand, holding his beer and matched the scar with the one in the picture.  He shook his head and took another swig of beer.  The cooler was broken.  There was no other reason he could see why all the beer should be so damned warm.

He could see them now through the front door.  Three silhouettes staring back at him from the street, waiting quietly as they watched him.  A man, a woman and something a bit more ambiguous.  He took another sip and let the bottle drop in the floor beside his gun.  It had been morning, he remembered that much clearly.  Amber was with him in the back where they lived.  He stepped into the front, getting ready to open up for lunch.  Times were getting rough and plenty of people liked getting an early start on Happy Hour.  He was mopping the floor when the old man staggered through the door.  Amber had screamed and then... it was black.  He couldn't remember anything else.  He reached over where the shotgun had been and grabbed the empty air.  Reaching lower he fumbled along the stock until he had a grip.  They were moving towards the door now, slow and slouching.  The woman was in the lead.  Her hair was dirty, matted and red.

Racking the shotgun he pointed it out the door.  He closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger.  He couldn't bear the thought of what he was about to do.  The gun clicked in his hand.  He racked it again, ejecting an empty shell into the floor.  That left him with just one.  Dylan was still singing in the background, Knocking on Heaven's Door.  She was getting closer now, staggering her way across the parking lot.  He placed the barrel under his chin and sighed.  Looping his thumb around the trigger he tried again.  Nothing.  He turned around and swung it at the juke box, smiling as the glass shattered and the music stopped.  He stepped out onto the front porch of the old trailer.  It had been a great little bar, a fantastic idea once.  Now, it was just another bad memory in a world that had become a nightmare.  Amber was limping up the stairs now.  Her shirt was stained in the same shade of maroon that had covered the floor near the bar.  Her eyes weren't blue anymore and her glasses had been shattered and lost days ago.  In the distance he saw a hundred more just like her, limping their way slowly towards The Hangman.

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