Gary pulled into the driveway of the coral colored, West Hollywood apartment building. The Crested Arms, affectionately referred to as The Crusty Arms by the heroin addicted prostitutes that used the rooms as their home-offices.

Gary sat in his car staring at the number eight stenciled on the back wall of his parking stall.

He pulled out a fifth of vodka from a paper sack. He tipped the sack over and let the six pink pawn tickets drift onto the cracked vinyl seat of his 86 Corrola. Those six tickets represented the last of his worldly possessions. He had sold it all. He had nothing left that they could take from him.

The tickets were all he had except his car, his vodka and the loaded 9mm pistol tucked in his waistband with the pawn shop sticker still on it.

He tilted back the bottle of vodka and let it slide past his tongue. The liquid heat washing away the copper taste of blood from his mouth.

He dropped the empty bottle onto the bare metal floorboard of the car and pulled out his gun.