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Jack Watson sat in a booth at a small diner. He didn't know the name of the diner. He didn't know how he had arrived there, or why he was there. Jack didn't know what day or time it was, but to Jack everything seemed normal. He sat there, drinking his steaming hot coffee. Outside the rain blanketed the Earth. The pitch black night was occasionally pierced by bright flashes of lightening. The diner was dead quiet. Nothing seemed odd to Jack, so he lifted up his newspaper and stared at the second page.

The seat across the table creaked. Jack lowered his newspaper. A man was sitting in Jack's booth. His head was lowered and the brim of his old, tattered baseball cap covered his eyes. The man wore dirty jacket, wet from the rain. He sat hunched over the table, with the posture of a man with nothing left to live for. He simply sat there, not speaking a word.

The man looked up at Jack, shadow still hiding most of his face. He pulled his hands out from underneath the table revealing the .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver he had brought with him. Jack thought of it. He simply raised his newspaper in front of his face and continued staring at the page. Jack lowered the paper once more just enough to peek over the edge. The man was pointing the gun at Jack. Jack raised the paper back up to his face. BANG!

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