"Your first task for me–" His nimble fingers, each pointed like it's nothing but bone sharpened to a narrow tip, drift over her collarbone and neck. Miriam has a tiny daydream in which her hands break free and (like she's the Bride of the Incredible Hulk) she brings the shower-head down out of the wall, burying it into the Hairless Fucker's shiny dome. "Is to tell me how I die."

She hawks a looger, spits it at his eye. Bullseye. "No."

He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"I know that all it takes is skin on skin," he says.

Then he grabs her chin with vice-grip fingers –

Reggaeton bangs a dull Dem Bow beat from the back of a nightclub; the alley is awash in long shadows and the fringe glow of neon from the street. Hairless emerges from those long shadows alone, no Harriet, no Frankie.

Pastel pink suit, black shoes, mirrored shades despite the midnight hour.

His face is marked by deeper lines. Even his scalp is starting to tighten with time, as this is seven years – almost eight, really – into the future.

His black shoes step onto a set of metal steps heading into the back door of the club.

Hairless's gaze flicks imperceptibly: A big black sonofabitch, skin as dark as volcanic glass, emerges from behind a dumpster. Mister Midnight's got a black vest on, open to the front, showcasing an oiled, sweat-slick chest with little afro-puffs of hair dotting the obsidian flesh.

The door at the top of the stairs opens a crack but no more.

Mister Midnight walks without a sound. He's on the steps. One tremendous foot after the other, coming up behind Hairless.

Hairless pretends not to notice.

When Mister Midnight makes his move, the Hairless Fucker is ready.

The big sonofabitch pulls a curved blade, a kukri, out of nowhere. It comes down on Hairless, or that's what it's supposed to do. Instead, it kisses air as Hairless deftly pivots and presses himself back against the railing.

A flash of metal. Hairless's hand dances (a painter's hand).

A straight razor in his grip draws quick Xs across Mister Midnight's exposed chest.

But the big sonofabitch isn't taking it. His elbow crashes against Hairless's wrist. The straight razor spirals away, hits the metal steps, clang, and is gone.

At the top of the steps, the back door to the club creaks open. The beat grows louder.

With his two long-fingered hands, Hairless grabs Mister Midnight's head the way one might hunker down to eat a too-big burger. And eat he does. He bites the big sonofabitch's nose, the cheek, the jaw. He wrenches his head side to side. Blood spatters the wall and steps.

Mister Midnight screams.

Then, two gunshots.

Someone has emerged onto the top of the steps. A spindly drug addict with a knit cap pulled low and meth craters pocking his cheeks.

A .38 snubnose in his hand blows lazy smoke. Two roses of blood bloom on Hairless's back as he lets go of Mister Midnight. The big sonofabitch, clutching his raw meat face, starts to go down – and, as he does, Hairless effortlessly snatches the curved kukri from the man's failing grip.