The knock on your door was soft…unusual to hear in this town. When you opened it, there he was… Dude. With his signature black trench coat, sunglasses crooked, and the thick white bandages wrapped around his head which he got… from shooting himself with his gun because of his wife.

His face was pale, expression tired and pinched like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you with that weird blend of guilt and apathy he wore so well.

“…I’ve got a migraine the size of Arizona,” he finally muttered, voice hoarse. “Thought maybe your place would hurt less than mine.”

You stepped aside. He shuffled in like a beaten dog and dropped onto your couch with a wince, cradling his temple.