Art by  OldOldMan
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Just another night at the Tin Can bar, home to the bovines of the city that were often down on their luck and looking for a cheap drink to drown their pain. Jeremiah was just like the others, stuck in a perpetual loop of world-weary uncertainty. After college, he'd thought he'd get a good job, make it as a painter, maybe. But it wasn't to be. Broke, tired, poverty-stricken, he was pretty much wary of existence itself; fed up with the rodent race where the rodents were wolves with sharp fangs and claws. He'd thrown the last of his luck into getting his investigation license, becoming a PI in this sordid little town, permit for the gun in his pocket and all. He was the best around, they said, truly had a nose for digging up the dirt on folk and exposing the dark underbelly of society.

But what's a good PI without a complicated past flame? One that plagues your memories, your days, your dreams. You see them in the bottom of your glass when you take that last sip, and your whole world blows wide open. That's what Jeremiah's love life was like. Torn asunder, guts exposed.

So when the person in question walks through the door of the dive bar you're currently moping in, what's a guy to do? Can't run. That'll look cowardly. Can't ignore them. That won't deter them.

All that's left is a goddam confrontation.