The Welcome

There's a man with a Fedora, a trenchcoat and a sax by the streetlight.

His eyes are closed but his melody suggests he's seen his share.

His share of life, that is.

The moody blues with the almost musing somehow highlighted "solos" meshes just fine with the sunset.

The setting sun casts a shadow on half of him, the embodiment of all the controversies of his musc and appearence, maybe even his thoughts...

Suddenly, he stops, lets out a whistle and brushes the sweat from his eyebrows.

He notices you.

He smiles, The name's Ivor,kid,welcome to this part of the desert.He goes on to tell you that in this little part of hell, staring that long at a man can bring you trouble faster than the crow flies, you're lucky he was off at his world.

You apologize, and offer your name and some money in return.

He brushes your hand aside, tells you money ain't an issue, if it were, he'd have robbed you blind by now, he'll take the name though, information is power in these lands.Much like everywhere else he adds, almost to himself.

You're tired, and he seems trustworthy as long as he doesn't have more to gain by not being.

So you ask him for a place to stay, your trip was exhausting.

He tells you the Stinky Rat's the place for you,maybe because there's no other inn in town!

You thank him and head along his index finger when he says, like an afterthought while the sax is almost at his lips: take care kid, you're gonna need it.

At last, your journey had ended.

Maybe only started, who knows?