This may well be my favorite tale. The tale of Jax McPhee.

He seems callous and fearless on the outside, which, unawares gives away a heart that needs love.

Black, spiked up hair, paper-thin eyebrows, tatoos, black, baggy clothes, layered red shirts and a tattered coattailed blazer. Hazel eyes that seem to prey on every young female and a hand that either ensonces a ciggarette or passes a coin.

He called a taxi one day, something completely out of his character. He'd usually prefer to walk anywhere and everywhere, by himself to scare those who seek to be scared by one like me, but this is another story altogether.

He asks his driver,

"Drop me off at the corner of Broadway. Wait for me at 10th street."

So, his driver obeys with an extra tip just for the bidding.

He gets into a fight, which was intended, but he loses, which was not intended.

"You think you are so badass, Jax. So unafraid."

And he was. What was he going to do?

"I'm gonna give you a reason to think you are badass."

"How," he asked, as if he needed one more reason.

"FUCK!"

In that second, his arm was snapped backwards. Not off, in fact, with a good chiropractor it would be back in place. Except, there wasn't one.

Blood was everywhere, and some bones had snapped.

He continued a trying fight, but was left for dead, tending to his wounds through the day and night. The problem with New York is that most of its inhabitants are so used to occurences like violence, they fail to call police.

He wrapped his arm, and twisted.

"God, I know you're out there. I know that you knew this was coming. You planned this."

With that he threw up his middle finger and spat.

"I did realize something though. Now I have a reason to be me."

He looked over and saw me.

He laughed.

"God?" He asked with a shrug.

"Listenin' to me livin' my life rather than payin' good attention to yours."

"My apologies," I bowed.