Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

- Robert Frost.

PROLOGUE

The music playing over the speakers were tasteless. The laughter wafting from the bar echoed one of desperation and loneliness. The smell of second-hand smoke wafting through the humid atmosphere did nothing to alleviate the cheapness of the bar, with its shabby walls and cigarette-burn stained floors. The dim lighting that was supposed to create an atmosphere of sinful seduction did nothing but cast big blobs of shadows disproportionately around the room. A drunk in the far corner stumbles, falling flat on his face. I heard the crack of his wrist as he clumsily broke his fall and the almost-silent groan that followed seconds later. A cluster of five semi-decent looking college students huddled around a pool corner, exchanging crude jokes. A petite woman, sobbed, blowing her nose as her friends frantically struggled to reassure her that her fiancé had not cheated. Six underage girls giggled loudly in the adjacent corner, sloshing their eighth rum-and-Coke around and peered through their heavily-mascared eyes to observe a rugged, handsome, recently-released prison inmate staring morosely at his hands. Seedy looking bald, middle-aged men ogled the young girls as older, fluorescently-clothed prostitutes, caked with too much foundation in the wrong shade, wiggled eagerly in their generous laps. Outside, the wail of a siren in the distance growing closer and closer goes unnoticed. The bad music continued to pound over the speakers and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him arrive. Easily distinguishable in his casual, clean t-shirt and jeans attire, he sauntered into the bar and scanned the surroundings before deeming it safe enough to relax. For a split second, I allowed a malicious smile to settle on my face. Gotcha, I thought happily. An audible gasp broke my observation and I turned to see a fat woman, still wearing her marital ring; staring at me, oblivious to the fact that her too-tight sparkly silver dress was in mortal danger of splitting at the seams. Dismissing her, I resumed watching him with renewed concentration; he strolled up the counter and I heard a rip not too far away behind me. A wry chuckle escaped my lips, attracting his attention and every other patron in the entire bar. Silence reigned for an entire minute before the bartender finally announced ran through everyone else’s mind.

“Wow. You’re hot.”

Turning to smile at him sweetly, I replied with great glee, “Fate has a sadistic sense of humour. She makes them pretty and she also makes them psychopaths with neat party tricks.”

Before anyone could form a coherent “Huh?” from their gaping mouths, I flashed: disappearing from the bar in front of roughly thirty-six partially sober witnesses and found myself sprawled on my four-poster waterbed, bubbling with laughter. Imogen, you sure know how to make an entrance, I thought as I continued to convulse.