The madman came in after him, but the growling barkeep chased him out with a ball bat. Two burly dockworkers at the bar berated the barkeep for not bashing the prophet’s head.“He darkens that door again, I’ll crack his skull like a coconut,” the barkeep boasted to his beer-swilling critics. “Religious freaks like him is what’s wrong with this world.”The dockworker with a dead cigar stub in his teeth said, “Aw hell, he was probably hoping you’d kill him so he could go preach to the Rotties in Bug City.”“He ain’t gotta be dead to do that,” said the other dockworker. “Slip in any time he wants. And anyway, Rotties don’t talk, you moron. The man dies, his preaching days are over.”Draven sat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered vodka. The words of the demented prophet echoed between his ears: Your name is on the lips of the dead. Why that insane declaration should bother him so, Draven didn’t understand, but it did, and he couldn’t get the madman’s insistent voice out of his head.The barkeep set Draven’s shot down in front of him and said, “Ain’t seen you in here before.
