That might be why God came to him for help. Head down, his hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched, the big man plowed through the cold wind. The weak street lamps threw everything into black and white. Casting shadows across the tight brownstone houses. The desolate road sparkled with an early mist as his boot steps echoed off the parked cars. Landon Marshall was pissed, never a good thing. He spit into the gutter, trying to rid this feeling of pent up frustration. He'd just lost his job. He had forty two dollars and his last condom in his wallet, and the landlord’s final notice sitting on the kitchen table at home. Things couldn’t get much worse. Of course, every time he had thought that in the past, he’d been proven wrong. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal. Some punk had been hassling a girl, barely old enough to be in there legally. Landon being Landon had told him to back off. The idiot, not liking being told what to do by a mere bartender, took a swing.
