I took my usual room in the Broddingtoom Hotel, at the edge of The City proper, and settled in. But there was nothing on TV. I had an internet hookup, but nothing there interested me. I became restless and decided to go for a walk.
The City hummed with frantic life, even at night. I strolled along, enjoying the crowds, even the exhaust fumes which seemed to pervade everything. Suddenly, however, a stranger hurried up to me, pushed me back into the mouth of a dark alley, pulled a revolver from his coat pocket and waved it in my face. His eyes were wild-looking, and he growled at me: "So. So! It's you, eh? I've finally found you!"
"You must be mistaken," I said. "I don't know you, sir. I've never seen you before."
"Hah! That's a laugh," he said, waving the revolver about even more erratically. "I suppose you would say that. Well, I know you. Yes, I know you very well!"
And with that, he turned the gun upon himself and fired. He staggered away, fell half-slouched against a brick wall, his coat front and shirt blossoming in a dark splotch; his life's blood flowing out.
Very quickly the police arrived, began investigating the crime scene, questioned me. Satisfied that I was an innocent victim, one of them showed me a piece of paper he had taken from the dead man's hand. Written in the man's blood was this message: "I KNOW YOU AND THE NEXT TIME I WILL GET YOU!"
"Do you have any idea what he meant by this?" the detective asked me.
"None at all," I replied. "As I told you before, he seemed to think he knew me, but I had never seen this man until tonight."
Upon returning home, I sold my shop and retired. I have never been back to The City.