Double voddy and cranz with no ice and three limes on the side of a tall glass soon catch up, and I'm suddenly shaken by a rare playing of The Cramps. Putra is there, but I don't recognize her without her wig. Caroline has greeted and now abanded me for her new boi. Gavin is a welcome face, and I'm disappointed that Tracy hasn't worn her stockings for me. Officer Ginelle graces the club like a dark Imp, and poor Herman is without his Tracy tonight. Velvet does have it's moments. Perhaps Widow will show up tonight.

I leave early, drunk and very tired. I'm still wearing my black suit from work withe my trademark "creepy stalker" black leather gloves. I've taken a lot of flak over them - the usual comment is "Are you going to kill someone?" to which I reply "Are you volunteering?". Most aren't amused by a morbid sense of humour. In fact, I enjoy the look of a Bond-esque villain, and setting out from the bar I am intent on adventure.

My first stop is the Horseshoe - a colleague of mine had promised to come by after seeing a friend's gig there. He wasn't in, but a beautiful vixen at the bar returned my overtures. I'd noticed her reading at the bar and pointedly tried to read the spine of the book. Rule 42 in the book of picking up in bars states that "Reading at the bar is a guaranteed way of ensuring that you go home to a book, rather than a member of the opposite sex". The converse is not true. Seeing someone reading at a bar, as a well-read non-member of society, is a total score.

Alexandra is reading Psychological case studies and is wary of going into details. The talk soon turns to Tom Robins and Jeanette Winterson. She hasn't read the latter. I part when her friends arrive, a kiss on her hand for good measure.

The walk East is warm, and I'm glad that I've told Boss that I'll be in after noon due to a mental health need. I meet on QWest, at University, a gaggle of students where the girls outnumber the boys 2-1. I walk quickly and part a pair of girls walking arm in arm. "You seem to be short on boys and resorting to fun amongst yourselves. May I be of assistance?" I now crook my arms and look at each with a wink. Testosterone laden lads behind start to mutter."Who's the fag in the suit and make-up?". I look at each of their women and wink. They haven't been treated like ladies in a long time, if ever. It's not often that they're approached by a dark angel in such circumstances. I leave the gaggle to play on Nathan Phillip's ice. Walking on alone I see ice sculpture.

It's sad that our clown/mayor has to be so obvious about his Olympic bid, because every sculpture seemed to hinge upon six circles... . I didn't cross the riot bariers to touch or destroy. My mark lay ahead of me. I saw that the City Court house, at the crotch of Bay and Queen, was undergoing a face-lift. I cross the street without looking at the lights. I believe that they're put there for tourists. My Mom said that you have to look both ways. A car barely misses me, but as I don't measure my time here in years and have forseen my own death, I laugh at the driver's flirtation with fate.

I really like the courthouse. I was inside of it once. Another story, and Thanatos played a part in that one. It's a beautiful, old building. The clock sings four times an hour. The doors are studded. There's a courtyard accessible from the back, where a pair of iron gates sometimes bar the public from inquiry.

The scaffolding beckons, and I initially try to jump and dead lift my drunken weight up to the first level. Loaded, in a suit, tired, I fail and walk to the other end of the walkway to scry the other side. Luck has it that Joe in the orange hard-hat has left foot-holds for me. In black suit, leather gloves and bearing the license 004, I climb. Cars slow as the secret agent scales the building, defying death and drunkenness. I am empowered.

The sad part is that there's nothing to look at. I climb six stories trying windows and peering in at darkened offices. Nothing excites me, and I'm soon climbing back down. When again on the ground (I ensure that the adventure ends with a dramatic leap and Hollywood-esque brushing off of the suit), I quickly turn and head for home. The night is drawing to a close for the intrepid agent of darkness. I have yet to break a law (or at least any that count), and retire.