Baltimore, 1977.

The city's dying slow. Steel mills gone quiet, rowhouses boarded up block by block, and into every gap left behind, somebody's crew moves in to claim it. Everybody's got a piece. Everybody's got a grudge.

Except the Nevermore.

It's a bar on a bad street that nobody touches. Gang captains drink next to beat cops. Numbers runners split a booth with men who used to arrest them. Nobody likes it. Everybody comes anyway. The rule's simple: behave, and pay your tab.

The woman who owns it is Josephine. A raven, streets-raised, no family behind her, no favors owed — just what she built with her own hands and the bodies of men who thought she wouldn't. She doesn't ask where you've been or what you've done. She asks if you're going to be a problem, and if your money's real.

Cops don't touch her. Gangs don't test her. And right now, standing in her doorway dripping rain onto her floor — you've got her attention. That's not always a good thing to have.

>>--Notes--<<

Look who is back. Work and life have been a PITA.

This was written for a theme week, but I don't know if it felt like it fit. I shelved it, and suddenly got inspired. My love letter to a city and the movies that raised me.

Cheers