Nearly five thousand, four hundred and seven kilometers of space stood between David Maxwell Duckland and Bradford. Over five thousand kilometers filled with things that crawled, swam, flew, and walked about. A city of probably nine million people with only a few friendly faces and no family.

And it was March the nineteenth. His bloody birthday.

Sledge never thought of himself as sentimental. He couldn't care less about the physical things he had as a child that had been left behind. He didn't particularly care what his family thought of him with his life of crime. There was no risk of shame that he might have caused dear old Grandmum. When Princess Di died it didn't tear him up inside. Christmas was a holiday of disappointment other than the lamb stew his mum always made.

A romantic he could picture himself being. He had pursued girls, been in love, bought into that whole Valentine's Day business, and did at one point want to have a family of his own. The idea of providing his children with a life of ease was appealing. A chance to have things go right for a change, to relive his childhood in the way that he wanted it to happen...

The point is that this was his twenty ninth birthday and Sledge kept coming back to those two facts. In those nine million people not one knew or cared that Sledge was another year older, and the ones that did were five thousand, four hundred and seven kilometers away.

Much in the way his first day in New York started, Sledge was perched at a bar. This time his stomach had not rebelled against him and he encouraged the imbibing of heavy alcohol. It was his birthday and if there was nobody around to sing "For he's a jolly good fellow", then he was just going to have to celebrate on his own. Scotch was the drink choice to start the evening of ill planned partying.

Thomas entered the bar a few moments later following a ghost. Exactly eight days and six hours previous a short Irishman entered this bar with a black duffel. That duffel held stolen rare french jewels and coins from the 17th century. The duffel, in it's entirety, was worth close to six million dollars. The FBI had no leads, he was hunting the 8% finders fee. 

What he didn't expect was for the man to walk right into the employee area. Thomas scowled. He'd been following the man for four hours through New York. After stealing the jewels in upstate New York with a women, they split up and he took the jewels, drove them down into Jersey, took the subway into manhattan, and walked half an hour to this bar. He figured the fellow didn't want to be followed, no one else could have. 

He could look through the past at ease, but when he didn't know when to look, it took time. Rushing could make him miss something important. He stepped up to the counter and started watching the door, eight days in the past. 

A bartender walked over, a cute thing of twenty or so. Black straight hair pulled back and a gaudy sequence shirt cut in a deep V-neck. "Hi! What do you want?"

 Thomas smiled. "I'm Thomas, what's your name?" He took his hat off and sat it on the mahogany counter. He slipped off his three button suit jacket and layed it on the seat to his right. 

"Caylee," she offered at once. "Have you been here before?" 

"Hello Caylee. No, first time but now I'm wishing I had. I want your best double Jameson on the rocks. I'm feeling the luck of the Irish today." He rolled up his sleeves and sat down. His shirt was Armani, light blue cotton and cut perfect. His suit vest was black, with black diagonal lines, five buttons and one pocket. He pulled out a black metal American Express Centurion card from his vest pocket and slid it forward. It was black as ink and exclusive to only the wealthiest. He liked showing it off. "And I'd like to see your menu." It had been several hours of work, lunch and a drink would do him well. 

She smiled a bit and walked off. Only then did he notice the man two seats to his left. Looked a bit like a bruiser that one. She put his drink down in front of him and reached for a menu, sheer clumsiness and wet hands fling the menu into the british mans drink. 

"Ooh," Thomas intoned, "bad luck there buddy." He lifted his drink and took a slow sip.

Sledgehammer's eyes glossed over as he twisted his glass around in his hand. This was the first birthday without any well wishing. Charlie hadn't been entirely close, but he at least said happy birthday. He missed his gangs, where he was king. A little respect went a long way, and even more was excellent. All that respect was probably to blame for his bruised ego. You get swelled head and it is going to have to burst. But no. There was a difference between arrogance and acknowledging your strong suits. A successful life of crime was definitely one of David's strong suits.

A menu that gains the ability of flight is something you would usually notice. Surely everyone in the bar had noticed it. All except for the sulking Brit who's drink served as a landing pad. The menu continued to go unnoticed until Sledge started to lift his glass for another drink. "What the hell?" he asked, staring at the obstruction. He extricated the thing and set it aside, keeping it away from his fedora.

How much had he drunk already? After thinking about it Sledge realized that if he could still count how many scotches he had, he wasn't drunk enough yet to forget about sticking a menu in his drink. The bar wasn't as lively as some of the pubs back home, but by no means was it a funeral home. Someone sticking a menu in his scotch was something that could possibly happen. It just had not seemed like it would happen when nobody had been particularly near him. Maybe it was the negative aura David excluded from his stool. Hold on a tick, there was someone nearby now. "I think this belongs to you," he said, picking the menu back up again and offering it to the newcomer.

> "I think this belongs to you," the other man said.

Thomas took the menu with a nod. The bartender had taken a step back and Thomas gave the bar a good look around. It was a classy-enough bar. Rich mahogany counter with a rounded ledge. Large flat screen TVs. Brass, wood and leather stools and seats. A well worn pool table was being used in the corner. Nine others were at the bar and twice as many sitting at tables behind him. The bar had a warmth to it, and good energy.

He eyed the employee door and considered options. He’d have to get back there. He could wave his bounty-hunter identification, but that would warn the Irishman. He could slip the bartender a hundred dollar bill, if he flirted a bit more he was sure he could get her to take her on a tour. “Tell me something guy, what’s the word on the Caylee there.”

Why the man sitting near him had his menu in David’s was a mystery. With his brain going in a slow downwards spiral Sledge wasn’t capable of thinking that it had been an accident. Sure the bar had that greasy feeling to it that he had come to connect with most alcohol serving establishments, and yes, once the party got started he was sure that a menu could very well be trying to swim in his scotch, but this man was most likely stone cold sober. You wouldn’t ask for a menu if you’re totally shitfaced. There were complimentary peanuts that you could munch on if you really wanted to soak up some of your drink of choice. “’m sorry. Not sure what you want.”

Who was Caylee? That bretty pird who he’d been pondering bringing home with him for a proper celebration? Somehow the thought of a one night stand wasn’t so appealing to him. He had never been a massive fan of them to begin with. The emotional distancing in something that was suppose to be a very personal and intimate act wore him thin. He faked emotions so much that he had to wonder if anything he felt was real or not. Given that women expected some honesty of you when a relationship took a step in an extremely close direction he didn’t feel right to lie. One night stands weren’t about having a relationship, they were about a little bit of fun that might or might not be considered immoral. Going in with messed up intentions and emotions didn’t make them fun in the end though, not for him at least. It was a combination of the morals that his mum had tried to instill in him and a negative first experience.

“What I want?” mused Thomas bemused with the drunken man’s near rudeness. Had he been sober, his words could have brought him to his feet. Still, it was an amusing question. An excellent drinking question. The waitress Caylee had just returned. “Woman and riches, sunshine and wine,” Thomas answered. “In that order.” Thomas gave the girl a friendly smile and ordered the most expensive steak on the menu. He didn’t really want steak, but he did like ordering expensive meals.

“And you sunshine?” Thomas asked the bartender. “What do you want?” She giggled a bit, made a joke about car troubles, and walked off to put the order in the computer.

“And you stranger? What is it that you want, besides the bottom of the glass of course,” Thomas said to the bruiser at his side, more snark in his voice than really necessary.

There was a direct ratio of alcohol to emotional change. The more scotch that entered the birthday Brit the less serious and grave he felt. If he was going to be creeping into a new decade then he should live it up. These were the prime years of his life. He was young, highly attractive, and thanks to his line of work well off financially. This was New York, and he had it made. What more could he possibly want other than another glass of scotch?

No doubt the next morning Sledge would regret the pub crawl. Not only because of the hangover which he knew was going to make the entire day hellish, but because of what inevitably happened every time he got sloshed. It started in his stomach, a fluttering feeling that pressed against his insides and rapidly made its way up his throat. He didn't even try to hold it back, not that he would be able to. A giggle escaped from Sledge.

Chuckling would have been fine, guys chuckle. Even laughter would be fitting. But no, with this many glasses of scotch in him David giggled like an excited little school girl. The man talking to him hadn't even said anything particularly worthy of a giggle! Somehow though the situation seemed so silly. Nobody cared that it was his birthday and yet here was a bloke who's menu had gone for a quick dip in the drink, asking what he could want.

You don't question people's desires in a bar. You don't ask people what they want at all. Maybe it was just a culture thing but in Bradford you certainly didn't go around asking people what they want. Things were more subtle. "Alright, what I want then?" Sledge asked drinking more of his scotch. The glass had been emptied another time, and he tapped the bar, signaling that he wanted yet another refill. Clearly seeing the bottom of his glass wasn't going to be an issue.

"A cake," he finally decided, goofy smile on his face. Birthdays meant cake. Even if it was a small simple pound cake his mum had always made one while he lived at home. Charlie had brought into the garage the one year a little snack cake that a candle had been wedged into.

Thomas heard the answer, nodded, and went back to his drink. He sipped at the Jameson and smiled again at the bartender. Then he started cheating. Three days in the past he could see the bartender, when she was all alone, raise the volume on the television. Apparently, when all alone or with close friends, she was a big Fox News political junkie. "Caylee, do me a favor please, mind changing the channel on one of these TVs to Fox News? I can't get through my day without a dose of patriotism."

"Oh my gawd!" the cute girl squealed, "I told someone the same exact thing just two days ago!"

"Really? That's a hell of a coincidence," Thomas lied. "I just wish they covered the war in Afghanistan more."

"Me too! My brother is over there right now!"

Thomas smiled. "Woah, you certainly have my prayers for his safe return. I was over there for a year, which makes him my brother too." He raised his glass. "To all our soldiers over there." Thomas finished his glass, and the girl absolutely beamed.

"Your next one's on me," she said as she turned around to pour him another glass.

Thomas turned briefly to the guy at his side and gave him a cocky grin. He loved cheating.

Chatting up girls was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an evening, even if you didn't plan on having a relationship, or even bringing the bird around to your flat. It was the thrill of the chase, the figuring out exactly what words and what actions worked on that infinitely complex female mind. The rules changed with every lady of course. Some had such low self image that you merely had to look in their direction to evoke a response. On the opposite end of the scale were the women who held themselves in such high regards that you had to either match their level or simply continue to fluff their ego. Even the women who said that they were down to earth never were. Ever since the days of Adam and Eve, man had tried to figure out women and failed. The best one could do is act as though you understood and convince the lady that what you wanted was what she wanted.

Man who failed in his life saving duties of the drowning menu had found his way of faking it. Sledge had heard, and most likely used, every chat up line in existence. This approach was, to Sledge at least, transparently fake. It was the same sort of vague lines that those television psychics used. While he was raised in a country where the national anthem blatantly praised the monarchy, the Yanks had a more frenzied patriotism. Ever since the nation had been attacked if you didn't fly the colors or show a certain level of xenophobia you were less of a citizen. New York City, having been the site of one of the attacks, was bound to have the remnants of extreme patriots. The war was a hot topic. Either you wanted to know what was happening because you wanted to see your country charging in and saving the day, you wanted it to end, or you had someone dear to you stuck over there. Nobody was truly apathetic towards it. Toss out a line mentioning the war and you knew what angle to play.

Sledge gave Thomas a round of applause, which meant that one hand ended up hitting more of the wrist than the other hand, failing to make a sufficient amount of noise. Having it just above a golf clap in loudness meant that his hands had kept flat, and that the alcohol was starting to affect his hand eye coordination. "Bril. Now, give 'er a line about the president and either praise the man for his initiative or bash 'im for not improving this economy. Or the price of petrol. Iffin that doesn't work, become the next John Edwards. From what I hear he's doing well taking women for a ride."