Switch

On a bitterly cold but bright day in 1917 something strange happened. Apparently.But that has absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand goddamit.Some years later, a tall man with a hat and a scowl walked down a road in whitechapel, london. Completely alone but for the clicking of hard heels on cobblestones, his heart attached itself firmly to the nearest available sleeve. The garment in question was owned and loved by another, lighter man, who was known simply as _______. Of surly disposition and dubious dress, he sat in a low-ceilinged public house, drinking with determination. The low scudding clouds mirrored his mood well, and he half smirked, almost enjoying his utter dissatisfaction with life, knowing as he did that it wouldn't last too long to be unbearable. In the middle distance the pealing of bells, muddied and strangled by mist, brought some slight, disconcerting sense of occasion to the events unfolding before him. Who was this tall stranger, seemingly so familiar though patently alien, with the apportement of a man well bred, wearing a hat befitting an undertaker or a reveller at a masqerade. _______looked at first at his sleeve, the glistening cardioid mass newborn onto his cuff, and then up at the man who had fixed it there. "Why?" he asked, without a trace of emotion, much less surprise, showing in his voice. The stranger replied almost inaudibly: "Switch?". Suddenly an almost tangible atmosphere of morbid festivity, like a wake held for hundreds, smeared the dirty skyline red, and irrepressable dark rhythms seemed to emanate from every dark alleyway, sewer, canal and unlit street in the city. "Yes. You have found me."