“Man it’s colder than a flat frog on a February Philadelphia freeway,” he thought as he decided to take a shortcut down the alleyway. “This was a big fucking mistake,” he mumbled aloud with no one around to hear him. The snow was cutting sideways from the north and running parallel to the ground. It hit his face with a force that suddenly reminded him of the sandstorm outside of that city, that damn city with the funny four letter name…Qatr? Qasr?… in Kuwait during Operation Desert Shield back in January of, what was it, 1991? “Jesus, I’m getting old,” he thought…or did he say that out loud as well? It didn’t really matter, he just knew he had to find someplace where he could get out of this suddenly terrible blizzard he’d found himself in.
It had been years – what, maybe ten? Fifteen? – since he had been back in his 
hometown and when news that Tommy Kirk was back on the streets of Lorain, Ohio, well, let’s just say that towns like this don’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for ex-con’s with a record as long as the Old Testament.
The wind was blowing in gusts and every now and then it seemed as though the snow would completely stop and the night would become surrealistically serene, damn cold, but serene. Which is exactly what happened as he approached the entry stoop with the weird red light glowing. Tommy took a quick step up and into the door cove and pulled his hoodie back.
“S..O..T..D? What the…?” He looked back out of the doorway to his left and then to his right. He swirled back around to look at the mysterious letters on the doorway again and only then did it dawn on him.
“Holy shit,” he muttered out loud. “This is the building where Uncle George fucking died.”