demi-gods and hungry ghosts; oh god, god knows i'm not at home.
It’s a fairly pleasant summer afternoon in Grant Park, the sun’s shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. But this is Chicago and let’s face it - things are never, ever perfect here. Well, they can be. But it’s a very rare occurrence these days. The peaceful and tranquil atmosphere is utterly shattered by a loud grumble - something similar to thunder. It’s angry and only those familiar with the happenings of Chicago can really know what may just happen now.
A rift opens up, violently spitting out a man before closing up once more all in the course of mere seconds. The man falls towards the ground silently, landing with a loud splash in the fountain. However, the man doesn’t emerge from the water of the fountain. Instead he lies still under the water for a long time, eyes closed and a rather peaceful yet sombre expression on his face. But he’s not unconscious. He’s actually dead.
Well, Doyle’s not gonna be dead for much longer.
After a few minutes, he suddenly opens his eyes and panics when he finds himself underwater. With a sudden flail, he pushes himself to sit up and lets in an almighty gasp - eyes wide in confusion. He yells, hands reaching up to feel his face - there’s skin. He’s still got skin! He looks at his hands before looking down at himself, his hands running over his chest, patting here and there. He’s panting frantically. No, no... everything’s fine, just fine! Everything’s all here, no need to panic! But it’s not that easy. Looking up now, he looks about the park in a slight panic. Why is he... why’s he in.. Well, it’s not Los Angeles for certain. It seems familiar. He thinks, the fountain - he’s sure he’s seen it before. Perhaps he’s been here? He’s pretty sure he has. But... What is this? Is this down to the Powers That Be?
Clambering with a great deal of clumsiness to his feet - he looks toward the sky, his normally cheery Irish brogue filled with anger and ridicule. “What the feck’s this then, huh!? Can’t a guy die nobly these days?!” He points an accusing finger skyward, “I ain’t even got the stupid visions anymore, so quit playing around! I ain’t your agent anymore, boyos!!”
It takes a while for him to stop being so angry and realises how he should be a little more happy to be alive. He pauses; anyone watching him would find the sudden realisation almost comic. “Wait...” he looks around again, “I’m alive... I’m alive!! Jesus, I’m alive!”
It’s not your average sight. A drenched to the bone Irishman thrashing about the fountain cheering.
But then again, the narration mentions once more. This is Chicago.