I met them down town.
I was waiting for my bus, together with an old lady, a couple of students and a blind guy.
The day had been satisfactory. No problems at work, and not as cold as it could have been.
One of them found my gait funny or, more probably, ridiculous.
He taunted me, and that was his first mistake.
I slowly approached him and bending over a bit I told him:
'You don't know me, do you?'
The guy seemed surprised, for sure he didn't expect my reaction.
I was calm but crisp.
'No, I don't know you' he replied, and he was still full of arrogance and impudence.
That was his second and last mistake.
'Then don't waste your bonus. You don't want to know me, number 27'.
Then I looked at his mates.
'Neither you want, number 28 and number 29'.
I smiled at them.
They didn't follow my advice.
Once more they offended me - I didn't insist, that wasn't an error, it was just a last wish - and then they left as impertinent and ignorant as they had come.
The following day, they were on the newspaper.
James Potter, Paul Hill, David Robertson, found dead in their apartments, with a single lead bullet in the head.
This is the story of Numbers 27, 28 and 29.
PS: I miss you, my dear friend.