Rebirth

“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”
― Charles Bukowski

....

The thumb... It's what separates us from the animals. It's what he used to release the clip from the .45. The sound of cold steel on cold steel as the magazine dropped from the pistol into his other hand...

He closed his eyes and held the mag below his nose, inhaling the sweet metallic sent of the hollow points as if he were smelling a woman. Then slammed the mag home, racked the slide, and dropped the hammer. Music to his ears. Gun in hand, he stroked his mohawk from back to front before sliding the weapon into its holster. 

Warn black leather boots...

Wraparound locs...

12 inch bowie knife with bone handle...

...tools of a Rebel.

He took a long pull on the whiskey bottle, then walked out of the room. 

He was back.