Number 17 Bleecker street
A man on a bicycle rode by just then, barely missing me. I watched as he rode off into the fog. There was no one else on the streets this early, damp morning. The first light had just barely crept into the sky. I kept walking, watching the numbers on the buildings as I went by, looking for number 17. Looking up, I saw the number on a rather dingy looking building. Broken windows and limp, dead vines adorned the outside, a few bullet holes and mud graced the front door. I went up the cement steps and tapped on the door, not quite fully on it's hinges. It opened slowly, creaking a low sound of protest. A blast of warm, smelly air hit me, knocking me back.
Dirt ran up and down the walls, and I noticed rats crawling all around, and lot's of flies. Making my way to the elevator, I could hear crashes, screams, then all was quiet. The elevator was slow to come. Finally it arrived, the doors opened slowly, and I stepped inside. The elevator smelled of sweat and used condoms littere...