Black Heart and Mr. Lucky sit with three barstools in-between them at The Full Moon Saloon-both of them regulars from back when you could buy a shot with a blowjob. But The Full Moon Saloon like everything else in the neighborhood has surrendered to gentrification and with a bright new neon sign, is now called The Collins Bar.

Mr. Lucky flashes me his jacket full of watches and half-heartedly jive talks me, knowing that with my college education I won’t mistake his trinkets for gold when without warning the front door opens and some GUY stumbles in with a knife sticking out of his back. For the first time that morning, Blackheart’s face shows signs of animation; he grins, twitches, smiles and exuberantly puts down his beer. “Now this is the shit I’m talkin’ about! This is The Full Moon Saloon!” Mr. Lucky exclaims, ecstatic at this apparition from the past. The Guy With The Knife In His Back stumbles up to the bar and grabs one of the stools separating the two customers.

I dial 911 as the men, suddenly selfless with duty, hand the Guy With The Knife In His Back their Budweisers and shots of well whiskey.

He gulps them all down thirstily, nodding his thanks and bleeding all over the bar. I can’t say no to a round on the house and for the first time think that maybe a Disneyfied Times Square isn’t such a bad idea after all.