(no subject)

It's been a while since Paul Avery started living with the oxygen tank.

(Besides using it to help him breath, he hasn't done anything else that the doctors told him to.)

He spends his evenings in the bar he used to frequent while under the employ of the Chron, smoking and drinking away his miseries.

Tonight is no different. He's sitting at the bar, watching the TV.

But then - something he wasn't expecting:

"In the decade since the Zodiac's last cipher was received, every federal agency has taken a crack at decoding it. But today, where those agencies have failed, a cartoonist has defeated it. How did you do it?"
 

Avery draws a deep breath from the tank, balefully eying the screen.

He recognizes the man there. Young, full of hope and naivete. It makes him sick.

Robert Graysmith.

"Oh, just a lot of books from the library, and, uh, I love puzzles, so... I- I- I- just-"

"Then what did you ever do about it? If it was so fuckin' important,
what did you ever do? You hovered over my desk, you stole from
wastebaskets, am I being unkind? Oh, that's right, I forgot.
You went to the library."

"The fuckin' library."