On the 29th of June in the year 1613, at The Globe Theatre in London, a cannon lit the entire place ablaze, ruining a perfectly good play and sending people a running for the exits. Jack, a ruggedly handsome man in his late twenties, did his best to help as many people out as he could before the heat and smoke became too much for him to bear, forcing him to rush out into the streets to get some fresh air, though one could hardly have called the air in London all that fresh during those years.
Fortunately for everyone inside, they all got out in plenty of time so as not to be harmed in any way other than psychologically, though in that day and age, no one knew what the hell that term meant. Jack watched with extreme curiosity as the timber building burned asunder, considered in great depth what he had seen only moments before that was so rudely interrupted by the volatile mix of a firing cannon and untreated wood. It was “Henry The Eighth”, a damn good play, and he sure as hell would liked to have seen the rest of it. Alas, he was willing to take whatever entertainment he could get, and all things considered, watching a building burn to the ground wasn’t all that bad of a second choice.
Something about the fire amused Jack, enticed him, captured his attention. Once he realized it could have killed him, it shook him to the core. Of course, he got over that rather quickly once he realized how thirsty he was. So he wrapped up that particular segment of the night’s entertainment, and went to a local pub to entertain himself even further whilst imbibing an ale or two, or seven or eight as was usually his routine.
* * *
— Excerpt from “The Tales Of Jack & Lexxy”, the history of Jack and his life of crazy-ass adventures…
THE SUICIDAL IMMORTAL 