Ah, the rank, putrid, vile streets of the French Quarter. I love them. I knew these corners all too well. For over 60 years Louis and Claudia and I walked these streets each night, lurking, as the beasts we were, around every corner, to snatch some young gambler or prostitute from the drab painful existance of mortal life, and into the arms of sleep. I knew all to well the grand facade of the St. Louis cathedral, and the crowds that would gather, hudled with their candles, to enter the mass. I knew all to well the French Market, with it's fruits and vegetables on one end, giving this swamp city and almost tropical feel, and with it's wares on the other. Small time vendors trying to hagle you into purchasing some knick-knack, some worthless little peice of metal. It's the same today as it was 150 years ago.