I hope this works for you OP! I’m using a very odd blend of Marvel-canon conditioning efforts, minimal knowledge of Marvel’s vast comic backstories, and Cassandra Cain from DC because she is my favorite unsuccessful killing machine. Matt and Foggy will remain the central characters but the Avengers set up camp, so there is a strong side of “all Avengers adopt Foggy Nelson.” The timeline is MCU but warped for author pleasure. It also is still in progress and likely to need touch-ups when I eventually de-anon and AO3 this beast.
My centre is giving way, my right is in retreat; situation excellent. I shall attack — Marshal Foch, WW1
Situation Excellent
Foggy Nelson was quite aware that he was a dead man. He previously had been feeling a little dead on the inside but that was just a hazard of working for Landman and Zack and feeling like one of the bad guys. He had been walking back toward his apartment too late at night after checking too much precedent. Foggy had only made it a block away from the office before two impressively large men grabbed one elbow each and dragged him into an alley. One of them had a gun drawn and pointed straight at his face before Foggy had the sense to yell for help.
Foggy had his back against a dirty brick wall. The dumpster six feet to his left stank as if a sewer had been emptied into it and then set on fire. The gun, though… No one had pointed a gun at him before and he couldn’t focus on anything else. He tried to distract himself with the feeling of crumbled brick behind his head or the way that his cell phone was still in his back pocket. He couldn’t even muster annoyance that both of the men were wearing cheap black polyester suits that may or may not be improved with tailoring. All he could see was the black space in the barrel.
“Don’t turn your head,” the man without the gun growled. “Just look straight ahead and maybe you’ll live through this.”
‘Maybe’ wasn’t very comforting. For once, though, Foggy managed to hold his tongue. He nodded once and kept looking at the gun. Even if he wanted to cause trouble, it was well past sunset and there wasn’t all that much light in the alley. He had also watched enough detective stories to wish that both thugs were wearing masks. These two didn’t care if he remembered their faces.
“Good evening.” The speaker was a male with the sort of diction that only came out of expensive speech lessons or spectacularly good control. He was somewhere closer to the street than Foggy’s part of the alley with the burned-out light. “You’ve made quite a few copies lately. I would like to know who asked you to become involved.”
Foggy dutifully kept his gaze forward while he tried to puzzle out what the man wanted. Not one piece of this led to happy thoughts about going home and locking his door behind him but they were not going to accept the truth. All he could do was try to puzzle out what they wanted without making anyone feel that he knew too much. If they didn’t want him to put pieces together they really shouldn’t dangle a puzzle in front of a lawyer and threaten to murder him over Xerox habits.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Foggy replied finally. His voice wasn’t quite as steady as he would like but it was a decent effort for having a gun aimed at his face.
The man’s voice didn’t sound one touch different. “I think otherwise, Mr. Nelson. Tell me where you sent the copies.”
Foggy’s decision tree didn’t have a single promising branch. If he answered truthfully, the men probably wouldn’t believe him and might kill him. If he lied, he might get the answer wrong and they might kill him. It wasn’t helping his case that they had yet to explain one thing about who would be angry with him or why someone cared about his use of the office copier. He was one of the primary suspects to be signed into the copier, maybe, but that was because it was a particularly glitch-prone model that hummed along for him better than some company repairmen. Marci had been the first to work out that he was faster than calling the manufacturer. She’d sold out that knowledge to the secretary pool and earned both of them a little more respect from the secretaries and paralegals all at once.
Marci still called him most often. Maybe it was because sometimes she’d invite him over for dinner after they worked on a project together. Maybe it was because he didn’t hit on her when she wasn’t in the mood. Maybe it was because she’d been copying all kinds of things in the last week and a half with odd formatting and poor contrast that stretched the capabilities of their copier. Marci hadn’t wanted him to look at a single paper but had given in after two hours with no progress. She’d run out to get him bagels in thanks while he carefully did not read the forms he was replicating.
If they knew he was making copies, they might be clever enough to sort out that Marci’s secret project had made her nervous. Foggy wasn’t particularly likely to survive giving them the information but any lawyer worth a billable hour knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear. If it meant that Marci would be safe… well, that would at least make his death mean something.
Whatever Marci was doing, she was working against the kind of people that threatened attorneys in an alleyway and didn’t even try bribery before breaking out a handgun. Marci was doing a good deed for someone, whoever that was, and Foggy was not going to be the reason she was caught out.
As satisfying as trying Die Hard out would be, though, that might not ring true for Foggy Nelson, Attorney at Corporate Futility. Drama club it was. Foggy feigned a glance to the right and the mysterious figure before flinching back toward the front even before the unarmed brute could force him back into place. “He said that no one would know!” Foggy blurted out. His full-body tremor wasn’t feigned. If he didn’t do this right, he’d be dead and Marci would have no warning.
The thug with the gun was steady. The gun hadn’t moved and his finger wasn’t curled on the trigger. The other man looked ready to give Foggy a moment
“We just need you to tell us who that is,” the unseen man said soothingly. “It’s a rather personal affair. It wasn’t fair for someone to have you do all the work and not tell you why.”
If Foggy ever had the chance to apologize, he would, but he couldn’t think of any other company that could keep their people safe. “I don’t know his name.” Foggy let the words burst forward with a hint of slur from the rapid pace. Both his drama teacher and debate coach would have yelled at the abysmal attention to his consonants. The thug without the gun took half a step back. “He had a prototype StarkPhone, though. That clear kind? And we met at a coffee shop near Stark Tower once. But that’s all I know!”
“Surely you noticed something else, Mr. Nelson,” the voice coaxed. “Hair color, skin tone…”
“Dark blonde hair. Short, not really styled,” Foggy improvised quickly. “White guy. I mean, I think? He looked Caucasian. He wore sunglasses all the time and a pretty nice suit. He didn’t talk like a usual lawyer but he knew what he wanted. Said that he could do me a couple favors back.”
“Excellent. I’ve always known attorneys to be observant.” The voice had shifted to a soft, friendly tone that made it seem they were all meeting by choice. “Was there anyone else in the firm that could give us a description?”
Foggy met the man’s pretense of kindness with a stammered lie of his own. All the voice wanted to know if they needed to drag anyone else from the firm into an alleyway. “He always wanted to meet alone. Never near Landman and Zack. I thought it was just so that people wouldn’t realize we’d been in contact when I needed to collect that favor.”
“I see. Well, thank you for the information, Mr. Nelson.”
The man without a visible gun turned toward the entrance of the alley. He nodded after a moment then turned back to look at Foggy. Everything seemed to stop as they listened to the sound of footsteps growing quieter. If it hadn’t been so quiet and if Foggy hadn’t been listening so closely to the sound of dress shoes against the pavement, he never would have heard the faint impact.
He didn’t understand just what the sound was at first. There was a muffled sound like two footsteps close together and then the man with a gun no longer had his gun. The handgun went flying and before it landed the thug was on the ground after two swift punches to the jaw and being shoved headfirst into the alley’s brick wall. The gun impacted the wall with a loud clatter and then rebounded under the dumpster. The other man barely had time to get his hands up and try to land a hit on the new arrival.
Even Foggy could see that the second thug didn’t have a chance. He was facing a tornado of black-clad limbs that dodged every last punch. The thug couldn’t say the same. He couldn’t keep his defensive pose with all of the kicks and punches that circumvented his attempts at blocking. Foggy could barely make out details in the dim alley but he could tell that almost every inch of the new arrival was covered in black. Black shoes, black jumpsuit, black gloves, black mask over the top half of his face. The small amount of skin available showed a pale, angular jawline with a mouth showing very little expression for a man beating someone into unconsciousness.
The previously-armed man regained his feet just as the other man slumped to the ground. The man in the mask repeated his earlier fast jabs at the man’s jaw. That time, the thug went down and didn’t scrabble back to his feet.
Foggy had been able to hear footsteps and the rasp of a shoe against concrete just minutes before. Faced with the man in the mask, all he could hear was his own rapid breathing and his pulse thudding in his ears. Muscular men with guns and threats and questions about Marci’s case made sense. This man didn’t.
As Foggy watched, the man seemed to get smaller. His shoulders hunched in and he bowed his head as he shuffled closer.
Foggy knew that nothing of his spike of terror showed on his face. He didn’t think he had even settled on an expression so much as frozen in a grimace just like his mom had always warned him. The man still stopped and slumped forward even more pointedly.
“Not very talkative, I guess?” Foggy’s voice sounded weak and shaky even to him. “You’re… I’ll guess that if you wanted to hit me, you’d hit me.” There was no way that he could stand up to the vicious assault the man had dealt out.
The man nodded jerkily before shaking his head. He rubbed at the edge of his mask with his gloved right hand before snapping the hand to rest over his throat before shaking his head again.
Foggy let himself take a very deliberate breath in and then out. That almost helped so he repeated that trick several times before speaking again. “You can’t talk?”
The man nodded. From what Foggy could see of his face, the frown eased slightly.
“You helped me, though. I don’t know why you did but thank you,” Foggy said seriously. Any ideas about game theory and decisions made no sense anymore. None of his frame of reference involved mysterious ninjas that appeared out of nowhere and took down two men that were each double his size. Outside of the fight, his ninja seemed to be rather shy.
The man’s face tilted toward Foggy. There was a trace of a smile before he turned away again.
“My name is Foggy. Foggy Nelson,” he said, shakily offering his hand. The man didn’t even glance up. Foggy tried to play it off as if he had reached forward for some reason other than an unreturned handshake. “Can you… I need to call you something.”
At that, the man stood straighter and pulled at the zipper of the jumpsuit-like outfit he was wearing. Foggy was trying to not call it a catsuit but the only comparison that came to mind was that his rescuer was wearing a slightly looser version of the Black Widow’s usual gear. It was a black full-body coverall in an odd half-shiny fabric with a black zipper down the front. The shirt under the coverall was black as well. Even the dogtag he tugged out for inspection was a matte black.
Foggy wasn’t an expert by any means but he’d seen a few dogtags before. His grandfather had been a World War II veteran and he and all the rest of the grandkids occasionally got their uncle to talk about the Vietnam War. He knew to expect a number and maybe a few other details as well as a name.
The man in black only had a single line of stamped characters on the single dogtag.
DD 19-64 was all it said.
Foggy looked from the dogtag cupped in his shaking palm to the calm man waiting expectantly. Foggy took another few deep breaths. They didn’t seem to help.
“Is this your name?” he asked hesitantly. There weren’t enough breaths in the world to help Foggy cope when the man nodded. “Can I call you Deedee for now?” Foggy asked as he tucked the dogtag back where it had been.
The man nodded again. He didn’t seem bothered that his name was an alphanumeric Star Wars would have turned down or that Foggy was shortening the string of characters further. Deedee carefully settled the tag in the center of his chest before zipping the coverall back.
“Right. Deedee, I am very grateful that you saved my life, but I think that I should not be in this alley for long. If you ever need a favor from me… well, I am not nearly as useful as you, buddy, but anytime you want a drinking buddy or free legal advice I’m your man. I’m also decently handy anytime you find an apartment and need it fixed up.”
Deedee made another of those odd nearly-smiles where only the very corners of his mouth seemed to move.
“Personally I’m going to go get all the cash I can out of an ATM and try to find a safe place to stay.” Foggy wasn’t sure what made him think of it but he wasn’t sure just where a man in black and a half-face mask would spend the night. “Are you… do you have somewhere to go?”
The man nodded before pointing up. When Foggy reflexively glanced up, he had an excellent view of the man launching himself up off of the putrid blue dumpster and onto the lowest level of a fire escape. He’d scaled halfway to the roof in the time it took Foggy to realize that he’d found another contender for Spider-Man.
“Thank you!” Foggy called quietly. He wasn’t sure if the man would hear him but Deedee turned back his way and made a last jerk of a nod before vanishing up over the rooftop. For his part, Foggy stumbled to the closest ATM and took out all the money that his previous caution would allow. He’d put a cap on ATM withdrawals in case he’d been mugged. He hadn’t expected that he would be on the run in New York City from an unknown adversary with $300 and change from his morning coffee order.
Whatever luck had brought the man in the mask to the alley hadn’t ended with his odd rescuer. He nearly ran into the path of a taxi with his eagerness to catch a ride. There were an unprecedented two taxis available and the first pulled over very pointedly, leaving the second to drive on in search of a fare. Foggy’s driver indulgently agreed to take him out of Hell’s Kitchen and filled in a one-sided conversation assuming that Foggy was drunk and looking for a little feminine company less choosy than he’d found. He was very agreeable about looking for company on a limited budget, even, and promised he knew just the place. Foggy managed to keep his mouth shut except to agree that he would like a cash-only hotel. That had the cab driver laughing before promising not to tell a soul. With a cheerful wave, the cabbie left Foggy in front of a disgusting-looking hotel and told him to have a great night.
Fill: Situation Excellent 1/?
My centre is giving way, my right is in retreat; situation excellent. I shall attack — Marshal Foch, WW1
Situation Excellent
Foggy Nelson was quite aware that he was a dead man. He previously had been feeling a little dead on the inside but that was just a hazard of working for Landman and Zack and feeling like one of the bad guys. He had been walking back toward his apartment too late at night after checking too much precedent. Foggy had only made it a block away from the office before two impressively large men grabbed one elbow each and dragged him into an alley. One of them had a gun drawn and pointed straight at his face before Foggy had the sense to yell for help.
Foggy had his back against a dirty brick wall. The dumpster six feet to his left stank as if a sewer had been emptied into it and then set on fire. The gun, though… No one had pointed a gun at him before and he couldn’t focus on anything else. He tried to distract himself with the feeling of crumbled brick behind his head or the way that his cell phone was still in his back pocket. He couldn’t even muster annoyance that both of the men were wearing cheap black polyester suits that may or may not be improved with tailoring. All he could see was the black space in the barrel.
“Don’t turn your head,” the man without the gun growled. “Just look straight ahead and maybe you’ll live through this.”
‘Maybe’ wasn’t very comforting. For once, though, Foggy managed to hold his tongue. He nodded once and kept looking at the gun. Even if he wanted to cause trouble, it was well past sunset and there wasn’t all that much light in the alley. He had also watched enough detective stories to wish that both thugs were wearing masks. These two didn’t care if he remembered their faces.
“Good evening.” The speaker was a male with the sort of diction that only came out of expensive speech lessons or spectacularly good control. He was somewhere closer to the street than Foggy’s part of the alley with the burned-out light. “You’ve made quite a few copies lately. I would like to know who asked you to become involved.”
Foggy dutifully kept his gaze forward while he tried to puzzle out what the man wanted. Not one piece of this led to happy thoughts about going home and locking his door behind him but they were not going to accept the truth. All he could do was try to puzzle out what they wanted without making anyone feel that he knew too much. If they didn’t want him to put pieces together they really shouldn’t dangle a puzzle in front of a lawyer and threaten to murder him over Xerox habits.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Foggy replied finally. His voice wasn’t quite as steady as he would like but it was a decent effort for having a gun aimed at his face.
The man’s voice didn’t sound one touch different. “I think otherwise, Mr. Nelson. Tell me where you sent the copies.”
Foggy’s decision tree didn’t have a single promising branch. If he answered truthfully, the men probably wouldn’t believe him and might kill him. If he lied, he might get the answer wrong and they might kill him. It wasn’t helping his case that they had yet to explain one thing about who would be angry with him or why someone cared about his use of the office copier. He was one of the primary suspects to be signed into the copier, maybe, but that was because it was a particularly glitch-prone model that hummed along for him better than some company repairmen. Marci had been the first to work out that he was faster than calling the manufacturer. She’d sold out that knowledge to the secretary pool and earned both of them a little more respect from the secretaries and paralegals all at once.
Marci still called him most often. Maybe it was because sometimes she’d invite him over for dinner after they worked on a project together. Maybe it was because he didn’t hit on her when she wasn’t in the mood. Maybe it was because she’d been copying all kinds of things in the last week and a half with odd formatting and poor contrast that stretched the capabilities of their copier. Marci hadn’t wanted him to look at a single paper but had given in after two hours with no progress. She’d run out to get him bagels in thanks while he carefully did not read the forms he was replicating.
If they knew he was making copies, they might be clever enough to sort out that Marci’s secret project had made her nervous. Foggy wasn’t particularly likely to survive giving them the information but any lawyer worth a billable hour knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear. If it meant that Marci would be safe… well, that would at least make his death mean something.
Whatever Marci was doing, she was working against the kind of people that threatened attorneys in an alleyway and didn’t even try bribery before breaking out a handgun. Marci was doing a good deed for someone, whoever that was, and Foggy was not going to be the reason she was caught out.
As satisfying as trying Die Hard out would be, though, that might not ring true for Foggy Nelson, Attorney at Corporate Futility. Drama club it was. Foggy feigned a glance to the right and the mysterious figure before flinching back toward the front even before the unarmed brute could force him back into place. “He said that no one would know!” Foggy blurted out. His full-body tremor wasn’t feigned. If he didn’t do this right, he’d be dead and Marci would have no warning.
The thug with the gun was steady. The gun hadn’t moved and his finger wasn’t curled on the trigger. The other man looked ready to give Foggy a moment
“We just need you to tell us who that is,” the unseen man said soothingly. “It’s a rather personal affair. It wasn’t fair for someone to have you do all the work and not tell you why.”
If Foggy ever had the chance to apologize, he would, but he couldn’t think of any other company that could keep their people safe. “I don’t know his name.” Foggy let the words burst forward with a hint of slur from the rapid pace. Both his drama teacher and debate coach would have yelled at the abysmal attention to his consonants. The thug without the gun took half a step back. “He had a prototype StarkPhone, though. That clear kind? And we met at a coffee shop near Stark Tower once. But that’s all I know!”
“Surely you noticed something else, Mr. Nelson,” the voice coaxed. “Hair color, skin tone…”
“Dark blonde hair. Short, not really styled,” Foggy improvised quickly. “White guy. I mean, I think? He looked Caucasian. He wore sunglasses all the time and a pretty nice suit. He didn’t talk like a usual lawyer but he knew what he wanted. Said that he could do me a couple favors back.”
“Excellent. I’ve always known attorneys to be observant.” The voice had shifted to a soft, friendly tone that made it seem they were all meeting by choice. “Was there anyone else in the firm that could give us a description?”
Foggy met the man’s pretense of kindness with a stammered lie of his own. All the voice wanted to know if they needed to drag anyone else from the firm into an alleyway. “He always wanted to meet alone. Never near Landman and Zack. I thought it was just so that people wouldn’t realize we’d been in contact when I needed to collect that favor.”
“I see. Well, thank you for the information, Mr. Nelson.”
The man without a visible gun turned toward the entrance of the alley. He nodded after a moment then turned back to look at Foggy. Everything seemed to stop as they listened to the sound of footsteps growing quieter. If it hadn’t been so quiet and if Foggy hadn’t been listening so closely to the sound of dress shoes against the pavement, he never would have heard the faint impact.
He didn’t understand just what the sound was at first. There was a muffled sound like two footsteps close together and then the man with a gun no longer had his gun. The handgun went flying and before it landed the thug was on the ground after two swift punches to the jaw and being shoved headfirst into the alley’s brick wall. The gun impacted the wall with a loud clatter and then rebounded under the dumpster. The other man barely had time to get his hands up and try to land a hit on the new arrival.
Even Foggy could see that the second thug didn’t have a chance. He was facing a tornado of black-clad limbs that dodged every last punch. The thug couldn’t say the same. He couldn’t keep his defensive pose with all of the kicks and punches that circumvented his attempts at blocking. Foggy could barely make out details in the dim alley but he could tell that almost every inch of the new arrival was covered in black. Black shoes, black jumpsuit, black gloves, black mask over the top half of his face. The small amount of skin available showed a pale, angular jawline with a mouth showing very little expression for a man beating someone into unconsciousness.
The previously-armed man regained his feet just as the other man slumped to the ground. The man in the mask repeated his earlier fast jabs at the man’s jaw. That time, the thug went down and didn’t scrabble back to his feet.
Foggy had been able to hear footsteps and the rasp of a shoe against concrete just minutes before. Faced with the man in the mask, all he could hear was his own rapid breathing and his pulse thudding in his ears. Muscular men with guns and threats and questions about Marci’s case made sense. This man didn’t.
As Foggy watched, the man seemed to get smaller. His shoulders hunched in and he bowed his head as he shuffled closer.
Foggy knew that nothing of his spike of terror showed on his face. He didn’t think he had even settled on an expression so much as frozen in a grimace just like his mom had always warned him. The man still stopped and slumped forward even more pointedly.
“Not very talkative, I guess?” Foggy’s voice sounded weak and shaky even to him. “You’re… I’ll guess that if you wanted to hit me, you’d hit me.” There was no way that he could stand up to the vicious assault the man had dealt out.
The man nodded jerkily before shaking his head. He rubbed at the edge of his mask with his gloved right hand before snapping the hand to rest over his throat before shaking his head again.
Foggy let himself take a very deliberate breath in and then out. That almost helped so he repeated that trick several times before speaking again. “You can’t talk?”
The man nodded. From what Foggy could see of his face, the frown eased slightly.
“You helped me, though. I don’t know why you did but thank you,” Foggy said seriously. Any ideas about game theory and decisions made no sense anymore. None of his frame of reference involved mysterious ninjas that appeared out of nowhere and took down two men that were each double his size. Outside of the fight, his ninja seemed to be rather shy.
The man’s face tilted toward Foggy. There was a trace of a smile before he turned away again.
“My name is Foggy. Foggy Nelson,” he said, shakily offering his hand. The man didn’t even glance up. Foggy tried to play it off as if he had reached forward for some reason other than an unreturned handshake. “Can you… I need to call you something.”
At that, the man stood straighter and pulled at the zipper of the jumpsuit-like outfit he was wearing. Foggy was trying to not call it a catsuit but the only comparison that came to mind was that his rescuer was wearing a slightly looser version of the Black Widow’s usual gear. It was a black full-body coverall in an odd half-shiny fabric with a black zipper down the front. The shirt under the coverall was black as well. Even the dogtag he tugged out for inspection was a matte black.
Foggy wasn’t an expert by any means but he’d seen a few dogtags before. His grandfather had been a World War II veteran and he and all the rest of the grandkids occasionally got their uncle to talk about the Vietnam War. He knew to expect a number and maybe a few other details as well as a name.
The man in black only had a single line of stamped characters on the single dogtag.
DD 19-64 was all it said.
Foggy looked from the dogtag cupped in his shaking palm to the calm man waiting expectantly. Foggy took another few deep breaths. They didn’t seem to help.
“Is this your name?” he asked hesitantly. There weren’t enough breaths in the world to help Foggy cope when the man nodded. “Can I call you Deedee for now?” Foggy asked as he tucked the dogtag back where it had been.
The man nodded again. He didn’t seem bothered that his name was an alphanumeric Star Wars would have turned down or that Foggy was shortening the string of characters further. Deedee carefully settled the tag in the center of his chest before zipping the coverall back.
“Right. Deedee, I am very grateful that you saved my life, but I think that I should not be in this alley for long. If you ever need a favor from me… well, I am not nearly as useful as you, buddy, but anytime you want a drinking buddy or free legal advice I’m your man. I’m also decently handy anytime you find an apartment and need it fixed up.”
Deedee made another of those odd nearly-smiles where only the very corners of his mouth seemed to move.
“Personally I’m going to go get all the cash I can out of an ATM and try to find a safe place to stay.” Foggy wasn’t sure what made him think of it but he wasn’t sure just where a man in black and a half-face mask would spend the night. “Are you… do you have somewhere to go?”
The man nodded before pointing up. When Foggy reflexively glanced up, he had an excellent view of the man launching himself up off of the putrid blue dumpster and onto the lowest level of a fire escape. He’d scaled halfway to the roof in the time it took Foggy to realize that he’d found another contender for Spider-Man.
“Thank you!” Foggy called quietly. He wasn’t sure if the man would hear him but Deedee turned back his way and made a last jerk of a nod before vanishing up over the rooftop. For his part, Foggy stumbled to the closest ATM and took out all the money that his previous caution would allow. He’d put a cap on ATM withdrawals in case he’d been mugged. He hadn’t expected that he would be on the run in New York City from an unknown adversary with $300 and change from his morning coffee order.
Whatever luck had brought the man in the mask to the alley hadn’t ended with his odd rescuer. He nearly ran into the path of a taxi with his eagerness to catch a ride. There were an unprecedented two taxis available and the first pulled over very pointedly, leaving the second to drive on in search of a fare. Foggy’s driver indulgently agreed to take him out of Hell’s Kitchen and filled in a one-sided conversation assuming that Foggy was drunk and looking for a little feminine company less choosy than he’d found. He was very agreeable about looking for company on a limited budget, even, and promised he knew just the place. Foggy managed to keep his mouth shut except to agree that he would like a cash-only hotel. That had the cab driver laughing before promising not to tell a soul. With a cheerful wave, the cabbie left Foggy in front of a disgusting-looking hotel and told him to have a great night.