Awakenings [Open Vignettes]

Ian's eyes slowly blinked open as the first rays of sunshine hit them. It was early, probably six in the morning. Just as he liked it.

He groaned, moving to sit up on the edge of the bed, being careful not to wake Dolly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get that annoying tired feeling to go away. Once he accomplished that, he stood up and gave a long, exaggerated stretch, the rising sun painting the room colors of red and orange.

He turned to look down at Dolly. She looked peaceful, as always. He moved his side of the blanket to cover her, smiling softly to himself.

He finally left the bedroom of his apartment, scratching his chest as he moved down the hall to the bathroom. He took his morning piss, grabbed a towel, stripped down, and got in the shower.

He turned the knob and water flowed from the shower head. Cold. Very cold. He gave a quiet yelp as he turned it the other way. Hot. Very hot. "Fuckin'..." The shower was always very sensitive with the temperature. After a few more yelps and swear words, he got it to a pleasant temp. Once finished, he stood in front of his mirror.Shave, brush teeth, comb hair. The usual. No cologne this early in the morning. Besides, it was time for his run.

He zipped up his Manchester United jacket. His Liverpool one was in the wash. Steven Gerrard would just have to forgive him. He chuckles softly to himself as he left the apartment building.

The air was strangely cool for a summer morning, not the he had a problem with it. He continued to jog down his normal route; everything was the same. The same trucks passed by, the same old lady walked her poodle and gave him a dirty look, and the same nice Italian couple greeted him as he passed, offering him coffee.

He finally came back to a stop as his apartment building, panting slight as he got back to his door. He opened it quietly, not knowing if Dolly had woken up yet. He stepped in the living room. Guess she was still asleep.

He also guessed it was his turn to make breakfast. And if it wasn't, it should be. He moved to the kitchen, set out some bacon and eggs, and got ready to start the rest of his day.

The white noise of the small TV was going on as usual, echoing off the walls of the empty store-front like it was a vast cavern. A vibrantly red-headed man rustled on a cot as one hand searched for what was making the noise, but stopped abruptly when it found a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Sitting up, his eyes were still closed but he lit the stick and inhaled deeply before dipping his head down and letting the smoke waft around him. With each puff of smoke Sephr's head rose a bit more until he was looking around through squinted eyes and finally extinguishing the smoke he had been enjoying.

He stood up and moved the towel that acted as curtains to let some light in. He stood there for a moment before shaking his head and letting out a grunt, slightly stumbling as he turned to grab his jeans, shirt, and bandannas. As he put them on he went about his routine. Emptying any coffee cups with remaining black gold into one before he started cleaning his gun, another smoke placed between clenched teeth as he worked on his ACT .44.

Jamming the gun in the back of his belt, he pulled up his bandanna around his face and walked out the door hoping to find a few bucks on another rainy day.

The sun was angrily glaring down at Tony, finding him asleep in one of the spaces between the crowded buildings. He was propped up against the alley wall, slumped against a dumpster stirring from his latest nightmare. Tony usually fought the urge to sleep tooth and nail until exhaustion finally brought him down. For most people, sleep was supposed to be that blissful gap between consciousness when all the evils of the day fade away.

However, for others it was the time when all the evils they'd done would return and taunt them.

Tony stretched out his stiff shoulders with a groan as he got to his feet. He was homeless, and had been for some time now. It was dangerous to sleep on the streets, the fresh scars on his fists and body were a testament to that fact, but there was no place for him in a normal home.

Tony's mouth twitched at the corner with the sudden sharp pain in his stomach; He couldn't remember the last time he ate. Sometimes, Tony would forget that he was hungry and go on with his day, other times he just couldn't find anything to eat. He was a proud fool that refused to ask for help or accept handouts. Indeed, most of the time he refused to speak to anyone.

With a quick roll of the shoulders, Tony began walking out onto the street and into the early morning. He had to get moving to keep his mind off his empty stomach.

(I neglected the fact that Chainer is indeed not just me, but a reverie to an older past me who needed put into a character)

The son-of-a-bitch was always first up, loading his guns like it was a lunchbox for a school-boy. Running through the apartments in just jeans and a beater, he would shoot off rounds to wake up his friends. They would roll out of bed with the same effect every time Chainer did this: "Stop with the fucking gun-fire!" they'd yell. But it was all a game, early bird got the worm, cocaine, and any thing else that would stick to his greasy fingers.

No sooner would he of woken everyone up, would he of gone and stolen the first set of keys he could find for a cruise about town, shot-gun riding passenger-seat like a best friend. He talked to it, pointed out the good places to eat and cruise for women. He was cracked like a bad hard-boiled egg. He may have his insides leaking out, but he was going to poison everything he could before he got tossed away.

((Most of his days start like this, but I felt this was an opportunity to add some further perspective to Delinquent))

The sun peaked through the opening in the curtain that hung over the window. Delinquent grunted and rolled slightly as he placed his back to the light. The harsh sound of tearing fabric joined the morning rays of the sun as the spikes in his head mangled yet another pillow case. With a sigh he freed himself from the cotton binding that had woven itself into his decorative accessory. With a grunt he pushed himself up from the mattress that lay on the floor in what was once the office of this abandoned warehouse. Delinquent shuffled over to an off white refrigerator that he had stolen from an appliance store down the road. As Delinquent cracked open the box he was greeted by an even angrier light as it illuminated the contents of the refrigerator.

His eyes swept over the various food stuffs, left over Chinese, cold pizza, half a dozen eggs, half a gallon of milk… Ah, there was the target of his morning. The bottles clinked gently like wind chimes as Delinquent pulled the Sculpin India Pale Ale from the carton that contained its brothers. Delinquent slammed the fridge door closed with his foot as his hands were busy working the church key on the bottle top and greeting the morning with the crisp sound of the gases escaping the bottle. He took a swift pull of the liquor and made his way to the bathroom where he would brush his teeth and shower. This was always a difficult task when considering the beer as one does not want the shower water to taint the flavor and so a strenuous balancing act began and ended as it always does, the bottle empty, the contents sliding toward his stomach, and his body cleaned.

After donning his black Commandos and Tactical Boots, Delinquent stood in the doorway that led to the body of the warehouse and just took in the aray of vehicles before him. The Seyo Espacho grinned at him, the new grill and hood making the vehicle appear like a dinosaur from a time gone by. Parked next to it was the black and gray Charge Sentinel which stood out in stark contrast with the flowery pattern hand painted on the hood of the vehicle. Of all the cars parked in this open area none drew his attention like the Vegas G22 and the brown box that leaned against the vehicle. Grabbing hold of the Mechanics Creeper that he had placed next to the door the night prior Delinquent made his way to the car and looked at the box with a smile.

A note was taped to the box that read, “Here is the upgraded Nitrous you wanted. Enjoy! - Michael Simone”

It was good to have contacts in high places. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket Delinquent set the creeper on the warehouse floor and lowered himself down, dragging the box underneath the vehicle with him. He flipped open his wallet and pulled out a dated photo of his late wife and placed his lips on the image of her face gently. Delinquent smiled with eyes closed in remembrance a moment as he lingered on thoughts of Jennifer. With a smirk he tucked the photo between a few pieces of the body of the car so she could watch him work and he began to assemble the nitrous kit. Today felt like it would be a good day.

((Eh.))

He sat up on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his white hair.

"Naida nyt kuluva." A frown formed on his face. Yellow eyes darting to the end table to his left.
Reaching over and grabbing the bottle and the shot glass he poured one and raised it in the air.

Tossing back the shot he stood up and grabbed the desert scarf and goggles hanging from a lamp on the end table. Walking out of the room he hit the power button on the stereo system, Hellrider by Judas Priest, began to play.

Walking to the table in the far corner of the room he grabbed a pair of blood red combats and black boots.

Walking to the far end of the room he sat down at his old wood table and began his daily ritual.
On the table lay his weapon of choice. Being rather limited in San Paro as far as weapons were concerned, he had decided upon the N-tec assault rifle.

Its use was constant, therefore so was its maintenance.

Make sure the rifle is unloaded, and the magazine is removed, Pull back the charging handle to eject any loaded rounds, Remove the cleaning rod located at the front of the rifle below the barrel, Remove the bolt cover by pressing the button on the back of the bolt cover forward, Remove the bolt spring, Pull out the bolt and charging handle, Unlock and remove the gas tube, Clean the grime and dirt from the weapon, Re-assemble the weapon.

Another shot of vodka.

A rap on the door. Three knocks, a pause, one knock, a pause, then three more knocks.
Opening the door, it revealed the beginning of a good day. A wooden crate full of 5.56mm rounds.
A grin began to grow on his face, making his way back to the table he sat the crate down and began to load the bullets into several magazines.

Grabbing his keys and his rifle he made his way outside to his car. A black charge cisco with red and white trim, with a smoking skull on the hood. The same skull he had tattooed on his back. Once in the car he sat the rifle in the passengers seat and reached up to place the desert scarf and goggles in their proper place. "Today is a good day to die."

((Hopefully it is okay if I jump into this too.))

Hammerskald took the last swig of his coffee and set the cup down on the shelf next to the coffee pot. Once a pristine white, the inside of the cup now contained a strange caffeine dendrochronology that reflected past java fixes. Stray beams of sunlight had forced their way into the studio and reminded him just how late it had gotten. The beams ran across the floor, lounged on the recently vacated tattoo chair, and raced along the metal of his equipment.

He had spent the past three hours working on a piece of back work and now all that was left was a little bit of clean up. A spot of crimson had stained the area between his thumb and index finger, had he cut himself? It flaked easily under his nail and he remembered that the bottle of Monthly Red had leaked a little when getting everything prepped. The coffee wasn’t working; he was going to need to get some sleep soon. He closed the door on the autoclave and it started with a hum. Normally the music would have thundered over the sound, but in the otherwise silent room that hum seemed like a jet engine.

Thoughts of just closing the blinds tightly and sleeping on the table crossed his mind. He knew that wouldn’t work though someone else would be reopening the shop at noon. He tossed the rest of the garbage into the can and began fighting with his pack of cigarettes. The soft pack had gotten crushed on one side and tapping the top was not sliding anything free. Giving up he tossed the pack onto the shelves, the circular logo spinning through the air like a bull’s-eye before coming to a rest between the inkbottles.

Sunglasses slid into place as he locked the shop’s doors behind him. He would meet the day; he just needed a few hours of sleep first.

I love whiskey. I really don't like the taste or the smell, but I love whiskey.

I guess most people would think you were strange if you wanted a shot of whiskey to warm you up....in the summer time. But as I walk down the street, the same thought keeps flying around my brain: "I love whiskey. I love whiskey. I love whiskey."

Probably means I'm losing it. But I guess you can't really lose it if you never had it in the first place. Then again, I'm the last person to determine what IT is and who has IT and who deserves IT. God, my brain needs to shut up. Where did I stick my headphones...

I find it's tough to grab them when you live out of your pockets. Phone, smokes, lighter, change, bullet casings, and a two gram bag. All I need to make me happy. That and some music.

Usually, I'd be blaring something hard and aggressive like Korn or BLS. But tonight was just different. I feel calm. And I feel sick. And I feel so empty. But why? What cruel force of the universe makes me feel this way? It's not like this night is ending in an abnormal fashion. Let's do a quick rundown.

It's about 4 AM. I'm clutching a bottle of Wild Turkey likes it's a winning lottery ticket. I think I live in this direction. I'm in no rush to get anywhere but I can't make myself stop. And the only thing truly carrying me down the street is the fact that my ZigZags are sitting on a counter in my apartment and not in my truck where they should be. Where the fuck my truck ended up is beyond me.

See? Normal. Now let's factor in the "ab"

I spent my night doing bitch work for a Mr. Harlon Benjamin so he doesn't take my pinky fingers. My partners in crime were two chicks wearing next to nothing who probably wouldn't have given me a second look if I were on fire riding a unicycle singing "I Got Friends in Low Places". Not to mention everytime I got my shit together I'd hear something like "Wow that tickles" and almost kill us all by driving into a tree. Oh and my truck is in about 27 pieces cause some Forcer thought it'd be cute to slide a grenade under my oil pan and make fireworks. Up until about four days ago, I had never fired a gun. Now I'm leaning out a window popping warning shots so the Lemmings of this city will get out of my way while I evade arrest. EVADE ARREST!?! What the hell.

And the sun is just coming up. Casting a pale white light on this hole of a city. The light wants to cleanse us all, but it only makes our flaws that much more obvious. Maybe that's why I'm always going to bed when the sun comes up. But I think I'll stick with my first solution: I'm losing it. Cleansing light....jeez.

I've never really approved of drinking in public.....fuck it this bottle is gonna be gone by the time I get back. That way I'll be nice and drunk when I help this bastard I don't owe a thing to stay out of prison.

Fuck.

He only becomes fully awake when the first blast of hot water from the showerhead strikes his skin and fills his nostrils with the steamy scent of stale cigarette smoke. Leaning on the wall, both palms flat against the cold tile, he watches the water circle the drain like a spinning reel of film that flashes blurry images of last night's events. Cigarette smoke... with just a slight hint of sweet clove, which he only ever sees at the Beltane. He had exchanged shots of fiery rice liquor and bottles of French wine with a nearby group of business men - legitimate civilians - over Cambodian spring rolls, curried shrimp and crispy duck. They were shouting, laughing, dancing with every woman who passed by their table, celebrating hard-won financial windfall... and so was Eron.

With full grasp of his senses, he wraps himself in soft towels and emerges from the bathroom in search of fresh clothing. Most of last night's attire is either draped over empty chairs or rumpled in formless piles on the carpeted floor, ignored as if they might somehow find their own way to the hamper. Instead, Eron turns to the closet and strips slacks and shirt from hangers, slips them on and turns around to face the full-length mirror on the nearby wall. It's only then that he notices an inch-long scrape on his stubbled scalp, glowing red and angry. He is surprised enough that he couldn't feel the pain until just now, but even more surprised that he forgot grappling with that civilian from Gazi Shipping.

The racey Cisco Eron had been driving inevitably succumbed to several gunshots, leaving him exposed and in dire need of a car. He lurked in the shadows of Gazi Shipping's employee parking lot, eventually spotted the humble Han Veo as it turned off the street and crawled towards the building... Its driver didn't look like much when it pulled into the parking lot, but by the time he had stepped out of the car and stood straight up over six feet tall, Eron had already drawn his handgun and held it raised overhead. He was committed to carjacking this working stiff, and was completely surprised when the driver suddenly spun around and wrapped strong hands and calloused fingers around Eron's neck. The memory of the clumsy scuffle is embarressing - the trucker screamed furiously, choked Eron and slammed his head against the side window of his car; Eron clubbed the trucker with several weak, unleveraged punches, but finally managed to fishhook the driver's lip, drag his head back and swing the butt of the heavy pistol down onto the bridge of the trucker's nose.

Rubbing his aching scalp and nursing a bruised ego, Eron wanders out into the small living area. A simple wooden table seperates the white cabinets of the kitchen from the couch and television in the living room, though the two areas are really only two sides of the same room. He finds that lifesaving lump of steel resting on the corner of the table, scoops the heavy pistol up and feels the weight. Or perhaps the lack of weight. He depresses the button on the base of the grip and pulls the magazine from the slide to count only two bullets within. He must have left the the missing rounds in Prentiss, three of them in two Praetorians as they attempted to load large satchels of foreign cash into an armored truck before he hurled the other three slugs down the street at a group of nearby enforcers. After sending them scrambling for cover, Eron dashed over to the waiting Cisco and sped away in a hail of hot lead.

As Eron sits on the edge of the couch, hovering over a box of ammuntion and stuffing thick bullets into the hungry magazine, he feels haunted by more missing memories. The apartment lays open before him, patient and silent as his eyes roam over its spartan furnishings. A shard of sunlight creeps through the eastward-facing windows and falls upon the floor, reflecting back at him in brilliant red. Eron stood, wanders over to the glittering specks on the floor and picks up three loose ruby sequins. They look just like the sequins on the dress worn by a very beautiful Vietnamese woman when she smiled at him from across the bar. It was a bold and enthusiastic smile, and unusual to see from a strange woman of the South Pacific. That dress dazzled him as he followed her back to his table, accentuated the way she moved when she danced with the neighboring businessmen, complimented her figure when she reclined in the cushioned bench and savored the soft, soothing wine, and even dared him to touch her when she led him through the front door of his apartment...

He springs from the couch and dashes into the bedroom, then comes back to the living room and charges through the front door. There was only one empty parking spot in the lot between the two apartment buildings - the same spot he had parked the Han Veo in. She is gone, just as mysteriously as she came, and she had taken the cash-filled satchel and the stolen car with her. Eron shakes his head and bites his lip, swallows his pride long enough to offer a friendly wave to his landlord as she leads her waddling daschund down the sidewalk, then turns and walks back into the apartment that seems emptier now than ever before.

Easy come, easy go.

It said one-forty, but was blinking, so probably was not even right. Another said midnight, though; it was morning sun that crept in, bouncing off of the mirror and glass across the street through a westward-facing window never having seen the sun itself. Light crept in through a vinyl marquis-of-Queensbury of half-drawn and wrapped-over blinds. The window’s seal was in a bad way, and a slow leak of sticky-sweaty-sweltering heat seldom stopped seeping in around the glass.

The city got in, too. Just bits of it – never really forming a whole: two cars arguing, doors opening and closing, newspapers folding and unfolding, coffee spilling into the street.

She was tuck under a thick blanket, deep orange in a kind of honeycomb pattern. Even in the heat, she insisted on bundling herself under it each night. Sheets, not far from white, had been kicked to the floor. One arm, kind of frail looking, or at least skinny, started jumping from the blanket and disappeared under her pillow in a swiftly drawn stroke. The other was lost, bent under her midsection and lacking circulation. Awake hit her all at once, her eyes opening wide, then blinking shut a few times and landing at a tired kind of half-open-half-closed haze. They oozed green, hidden behind a matted-down carpet of shortish orange hair. Oozed green, cracked by red and yellow lines. Green that could end the world, maybe.

Music had started through the floor, which meant that it is very close to nine. She pulled the hidden arm up and moved her fingers, feeling a sleepy tingle itch to her shoulder. Both elbows ended up on the bed, and she leaned onto them, letting the blanket fall to her stomach. Her hair was bent upward and plastered sideways, stuck together from yesterday’s product, and the night’s sweat. A graying tank top that read Seattle Children’s Home clung and draped, at wrinkled intervals, from her shoulders.

A knock jumped through her door, and bounced off of posters for bands she liked or had liked, and pictures from magazines, and stray bits of bad poetry. The girl bunched the blanket up around her midsection, more instinct than necessity. It pulled upward and exposed her feet. “Yeah?” she sort of yelled.

The door opened a crack, then more, and a big, bald, tumorous head leaked through. “Y’haff werk tuh-day?” it asked through baked-bean teeth. A look of drowsy amnesia painted itself across her face, and she shook a ‘no’ toward the man. “I made s’hum eggsh.” The door closed again with a drowned-out click. Blanket tossed aside, she rolled off of the bed, feet landing and toes stretching onto the carpet. She stretched her arms out, then twisted her back and ran a hand through her hair, catching on a few knotted clumps.

A hand snatched at some 501s that had ripped in places, and were still rolled up to her ankles. She pulled them on with a decided jump, and fastened the belt that was still slung around their neck.

Outside of her room, the music was louder, thumping in through the kitchen-and-dining-area-and-living-space’s floor ducts. It smelled bad, like overcooked eggs and too much seasoning salt. Ed had just left, and nothing moved.

And she decided she would eat breakfast somewhere else.

This place is getting to me. Toxic. In my head, I keep seeing those highschool Biology videos of tape worms infecting a human body. Except the word "tape worm" is replaced with "San Paro". I think I'm infected.

Physically, I've never felt better. I spend the majority of my evenings sprinting from psycho Forcers. A year ago, I probably would get stuck on chain link fence. And I've found that one's pain threshold increases naturally from numerous beatings. Around here, you know who causes the most problems. All those people have noticeable wrist bruises. One size fits all handcuffs, my ass.

Mentally, my brain is turning into a mushy paste. Clarity was something I constantly craved. Understanding everything. Knowing why people do the things they do. Now I don't know who I am anymore. A year ago, I got it. You didn't need to get into dotted I's and crossed T's, I just got it. I didn't need help because information is truly the most valuable currency. A year ago, I was untouchable. And the information ran through me. People came to me when they needed something done.

Now I'm here. I wanted to get away from that life. People disappear all the time. I just wanted to be another forgotten name. But I live in a place where your business is city business. City business becomes Mayor business. And Mayor business, I've discovered, is bad business.

Stuck. I'm stuck. Maybe it's hell. The man who wanted to vanish gets sent to a place where all your skeletons are put on display for the world to see. Then that's it. I'm being punished.

But for now, it's quiet. And I should enjoy it. Nobody is sending me to do grunt work. Haven't heard from anyone else in what feels like weeks. Shouldn't worry. If I couldn't trust them, I wouldn't be here right now. Besides, how could they know?

(Might as well try my hand at this.)

Bzzrt. Bzzrt. Bzzrt. Bzzrt, bzzrt, bzzrt, bzrtbzrtbzrtbzrtbzr...

The high-pitched, rattling hum of a cheap digital clock's alarm filled the innards of New Cross Skate Park. The noise originated from a darkened corner between two quarter pipes, beside a worn out mattress where an equally worn out man stirred. Mark Anders filled his eye with the red glow of his clock. It let him know very cheerily that the time was about half-past-six in the A.M. Mark, groaning in a low tone like some unholy revenant that had been woken from the dead, as opposed to a short slumber, showed that damn clock who's boss. He slammed his fist down on the alarm button, swearing quietly as a piece broke off under the pressure and pricked his hand. The clock had shut up by this point. There he laid, by himself, in the darkness of the corner, on a dirty mattress, nursing the tiny wound on his pimp hand and scratching his roughly trimmed beard with the other hand.

After a moment, Mark sat up and scooted back, leaning his head against the wall and tugging at the neck of his slightly-too-small-to-be-called-a-night-shirt-shirt, which had attempted to strangle him in his sleep. Sighing, he remembered why he was getting up this morning at all. Job Interview Number Twelve was right over the horizon. He needed to get ready for work. Struggling to find his feet, Mark swore furiously under his breath. He pulled up his jeans a bit and set to work hefting the mattress off the ground and setting it up in the very corner. He unplugged the clock and pushed it back behind the bedding, and from the opposite corner, just under one of the ramps, Mark retrieved a small suitcase.

"How lucky I am to have friends such as these," mused Mark as he shuffled to the front of the inside of the Park, towards the rooms where the conveniently placed showers were. He of course meant the G-Kings, who, upon hearing the news of his plights, took him under their wings and gave him a place to stay. Too bad he only got to do so at the risk of getting shot up. But being a King wasn't so bad. And hell, maybe they could find him a job that didn't involve guns. Maybe they'd still help him out more. Maybe the risk was worth the possible rewards.

It was early, and none of the Kings who worked or skated at New Cross had arrived yet. As the final rings of the alarm had died out so long before, the places was nearly silent, interrupted only by the noise of the occasional car alarm or gunshot from outside. Though Mark was practically dead, the city was alive. Sick and depraved, but alive. He set his suitcase down outside the door and stepped into one of the showers, not even bothering to get undressed, as the clothes were old and worn, and he was planning to thrift them or throw them out anyway. He turned the knob, and the cold of the water fell over his face erratically. There and then, as he let the cold shock wake him up, Mark felt the bold sting of something he'd only barely noticed when he had awoken. He lifted his shirt some and pulled down his pants a little, and there, on his upper right thigh, was a small-caliber bullet wound traced in blood that was slowly washing away. " The fuck... where was I last night?"

Mark distinctly remembered actually getting ready for and going to bed the previous night. And it occurred to him that the blood was caked on as he watched it fall and melt away in teeny chunks. This was an old shot. The dull pain escaping the other side of his leg told him that it punched straight through. Mark winced as he washed the entrance and exit thoroughly, but he wasn't worried about it. No real damage seemed to have been done.

After he'd cleaned up nicely, Mark opened the suitcase to reveal it to be filled with, what else, a suit. He replaced his old clothes with other old clothes: Dirty jeans with clean, blue-grey slacks, a tight green t-shirt with a loose white dress shirt. He didn't wear fancy shoes, though. Over his once-white socks he placed a pair of black sneakers with white laces. Although it wasn't particularly professional, eleven other interviews clued him in to the fact that no one really cared about what was on his feet. Least, none of the interviewers gave that impression. They were more shocked at other things, like Mark's claims that his old boss really did have his records, reports, and reviews all burned so he'd never work again. No one believed the truth any more. Probably never did. Regardless, he figured that if he'd try hard enough, he'd find an employer who actually cared about his afflictions and didn't perceive them as some kind of obvious lie, which they weren't.

Mark pulled a loose tie over his head and put a blue-grey jacket on over it. Moving towards the front, he pondered going to a cafe to grab some expresso. Pulling a cheap imitation watch from his suitcase and closing it, he saw the time to be nearly seven fifteen. The interview was at eight. He sighed as he walked the suitcase back to his bed. Not enough time to get a damn cup of coffee. The day was just gonna be great. Just. Fucking. Great.

Mark brushed the wrinkles from his suit and tightened his tie, considering the thought of hanging himself from it. He locked the front door of New Cross Skate Park on his way out, leaving it as silent as it was before he woke up.