Pg.1-15

The cast of common characters wakes up and/or gathers at a common setting.

BAHH. Lost within a living sea of polyester sheep, tags hanging from their rears; flapping in the stale breeze like white flags of conformation. They stand huddled BAHH upon a hill of ash. Grey clouds churning overhead. Bleating randomly, but always the same, monotonous “BAHH”.

Every face wears an identical BAHH lifeless expression of emptiness BAHH as they stare BAHH forwards towards the podium BAHH like a wooden obelisk. Muffled BAHH curious anticipation gripped the herd BAHH and like a bed of hueless flowers curling towards the morning sun BAHH every gaze was focused on the structure. BAHH Waiting. BAHH, BA-A-AHH.

Suddenly, rising up from behind the podium within a hedge BAHH of fog, a figure appeared. At first, only his top hat was visible, with the wide brim effectively covering his eyes and resting upon a very long, slender nose. From there hung a thick handlebar mustache BAHH that curtained his mouth. His chin came to an unusually BAHH sharp BAHH point. BAHH. As his upper body broke through the mist he stopped growing BAHH stood motionless for some time BAHH and finally outstretched his arms. His figure took in a deep, cleansing breath, extending it's chest, and stood surveying the flock. He was a giraffe among men, with his hat piercing the unsettling sky.

BAHH.

Clothing his figure was an outfit that shone a brilliant plastic red. Anguished squinting was seen among some of the sheep - not having ever seen that much colour in one place before - but those who didn’t wince BAHH noticed the man’s lip tremble BAHH and knew he was about to speak.

A hush, cold as ice, swept the mass.

Even the wind, sifting through the dead trees ceased its subtle music, and left silence as their commander…

“You are a victim mind acting as an open to the world stabbed by images endlessly scarring within scaring with sin take a break from today’s torture blink think and question analyze what has happened and determine its solidity and validity its usefulness towards the individual you and its helpfulness in the future yet to happen determine necessity in peopleplaceandthings think only to stop thinking and go back to rethink analyze and question again test and retest to suggest its falseness search for weakness apply stress and speak lest not be heard speak up and out convey say what you want to say your message loud and clear for masses to hear tear a hole right through them with the weapon of suggestion use their techniques against them upon them spear their mind with words that create images tattoos on the brain train of thought but of truth not this endless insanity seen flowing through the air we absorb show them what is real by unmasking falseness teach them to suggest to take a mind breath.”

BAHH?

He spoke quickly, releasing his entire speech in one single breath

As the sound traveled, knives began to spew from his mouth, slaying the small and the weak - colourless blood seen spurting from necksand torsos - horrible death bleats filling the air. BAAAAAAAAHHH! Panic rises out of the ash, smoke, and blood. BAAAAAHHH

Amidst the confusion BAHH and terror BAHH BAHH sheep begin to run. Leaping BAHH and kicking BAAAAHHH smashing through others with adrenaline-fueled, atrophied muscles BAHH creating a vast pit of pain BAAAAHHHHH a turbulent animal ocean.

CRRRR-RRACK

With that the sky tore open - struck with a critical wound - and begun pouring down on the chaotic mass. Other rips and cracks could be heard - new holes being wrenched open high above them - releasing a violent, grey fluid. Nectar of the bogs, thick as crude oil, drenching the mob like syrup over pancakes.

The panic grew so thick it became hard to breathe. Sheep upon sheep, kicking and biting, forcing their way through, jaws chomping mechanically in an attempt to open some sort of trail. All in a vain attempt at survival. A futile battle for individual safety, not realizing that the source of their injuries and deaths at this point is themselves.

At the hands of their ignorant frenzy.

And fear...pure, irrational fear.

Take a step back from the chaos.

Farther...

Higher...

Until you’re hovering just beneath the cloud line.

Watching from here makes it all look like static - different shades of grey moving erratically, frantically, desperately - flitting around faster than the eye can register.

Everything seems so distant now, so small and unimportant. The situation suddenly loses all emotion.

The connection is severed.

God.

It even sounds like static - the rain falling over muffled bleats, the sound of breaking bones and shattered skulls. Teeth chomping down on flesh. Hooves spinning like pinwheels.

And...

Amidst the desolation.

Screaming,

from the corner of the image,

lies a tiny smear of red,

quickly being absorbed by the grey static mass.

The blood of the Ringmaster, the bearer of their salvation - the only one who was somewhat real " consumed by the colourless entity.

Forgotten.

If one is deprived of a thing for a lengthy period of time, it is said, that the site of it long years into the future can spark virtual insanity. The refreshed idea, and the realization of time wasted without can be enough to destroy. When there's nothing external to destroy, we destroy ourselves.

It’s sad, our self-destructive manner.

Like sheep,

Sweeping along in electronic waves...

Colourless, thoughtless, lifeless...

And scared of knowing how little they may know.

Content living within the hush of the white noise.

Warmed and comforted by the static lullaby.

………………………………....................

Static.

Blacks and whites and greys, cold and robotic. So many little pictures

Clusters of electronic ideas,

Digital clutter.

Morning.

A c**k crows in the distance.

The channel commences its daily broadcast.

My brain awakens with an overflow of negativity as usual: Another f*****g day within this stupid f*****g world.

Damnit, life sucks.

F****n' f**k.

Stuck in the lower class of this twisted society - struggling simply to survive - with no hopes of ever achieving jack s**t. No future. The rich get richer and the poor get shat on so the rich can relieve some stress and I’m fed up with it. All these f*****g people, with summer homes and winter homes, and dog clothes, yachts and helicopters, all sorts of useless s**t while I can barely afford to pay for this ratty box that surrounds me. Constructed out of junkyard material. Eating f*****g mac and cheese or stale pizza crusts while some “fat cat” blows a fortune on tiny morsels of endangered species arranged by renowned artists, or whatever the f**k. Decadence, and f*****g opulence. F*****g celebrities getting designer clothes just so they’re seen wearing the s**t and here I am layering my shirts so the holes don’t show clean through. Buying my jeans at a second-hand store - a f*****g second-hand store - where people bring in gawdy outfits they wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anymore in a plastic f*****g garbage bag. What I don't buy gets given to the homeless or shipped to Africa. And I have to buy this crap because the rung of society’s ladder that I’m f*****g hanging from won’t allow me to purchase anything else. I can’t afford anything else. F*****g f**k, and there’s s**t all I can do about it too. I’m doomed to get fucked around my whole life. Too well off for hand-outs, so I'm paying to live like a bum.

Calm down. Breathe.

I hate my life. I wonder how many people wake up in a pure suicidal depression like I do.

Oh God, I think I’m going to puke.

Damn stomach, can’t even handle a few nights of excessive drinking. Well, more than a few maybe. I suppose drinking and puking is far better than living through a night of stone cold reality.

F**k you, reality.

I can’t wait for the apocalypse - the end of this f****n' world as we know it - I mean, what’s taking so long? Somebody just blow somebody up already.

F**k, I gotta pee.

Hard to think with a stretched bladder - massive blister stressing for release - can’t do anything. Even my bladder has more control over my life than I do. A slave to so many things.

F**k, and you figure maybe just once there might be a clear path to the bathroom but, no. F****n’ chip bags, beer bottles, tipped ashtrays, all sorts of crap to trip over. Leftovers from last night. I hate leftovers, all these little tributes to yesterday, or the day before, or last f*****g week. F**k yesterday. Yesterday’s gone, no need to dwell. And now I’ve got all sorts of s**t to clean off my feet.

Other people's s**t.

I can’t walk around this place without shoes on, but it's uncomfortable to sleep in shoes - just more fuel for the fire. I’ll feel better once I take a piss - once I take a huge steaming piss all over this raging fire of hatred.

Clear my f*****g system.

It's too early for this s**t.

I hate my bathroom. It’s cramped as hell. The tub takes up most of the limited space like a school bus in a one car garage. You have to squeeze around the f*****g thing to get to the toilet. I hate those stand-up showers even more, but seriously, with a bathroom this size it would have been a better option. The sink wouldn't even fit, it had to be put just outside the bathroom, on the crappy wall that was built to contain it. Oh yeah…I just love the feeling of claustrophobia as I take my first piss of the day - cold tub against my heels and porcelain bowl against my shins…releasing some toxins.

F**k you, world.

The bubbles form continents within the bowl, and I carve through them with my golden stream.

……………………………….................

"It's locked."

"What do you mean it's locked?"

"I mean, it's f*****g locked, dude. The door won't open. The bar is still closed. We're too early."

"Serously? What time is it?"

"Not time to drink yet, obviously. What do you want me to say?"

"It's always time to drink. F**k this. There's got to be somebody in there."

"Just f****n' relax. I'm sure it'll be open soon. No use banging on the door."

"Well, maybe we can get a couple singles."

"The liquor store is attached to the the f*****g bar, dude. Just chill. It should be open any moment now."

"Yeah, but when the f**k is that? Maybe this guy knows the time. Excuse me sir? Do you have the time by chance? What? Five after eleven? Thanks."

"Cool, see? It should be open any second."

"No, it should have been open five f*****g minutes ago."

"F**k. Whatever, man. It's not worth getting mad about. Not everyone is on time."

"We were on time."

"But that was a coincidence."

"Nope. No such thing. I don't believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a reason."

"Okay, fine then. So that means there's a perfectly good reason why the door is open yet."

"I didn't say everything happened for a perfectly good reason."

"F**k, Droops. Can we not do this now? It's too early."

"Never too early."

This went on for a couple more minutes before a waitress came and unbolted the door.

………………………………................................

I already felt much better.

As I pissed my eyes wandered to the toilet paper roll hanging from the wall beside me, which bore upon it the chicken scratches of a drunken idiot:

THE WILLKNOTS ARE RUNNING RAMPANT

T.P. BANDIT

What the? Who wrote that?

Was it me?

I don't think it was me.

What does it mean?

Where did they get the pen? How did they write so softly, without punching through the 2-ply?

The momentary lapse in concentration caused me to miss my porcelain target, spraying the end of my golden yellow stream into the far corner beneath the curious message. My stray piss lands amidst numerous other stains that, collectively, have begun to creep up the wall like a bad acid trip; wrapping vines around the water supply hose, and outlining where the sheets of wallpaper meet each other.

Who wallpapers a bathroom? Honestly?

Someone should really clean this mess up. Right, it's my name on the rental agreement. My responsibility - oh well, I’ll do it later.

After leaving the bathroom I found myself more able to cope with the world around me, as well as the horrible scene that remained in my basement suite from the night before - namely the people that still remained. I struggled to remember who they were and why they were here, like most mornings.

Fecma, my good friend (pronounced “Feeeekmaaah“ with more and more emphasis the drunker you are), and his buddy B-B-Bucky The Stuttering Wonder lay fast asleep on the oversized couch. Bucky was sitting straight up along the far end with his head tilted back over the top, mouth hanging wide open as if he were trying to catch raindrops on the red desert sand of his tongue. He reminded me of one of those ducks or geese or whatever that drink the rain out of thirst but then literally drown on the collected drops in their throats because they lack the ability to swallow. Maybe that’s why ducks are considered the dumbest animal on earth.

Nature works in mysterious ways.

But anyways, yeah. Bucky’s a pretty cool guy, quite the stubborn fellow. Last night he pounded a 26er of whiskey just to prove he could…

“Go, B-B-B-B-Bucky!”

“D-D-Don’t c-call me B-B-B-Bucky.”

But it suited him so well, watching the golden liquid splash across his over-sized teeth, and smiling afterward, while the last few drops roll down his chin and dive into the fabric of his cargo pants.

But he did it. And it took him nearly fifteen minutes before he passed out. He proved us wrong, which is something he prides himself on, and he never puked once. We dragged him over to the couch and placed him in almost the exact position he lay now, except with his head tilted towards a pot to puke in - s**t, I hope he’s not dead - nah, I can see the f****r breathing. Crazy Bucky…

Fecma’s curled in a fetal position, with his head towards me and his feet tucked behind Bucky’s back for warmth. His face is buried within the piss-yellow pillow I have lying around for guests but would never use personally. The only thing I notice when I look at Fecma though, is the full, fresh cigarette somehow clinging to his bottom lip. The only pure white object in this whole filthy house. He must have fell asleep before lighting it.

Mine now.

After stepping on two beer caps, some smoke butts, and something squishy I reach my target and grab it without caution,

“Yoink.”

“WHATTHEFUCK?!WHATTHEFUCK?!WHATTHEFUCK?!WHATTHEFUCK?!WHATTHEFUCK?”

Grabbing the smoke triggered some sort of internal alarm and Fecma, eyes wide open, began swinging and kicking wildly - his golden hair swaying like wheat in a windstorm - making geriatric snow angels in the air. I managed to dodge his attacks but Bucky, in his slumber, took the full force of several kicks across the jaw as Fecma struggled to reach his feet. The blows sent his head back and forth like a blowup punch-clown, and nearly caused him to bite his tongue off.

I could just picture it...

“W-W-Wook wha- you -id.” Blood pouring from his mouth.

...but that never happened.

It took a few minutes for everyone to calm down, but we did. Fecma always was a violent one, and we expected that out of him. I remember the time a blood-hungry crowd stood around while he broke both of some kid’s hands with his face.

“I use reverse psychology in a fight,” he would always say, ”while people are punching me in the face, I’m head butting their fists. You can’t fight with busted knuckles.”

The kid stumbled off crying, staring at the crumpled masses that were once his hands, while Fecma’s still yelling at the poor guy to come back so he can give him a good shanking - spit flying from a blood red face.

That guy’s got one hard f*****g head. I watched him run full-force and throw his skull off a foundation beam for five bucks, didn’t even phase him. Left a good dent in the wood though. Crazy f****r, but one of the most respectful people you’ll ever meet.

So, now we were all awake I guess. Bucky’s still rubbing his eyes, and his jaw, but he’s up - and Fecma’s taking a piss.

I'm still stuck in that hazy limbo between realities, but at least my morning anger has subsided, and I'm ready to exist.

Reluctantly.

One more day.

Hmmmmm…….

Now what?

I need a toke.

………………………………................................…...............

Woah! Dat’s de craziest flower pot I’ve ever seen! I have to have it.

Wait’ll de guys see dis ding, dey’ll trip!

Coast is clear,

Now, Dave! Go, go! S**t

F**k, mudder….

Go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go - Yeah.

Sweet.

Gotcha, little buddy.

But don’t you worry your plastic little head - I’m going to take you to a good place.

Yeah, right. Good one, Dave.

Dere are no good places in dis neighbourhood.

Who would want a lamb-shaped flower pot anyways?

Dat’s a pretty stupid ding to put flowers in if you ask me - and dose flowers sucked, dey were all brown and dying.

I did dem a favour by stealing it.

Yeah.

De lamb’s pretty cool dough,

“Hey, Lamby. You’re pretty cool, man.”

Woah.

Watch it, Dave. Don’t let anyone catch you talking to a little white plastic lamb. Dey’ll lock you up for sure.

Frow me in de hole wif some guy named Bubba.

No more Dave.

Dose b******s would just love to get deir hands on me, but I’m too quick for dem.

I’m like de Gingerbread Man or someding.

You’re not going to catch me, never.

But yeah, we gotta hurry little buddy. We have news to bring to de people.

We are de messengers of de word.

……………………………….......................................

“Did you notice that writing on the toilet paper?”

“Yeah,” Bob said casually, without even looking over, ”so you didn’t write it either then, eh?”

“Nope. What the f**k’s it supposed to mean? Any idea?”

“I try not to worry my brain over meaningless details this early in the morning. It’s just someone f*****g with us, don’t let it get to you.” he pauses, takes a deep haul off of his smoke, then throws in, “That’s just want they want to happen. Don’t ever give them what they want.”

Okay, whatever…

“W-W-What did it say, Fuh-Fuh-Fecma?”

“I don’t know, something about a plague of ‘will knots’ or something.” As I spoke I notice he’d developed quite the welt along his jaw from my little incident, “F**k, sorry Bucky. Didn’t mean to kick you, man. Early morning violence, you know how it is.”

“N-N-No worries, Fecma, it’s c-c-c-cool.”

Hmmmm…..now what? The worst part about being awake is now you have to figure out what you’re going to do, and it seems as though we ran out of stuff to do years ago. Not to mention the money to do stuff with. That always helps.

I need a smoke.

Seems like everyday is deja-vu or something,

And it feels like I’ve said this before.

Bob's too busy rolling a joint, he's barely f*****g smoking the cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, Bob. Can you hook me up with a drag of that butt?”

“No problem. Here,” The smoke trails behind like a fishing line as he passes it over, “you can kill it.”

Ah…

Sweet, sweet nicotine - there’s still a good couple drags left - nothing calms the body down quite like the first smoke of the day. Hey, didn’t I have a pack of smokes last night?

Oh well, s**t happens.

I’m surprised I’m not hungover though, drank quite a bit. Come to think of it, I don’t remember falling asleep - like, actually deciding, ’Okay, Fecma, time to go to bed.’ - oh well.

S**t happens.

A little bit too often sometimes, though.

Life is s**t. And anyone who says otherwise is full of it.

Yeah...

So...

This ‘morning after’ silence is an eerie and uncomfortable setting. I f*****g hate it. Everyone’s still dazed, and hungover, and not capable of very much at all. You can see it in their pale faces - especially Bucky - last night must’ve took quite a toll on him. Of course, he’ll never admit it.

I’ve never seen anyone drink whiskey that fast. That s**t’ll kill you.

F**k.

Seriously.

They’re just sitting there, staring at inanimate objects. Bob, who stole my seat on the couch, has his eyes locked on the tv stand for some reason, looking glazed and distant - like the way earth would look from the moon - while Bucky’s glued to the shelf of empty bottles sporting the same dead f*****g gaze. He’s probably thinking about that Five Star he sucked back last night. Now sitting proudly on the top shelf of Bob's bottle collection.

But, f**k!

Say something, somebody…

For some reason it makes me want to jump up and smash their heads together like in the movies, just to get some sort of reaction out of these rotting stumps.

Silence, something about silence makes me sick.

Silence, and lack of thought.

A blank mind is hard to tolerate.

It’s sort of like a clerk.

In an empty shoe store, or something.

Wishing not for chaos.

No.

But just one simple customer. Something, anything to break the silence.

As if the sole company

of their own mind

was slowly killing them, somehow.

An overweight over-the-hiller peeks in the window - puts his chubby, hairy hand over his tired eyes to get a better view against the glare.

You beg for him to enter.

Your mind begs for him to enter.

But he lowers his thick arm, and continues on his way, with complete disinterest.

Damn.

Hello?

No one.

Emptiness.

The mind begins to contemplate chaos, violence,

Excitement.

Suddenly, there’s a clamor at Bob’s door and we’re all snapped out of our trances to gaze upon the first guest of the new day.

Nobody knocks here, and Bob never locks door.

…I wonder which inanimate object I was staring at.

“Hey, man. What’s up? And what’s that under your arm?”

“Yeah, Dave. What the f**k is that thing?”

………………………………..............................................

F**k, Reef. What the hell are you doing?

You really got yourself in some crazy s**t now. Deep pools of human fecal matter.

The telephone poles keep on flying by,

everything seems so surreal

It’s like they’re moving and I’m not.

Except that I’m definitely moving. And fast.

This all feels like a bad dream or something - it can’t be real - but it can’t be a dream.

I know I haven’t slept in three days.

Can you feel tired in a dream?

I remember swimming in a dream once, but never feeling wet.

F**k. End of the road, which way - quick, Reef, think - f**k. I don’t know.

Left.

Always left.

I need some music or something,

to take the edge off.

How does this stupid radio work?

This technology is foreign to me.

Oh man, the look on that guy’s face when I jacked his van was priceless. People are way too f*****g trusting. I’ll have to thank him sometime for the favor…

Ha! And the b*****d even got me a coffee! It’s a little cold, but hey - I’ll have to add him to my list of people not to kill.

Okay, so the radio's on now...but this club music bullshit isn't...how do I change it?

Change this s**t, Reef.

It's slowly driving me crazy...

Hehehe, crazy.

I wonder if he’s got any good tapes or anything. Where the - f****n -

S**t, Reef. Eyes on the road, man. Keep it together.

Ah, f**k it, there’s got to be something on the radio somewhere.

Nirvana. That'll do, pig.

I forget the name of the song, but it’ll definitely do. Good ole pre-millennium music…

“When I was an alien, cultures weren't opinions.”

Stupid f*****g wrist tag thingy - why do they have to make ‘em so hard to rip off - and how did I get in that crazy hospital to begin with? That’s weird. I can’t remember at all.

Nope.

Nothing.

I wonder if it was one of those weird clinics where they turn people into sheep or cows or something. I don’t know, it’s some sort of farm animal. I bet they could turn a human fetus into a cow fetus " like that fetal cow I saw once when I was in school.

They look so much cooler than a human one, with little hooves instead of feet…

“Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.”

F**k. Think Reef, think.

You’ve got to get out of here, they’re going to find you eventually,

...and bring you back to that crazy place.

You can’t escape them.

Or maybe I can. I could just keep pulling ‘pump-n-runs’ for gas and floor it up North somewhere. Change my name to Pablo and live off of venison and fish. Train a falcon to hunt for me, and wear deerskin pants. Yeah, I could make all my clothing out of deerskin, a fancy coat hanger from the antlers - get back to my roots - oooooh, and I’ll even have little crow‘s skull shot glasses. Turtle shell bowls.

Sweet.

“Gotta find a way, a better way, to get away. Gotta find a way, right away, right away.“

My mind’s f****n' racing. I think it’s all those drugs they pumped into me, those crazy doctors…

Hard to really remember what happened.

I just keep getting random flashes of information...

“Where am I? Who the hell are you people?”

“So many questions!” The doctor turns to his associates, whom all smile madly while tapping their fingertips together - the hollow sound of bone hitting bone - saliva hangs from lower lips.

I could feel the butterflies of tension growing restless within me. My discomfort turned to pain and they grew increasingly more violent. With little warning, they tore themselves free from the fabric of my stomach like a bad flashback from the cocoon. Demanding freedom, and ripping past the doctors and out the room as a fourth white figure opened the door to enter.

This fourth doctor had a tray in front of him, and tightened his grasp to protect the neatly arranged surgical tools that slept upon it’s surface as the insects shot past.

Tools which were no doubt intended to be used on yours truly.

So, for lack of a better opportunity, I seized the one at hand and blitzed towards the closing door like water through a tap, and spilled out into the vacant hallway. I quickly spun and sprinted left, noticing the butterflies far ahead of me, almost out of sight.

They looked like flower petals, dancing in a summer breeze, I thought. And I saw everything from outside of myself as I ran.

The hallways were long and f*****g plentiful. I began to feel like Pac-Man: running the maze, smashing through evenly spaced nurses while a group of angry men give chase with the intent to kill. Through doors, around corners, up and down stairs, yelling various obscenities the whole way.

“You'll never take me alive, fuckers!”, which came out of my mouth in a series of slurred gibberish and spit.

After what seemed like forever I found an exit, and was released unto the busy sounds of the city, completely unscathed. Bright lights compressing into focus.

Home sweet home…

Weird flashbacks.

Who the hell were those guys? They sure didn’t act like any doctors I’d ever seen before. F**k, I wish I would’ve paid more attention to where I was, too. I could have gone back and found out what that place was, and what they were trying to do to me.

What was that gas station that was near there.

Think.

Oh, don’t worry Reef. I’m certain you’ll be back there.

Soon enough.

“Gotta get away, get away, get awaaaaaaaaaay. Gotta get away, get away, get awaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.”

So what the hell is your plan, Reef?

You’ll have to figure something out. It’s either that, or drive around until you run out of gas and a cop finds you sleeping in this stolen van, stranded.

So tired.

Wait a minute. I know where I am.

If I'm not mistaken...

Yeah, for sure. Okay.

Bob lives just a few blocks over I think.

Yeah, just a few streets over this way.

I remember this street - yeah, yeah, definitely.

I’m certain he won’t mind if I stop in and crash for like an hour or so. I could really use a bit of sleep,

It’ll help me think straight.

“Well, that wraps up another 40 minute X-block with a song from Nirvana, Territorial Pissing, from their classic album, Nevermind. We’ll be back after a few short words from our many sponsors.”

………………………………...............................

Droops crushes his smoke butt into the cheap tin ashtray that rests upon our table in the bar between our drinks, before continuing on his rant:

“I mean, this world just fills me with such f*****g rage at times,”

...he stops mid-sentence before taking a swig from the pint freshly brought over by red-haired waitress. She was quite cute actually.

“ - that I swear I could just spontaneously combust. The stress. It can be completely unbearable at times, you know? And you want to know what the root of all this stress is.”

...sip...

“ - that courses through me with such an intense amount of pressure? You want to know the source? Money.”

...sip...

“That’s the beginning and end of it, my friend. And why is this such an unbearable burden on my shoulders? I mean, ‘It’s just money. It’s a part of life.' you say. Exactly. Eg-f*****g-xactly.”

...sip...

“I can’t even quench my thirst, or cure a hunger pain, or sleep in comfort without the s**t. I can’t fulfill my essential daily needs if I don’t have enough money to pay for them.”

...sip...followed by pulling a fresh butt from his pack and lighting it...

“They’re essential f*****g needs! Shouldn’t they fall into some sort of different, moneyless category? Water used to, unless it was heated, but now you have to pay for nearly any form of water, because it has to be treated first, which,”

...puff...

“ - you guessed it,”

...sip...

“ - costs money. Basically, with enough money you can live a long, healthy, and happy life, without it you risk starving or freezing and dying in mere days.

“And that’s another thing that gets under my skin; people starving and dying while others who are well off aren’t willing to give up a single f*****g penny to help them out. I know how it is. I’ve been hungry and homeless,”

...sip...

“ - and tried asking people for money. The all f*****g assume that it’s your own fault you fell so low, and the reason is probably drugs, and why the hell should they go out of their way to help you. They know how to ‘survive’”

...finger quotations...sip...puff...

“They know how to get by in the world. Tough luck for you. And then they walk by with their head turned away like they never saw you, after they’ve already given you an evil sneer. F*****g, telling themselves that they send fifty dollars a year to a faceless child in Africa which is tax deductible, and that justifies them not helping me out, along with any other person they see dying on the sidewalk. All these people. Ignoring the everyday harsh reality of the world, and society supports it.

F**k.”

Droops finally stops long enough to consider his thought complete, and he downs the rest of his pint. The glass dripped a bit of sweat as he tilted it, which got crushed beneath the weight of the glass as he slammed it back down on the table, empty.

“I hate being on the bottom.”

...I guess he wasn't quite done after all.

“You know what this world needs, Spudley? Is a swift kick to the teeth. I’m f*****g telling you, you show a bit of weakness in someone and all of a sudden they’re less than you. They are instantly forced below you, raising you higher. Because the thing is, everybody sins. Everybody. And if you wait long enough - which usually isn’t very long at all - they’ll f**k up, giving you something to use against them, for leverage. You can essentially knock out teeth all the way to the top, but mentally beating the s**t out of them, you know? It’s not on a physical level at all, that’ll just turn negative. Action reaction type s**t. You get what I’m saying, eh Spudley”

I suddenly realize that Droops has been talking for quite some time, and by the end of it I was barely paying attention to his words anymore. Just his motions and gestures, and occasionally the movement of the waitress now at the other end of the pub. Try to recover, quick:

“Uh…s**t. Sorry, man. Something about action reaction.”

“I was saying how some people need a swift kick in the teeth. That's what I was saying. F**k. Go get us a couple more beers. Service here is terrible, I wish that chick would pay more attention to this end of the bar.”

...me too.

Author's Note

First 15 pages. My chapters are extremely short, so it made the most sense to group them this way. A lot of variation in style between each perspective, curious as to how that comes across to the reader. Notes on consistency would be appreciated.
Full manuscript is approx. 140 pages.