Post by Shawn Duncan on Oct 1, 2020 5:20:20 GMT
The morning sun cracked over the trees bringing with it a new day; and a new list of problems. It was early, earlier than Shawn ever cared to be awake, but he couldn't sleep more than three hours a night. The nightmares made sure of that. More often than not they were dulled by the burning taste of whiskey or something stronger if he could get his hands on it. He was down to his last drop yesterday. The bitter taste of motivation was tingling in the back of his mouth. He had to move. He couldn't wither away in this rusty box any longer.
He couldn't tell you how long he had been living in this storage locker. He had made it his own. There was a dirty bed and piles of crap he had accumulated. Nothing he really cared about. Nothing he didn't mind leaving behind. Shawn rolled off the mattress onto his hands and knees. There were creaks and groans from his protesting body fighting against the urge to stand. He stood up and looked around the dark container. All he really cared about was his jacket. It was black leather with silver buttons and zippers. A well worn patch sewn into the front breast said "Fool's Dice Club" "directly below that was a patch that read "Enforcer"
The leather was worn and cracked, caked in blood and rips scattered here and there told the story of a man who had struggled. Across the back the word Fool screamed across the cracks. A laughing reaper smiled blankly holding out a pair of dice. A roll of the dice and a gamble on bad choices. That's what the Fool's Dice Club was all about. They were all dead. At least that's the way it looked. Shawn stumbled to his feet and leaned against the rolling door. He bent down and pulled up the shutter. A rickety clickety clack of aluminum rolling on steel all but made him stumble back. Fucking hangover. It was like a thunderstorm of sledgehammers trying to break its way out of his skull from the inside. Shawn threw his jacket over his shoulders, carefully sliding his arms inside the sleeves. Chains dangled from the sides. He looked like a guy you didn't want to mess with.
The raw, red spots on his knuckles were caked in blood. He couldn't rightly tell you if it was his blood or someone else's, but did it really matter? He was a whirlwind of bad choices. A leather clad bad idea waiting to happen. If anything ever killed Shawn it would be the booze. The only way to go in his opinion. Still, the loneliness was starting to get to him. He hadn't seen another living person in months. He hadn't really been looking. He spent most of his nights tucked away in his own little corner of hell slowly slipping down into a bottle of tonight's poison. Sunlight spilled into the hallway of the storage facility. It was fucking offensive. Shawn growled at the light and ran his tattooed fingers through his hair.
The lonely echoes of his boots was the only sound he heard aside from the growling of his empty stomach. Got to find food. Got to find people. He was two steps away from finding a gun and painting the ceiling with what little brain cells he had left. "2 days." He said quietly as he moved towards the stairs. "If I don't find anyone in 2 days....I'll blow my fucking brains out." He said. He only gave himself two days because in two days time it was his daughter's birthday. He would celebrate quietly before he kissed this world goodbye. If he ever owed her anything he owed her that.
The air outside was chilly. The morning brought with it a fog that rolled across the wet grass. His dirty white shirt was sticking to his body. Wasn't even six am yet and he was drenched in sweat. A few roaming sets of teeth hung on the fence. Teeth. It's what he called the walkers. He heard them called many things, but he always just called them teeth. He sighed as he moved across the empty parking lot to where he hid his bike. Strapped to the saddle bag was his baseball bat Miguel Cabrerra. Named after the Detroit Tiger's 3rd baseman. A homerun swinger if there ever was one. He grabbed his bat and turned slowly.
Fuck his head was ringing like a fucking telethon. He walked over to the fence, dragging the bat across the ground behind him. It scraped and made the most horrible; foreboding sound. Shawn grabbed the gate with one hand and shoved it open, pushing it across his body. His muscles tense and flexed. He almost wanted to cry out in pain. His ribs have been aching for a few days. He didn't know why. He couldn't just stop at the Dr's office and pick up a prescription and get a fucking check up. The teeth almost instantly turned towards him and started to stumble in. It was only two of them. That was easy. He extended his arm putting the bat in one of their chests.... It held him at bay. He slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers slid through the cool familiar metal of his brass knuckles.
A smirk slipped across his face. He punched the second one in the face dropping it flat. Still his extended arm held the first set of teeth in place. It's arms desperately reached for him, but his attention was on the one on the ground. With one swift stomp it's brains leaked on the pavement. Slowly his head turned back to the first set of teeth. "Carbrerra steps up to the plate." He said with a smile. He got too much enjoyment out of this. It was almost sick how much he liked putting these bastards down. "Bottom of the 9th, it all comes down to this...." He said as if he were an announcer commentating an actual ballgame.
He let it go, lowering the bat and letting his arms fall to his sides. There was almost a casualness to his calm demenor. The teeth got closer. Closer. He swung hard enough to make his ribs scream in pain. He took it's head clean off. Shawn doubled over holding his ribs and coughing as he watched it's head roll across the ground. "Fucking ballgame!" He spat. It was time to leave this place behind. He was done drinking himself to death. He was ready to die. He just didn't want to die alone and not before he wished his baby girl happy birthday one more time.
Made by Riley at THQ!
He couldn't tell you how long he had been living in this storage locker. He had made it his own. There was a dirty bed and piles of crap he had accumulated. Nothing he really cared about. Nothing he didn't mind leaving behind. Shawn rolled off the mattress onto his hands and knees. There were creaks and groans from his protesting body fighting against the urge to stand. He stood up and looked around the dark container. All he really cared about was his jacket. It was black leather with silver buttons and zippers. A well worn patch sewn into the front breast said "Fool's Dice Club" "directly below that was a patch that read "Enforcer"
The leather was worn and cracked, caked in blood and rips scattered here and there told the story of a man who had struggled. Across the back the word Fool screamed across the cracks. A laughing reaper smiled blankly holding out a pair of dice. A roll of the dice and a gamble on bad choices. That's what the Fool's Dice Club was all about. They were all dead. At least that's the way it looked. Shawn stumbled to his feet and leaned against the rolling door. He bent down and pulled up the shutter. A rickety clickety clack of aluminum rolling on steel all but made him stumble back. Fucking hangover. It was like a thunderstorm of sledgehammers trying to break its way out of his skull from the inside. Shawn threw his jacket over his shoulders, carefully sliding his arms inside the sleeves. Chains dangled from the sides. He looked like a guy you didn't want to mess with.
The raw, red spots on his knuckles were caked in blood. He couldn't rightly tell you if it was his blood or someone else's, but did it really matter? He was a whirlwind of bad choices. A leather clad bad idea waiting to happen. If anything ever killed Shawn it would be the booze. The only way to go in his opinion. Still, the loneliness was starting to get to him. He hadn't seen another living person in months. He hadn't really been looking. He spent most of his nights tucked away in his own little corner of hell slowly slipping down into a bottle of tonight's poison. Sunlight spilled into the hallway of the storage facility. It was fucking offensive. Shawn growled at the light and ran his tattooed fingers through his hair.
The lonely echoes of his boots was the only sound he heard aside from the growling of his empty stomach. Got to find food. Got to find people. He was two steps away from finding a gun and painting the ceiling with what little brain cells he had left. "2 days." He said quietly as he moved towards the stairs. "If I don't find anyone in 2 days....I'll blow my fucking brains out." He said. He only gave himself two days because in two days time it was his daughter's birthday. He would celebrate quietly before he kissed this world goodbye. If he ever owed her anything he owed her that.
The air outside was chilly. The morning brought with it a fog that rolled across the wet grass. His dirty white shirt was sticking to his body. Wasn't even six am yet and he was drenched in sweat. A few roaming sets of teeth hung on the fence. Teeth. It's what he called the walkers. He heard them called many things, but he always just called them teeth. He sighed as he moved across the empty parking lot to where he hid his bike. Strapped to the saddle bag was his baseball bat Miguel Cabrerra. Named after the Detroit Tiger's 3rd baseman. A homerun swinger if there ever was one. He grabbed his bat and turned slowly.
Fuck his head was ringing like a fucking telethon. He walked over to the fence, dragging the bat across the ground behind him. It scraped and made the most horrible; foreboding sound. Shawn grabbed the gate with one hand and shoved it open, pushing it across his body. His muscles tense and flexed. He almost wanted to cry out in pain. His ribs have been aching for a few days. He didn't know why. He couldn't just stop at the Dr's office and pick up a prescription and get a fucking check up. The teeth almost instantly turned towards him and started to stumble in. It was only two of them. That was easy. He extended his arm putting the bat in one of their chests.... It held him at bay. He slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers slid through the cool familiar metal of his brass knuckles.
A smirk slipped across his face. He punched the second one in the face dropping it flat. Still his extended arm held the first set of teeth in place. It's arms desperately reached for him, but his attention was on the one on the ground. With one swift stomp it's brains leaked on the pavement. Slowly his head turned back to the first set of teeth. "Carbrerra steps up to the plate." He said with a smile. He got too much enjoyment out of this. It was almost sick how much he liked putting these bastards down. "Bottom of the 9th, it all comes down to this...." He said as if he were an announcer commentating an actual ballgame.
He let it go, lowering the bat and letting his arms fall to his sides. There was almost a casualness to his calm demenor. The teeth got closer. Closer. He swung hard enough to make his ribs scream in pain. He took it's head clean off. Shawn doubled over holding his ribs and coughing as he watched it's head roll across the ground. "Fucking ballgame!" He spat. It was time to leave this place behind. He was done drinking himself to death. He was ready to die. He just didn't want to die alone and not before he wished his baby girl happy birthday one more time.
Made by Riley at THQ!