It was a sunny day in Yargo; the clouds were acting as if
they were agitated with themselves, staying as far away from each other as they
could. The grass in the town square was as blue as dragon’s scales and the sun
beat red-green light upon the land. People in the town square were busy with
the hustle bustle of daily life, trying to ignore the town drunk, Waldorf.
Waldorf could normally be found hanging around the square
begging for any drinks or money (but preferably drinks, and usually the
strongest you have, and oh hey is that a flask you have in your breast coat
pocket. It’s just; I know what that looks like from the outside and I bet you
could spare a swig). Today Waldorf had found himself a new drink of choice,
which by smell alone could put hairs on a fully-grown woman’s chest, and take
them off a man’s chest at the same. This particular drink was known as Jargon’s
special ale.
This ale led to the demise of many a restrained man. And it
was one man in particular that had the joy of feeling the after-effects named
Walter, where our story really begins. Walter, who stood about five feet eight
inches tall when in his stocking feet, had blue-gray eyes and was a rather
plain person. He kept to himself most of the time and tried desperately to keep
his brown mess of hair as in line as he could, but it was a constant battle
that he lost consistently. Right now he was nursing a very strong headache from
the previous night’s festivities.
Walter unwillingly woke up at the crack of dawn; he had been
told to be in the office first thing in the morning for an important meeting
with his boss. He was blasted into wakefulness by ice-cold water spewing from
this shower spigot. After three minutes of soap, lather, rinse he couldn’t feel
any of his appendages and felt it would be a good time to try and warm up.
Dressing was also a bit of a hassle. Why is it when one
needs to be somewhere everything seems to be in the wrong place or just
generally slow you down? After pulling on what he felt were his best choice of
work clothes from the floor, at least they didn’t stink too badly, he walked
outside to locate his car.
The previous night he had gotten himself into all types of
trouble he would never have the pleasure of remembering. He fumbled with his
keys in the lock. Got the door locked and spun around ready for the hunt. The
search ended much quicker than he expected, he found his unsightly black car
parked halfway through a young sapling on the lawn of his apartment complex.
It stood about three feet off the ground, resembling a
cardboard box, and was held together with so many coat hangers one might have
mistaken it for a mobile closet. Being particularly clever (or so he thought),
he sauntered up to his car and quickly drove off before any decent being could
report him.
-V-
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