[center][img]http://i362.photobucket.com/albums/oo63/NMShape/coollogo_com-13921598_zpsbde23e32.png[/img][/center] [indent][b]Last Night – 03:15[/indent] [indent]“It’s Just A Little Prick” Tattoo Parlour on 3rd Street, two blocks from Sherman Square[/b][/indent] “Look, you better stay awake. State and Federal law states that I can’t do this unless you’re conscious and consenting.” [b]“Tha’s alright. I—I’m consentational. I—I’ll stay awake.”[/b] “Riiiight. Okay, have you got anything in mind that you want for a design?” Dennis pulled a twisted scrap of paper out of his pocket. “So that’s your design there?” The tattoo artist asked, taking the piece of paper. “’If found, please mail to 101 Main Street, Lost Haven ME...’ you want your home address tattoed on your... wait 101 Main, where is that?” [b]“Heh... tha’s the city morgue.”[/b] [i]Yeah... not my brightest shining moment. As a general rule, people’s brightest shining moments seldom happen at 3:15 in the morning. Even less frequently at a tattoo parlour at that hour. But, when I decided to tell this story, I told myself I’d be brutally honest and well... that’s about as typical a moment that really says “THIS IS DENNIS CONNOLLY” love him or hate him, like him or tolerate him, that I could really think of. It may not be the best of me, but it’s honest. Why I was drunk off my ass in a tattoo parlour at 3:15? We’ll get to that later... but for now, let’s show the flip-side of this. Something to show the kids these kinds of actions have consequences, yeah? So, go on. Let’s cut to the next day...[/i] [center][b]* * * * *[/b][/center] --- [center][b]* * * * *[/b][/center] [b][indent]Before noon, Present Day[/indent] [indent]45 Cork Avenue, Lost Haven (the Little Ulster Quadrant)[/indent][/b] [i]# In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey, butane in my veins so I’m out to cut the junkie, with the plastic eyeballs spray paint the vegetables, dog food stalls with the plastic pantyhose #[/i] The bedside table vibrates as the melodious device continues, ignored. [i]# Kill the headlights and put it in neutral, stock car flamin’ with the loser and cruise control, baby’s in Reno with the vitamin D, got a couple of couches sleep on the love seat #[/i] The bedside table resonates louder, as if the device resents being ignored. [i]# Someone keeps sayin’ I’m insane to complain, about a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt, don’t believe everything that you breathe, you get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve, so shave your face with some mace in the dark, savin’ all your food stamps and burnin’ down the trailer park #[/i] The vibrations on the headboard split through the sleeping man’s skull and reverberated in his brain like a thousand tiny hammers trying to break their way out. Hangovers. The loud reminder of a night of trying to forget. [b]“Humph...”[/b] [i]# Yo... cut it #[/i] [b]“Hrmph... my thoughts exactly...”[/b] the first coherent thoughts of a man struggling to find the disturbance and destroy it before it cracks his head open and leaves his brains trickling out his ears. [i]# Soyyyy un perdedooooor, I’m a loser baby, so why don’t ya kill meeee #[/i] An arm reaches out from the covers, feels around and picks up the phone. [b]“Mmmm-eah?”[/b] he grunts into the phone. “Oh thank God you’re OK! It’s all over the news!” [b]“Geez, ma. Calm down, what’s all over the news?”[/b] “Wait, where are you? Are you home? You can’t be home if you don’t know what I’m talking about... Where’s Grampa Alan?” [b]“Ma, calm down. It’s too early for this. Now slow down. I am home, what’s all over the news?”[/b] “Go check on Grampa Alan...” [b]“Alright, I’ll check on Grampa Alan. I’m going now, I’ll call you right back.”[/b] “No! Don’t hang u--! [b]Clik[/b]” Dennis threw on some pants and a tee, to make the small trek from the accessory apartment he lived in to the main house which was his grandfather’s. Strange that his mother would call on his cell. It’s an expensive call from Seattle, she’d normally call the house number. But for all he knew, maybe she had and he slept through it. He was a pretty heavy sleeper after a night on the town, so it’s not unheard of that he could have slept through... oh... Dennis clung to the door handle. The entire back end of his granny flat (which ironically enough, the grandson lived in) was falling away down into a 70 to 80 foot drop, where it plateaued and the rest of Little Ulster had given way to parkland and greenery. The property seemed to be the border between the rest of the city and oblivion-cum-nature, with his own house seemingly held back from the abyss by the foundations of his grandfather’s house. Dennis scrambled and climbed back up his door-jam into his own house. Overlooking the vast new countryside. [b]“I’m not looking forward to Grampa telling me to take care of the back garden...”[/b] --- * ‘Loser’ lyrics written by Carl Stephenson and Beck Hansen © Universal Music Publishing Group