[h2][i][color=olivedrab]Brian McConaughan[/color][/i][/h2][hr]

[color=olivedrab]"Another..."[/color] the man sitting alone at the bar muttered as he slammed his glass down. The ice rattled against the glass. He was hunched forward in the stool, elbows on the table and head threatening to come crashing down on the water-stained hardwood counter any moment, but his bloodshot eyes managed to stay open enough to listlessly watch the bartender pour him another whiskey. McConaughan’s world was spinning, but he was far past the jovial feeling that comes from a light buzz; that had gone hours ago before he’d thrown up in the bathroom twice. No, he was well into the mental and emotional heaviness that comes from a near blackout.

His tattered brown leather trench coat weighed heavily on his broad shoulders as he reached a hand up to sweep the longer part of his undercut away from his sweaty forehead. He slicked it back and revealed his prominent widow’s peak, a trait inherited from his father. Much like his lifestyle. There was no choice in it, but there was certainly pride present, whether earned or not.

The bar was nearly empty at this point save for McConaughan, the bartender, and only a handful of other vagrants. At least, he liked to think of them as vagrants so he wasn’t the only one. Perhaps he entertained the idea to dull the disappointment in himself that alcohol just couldn’t seem to touch. He could barely take down a single mark nowadays with the bloodsuckers out in the open. Before they’d come out of the coffin, he could hunt one and kill it in the same night. Now, it was more complicated. He had to follow them around for a while to learn their schedule, who would miss them, how to kill them inconspicuously, and how to evade the authorities. It was ironic that now vampires were so easily identifiable, they were harder than ever to hunt. The idea of giving rights to these demons, accepting them into society...it made him enraged to the core. So much so that a sudden sharp pain in his hand snapped him back to the present. He looked down to see he’d been gripping the glass so tightly, it had shattered, slicing into the thick skin of his meaty hand. He grunted out in pain as the whiskey soaked into the cuts and mingled with his blood on the counter.

[color=olivedrab]“Shit,”[/color] he slurred, using his left hand to brush away those loose shards that hadn’t managed to embed themselves deep within his skin. The barstool screeched across the floorboards as he stood, almost fell backwards, and made his way unsteadily to the restroom and leaving a trail of blood on the floor behind him, much to the shock of the few people still here. As he was working to rid his right hand of any more glass, he wasn’t even thinking about the pain. He wasn’t even thinking about his ashamed drunkenness. No, he could only think of how now he wouldn’t be able to use his favorite handheld crossbow with his dominant hand injured. There wasn’t much more he could have done at the moment to sink his self esteem any lower, save for letting a leech suck his blood, he supposed.