Faraam Knight
Vicious Soldier
11,300 Points
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100
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100
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150
《Ƀooker Ȼompte》
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When Booker was outside and in the sun, he immediately, and almost completely, hated his whole existence. God, why was the sun so damned bright? Didn't it have somewhere to go? It glowed brighter than a ******** thousand watt bulb and did a better job blinding him than a flash bang two inches away from his eyes. Granted, it was probably because he was hung over.
Booker had to get the club and try to regain some of his memory from the night before. All he knew was that something bad had happened last night and he was too, far too, drunk to remember it. Flashes of memory exploded across his vision like watching lights pass by in a dark tunnel. Booker was wearing a dark trench coat, a kevlar vest, and leather pants. He was getting himself has armored as he possibly could; something told him today was going to be violent and very, very painful even through all of the armor. Lately, Booker had been feeling powered up. Like something was coursing through his veins filled with unimaginable power. It might've been some drug he ended up doing the night before while he was drunk because sober, he'd have never done that. He hated the idea of getting high and losing time and chipping years off of his pillar of life. There was a certain charm to the idea of getting high though, he had to admit. No worries, always being happy, and stress literally falling off of his shoulders in waves. But life was supposed to be tough. When you stripped life of the difficult tension that it gives you, you throw away all that it's worth. Life is difficult, it's a b***h, it's luck lit on fire and sent sprawling towards you and you have three shot glasses of water. Three shots, three chances, then you're ******** over. Your choices make the person, your choices make you.
Booker continued down into the pits of the slums. The streets, despite being lit up brightly by the blinding bolt of sun, was still dark and dank. The gutters were filled with wrapped from cheeseburger wrappers, empty cups, and broken shards of beer bottles, used and abused. Each time he passed by a bottle, he felt the need rise up in his stomach. He wanted booze, he wanted to get drunk. He knew he was a hypocrite for hating getting high, and he knew getting drunk was the same thing, but addicts never really cared about stuff like that. And he knew he was an addict; he didn't want to glorify himself. He hated how much he'd come to rely on booze in his later years. Ever since Alice died he'd done just about every despicable thing you could think of in an attempt to fill the void in his heart.
The void would never fill though. When we lose a loved one, we want to fill it in like it's some whole in the desert. We try sex, booze, drugs, and addictions, but no matter what we try to fill it in, we can never fill it up. It comes half full, maybe, but we can never fill it to the brim.
Booker stopped in front of the club. His boots were scuffed, dirty. In his pocket was a .45 revolver. It was a family heirloom. He'd gotten it from his grandfather, who got it from his, and down and down until we got to Wild Bill. Supposedly they were related to the old west Gunslinger and that was why they were all so good when it came to killing. Booker pushed open the door to the club and glanced inside.
The dance floor was covered in passed out teenagers, vomit, and thrown away bags of bud. Booker stepped over some bodies, tip toed away from the bud, and sat down at the bar. The bartender was cleaning out glasses and had thick bags over his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in months. With all the glasses he still had to clean, it was understandable. Booker asked him if he'd come in the night before.
"Oh yeah, ya did. You had this girl all over you. Dark hair, punk clothes, you know the deal."
"I woke up next to her. Where did she come from? I don't remember a thing."
"Real classy, kiddo. Well, anyway, you just looked like you came in with her. You was chatting each other up and sayin' you was some sorta detective. Anyway, you and her went out back, I didn't see you after that. Might wanna ask the bouncer though. George Staccato is his name."
"Is he here?"
"No, you need to chat to him that much?"
"Well, I'd like to know what happened."
"I'm not tellin' you s**t dude. That's just ********' creepy."
"How about for five hundred dollars?"
"You got five hundred?"
"No, but I was wondering if that'd work."
"******** off, dude."
"Okay okay, how about two hundred? And yes, I do have that much."
"Alright, fine. But I gotta see the cash first."
Booker brought out two hundred dollars and set them on the table. His thumb stuck on the very edge of the two one hundred dollar bills. The bartender hesitated, then put the glass down and told Booker where the bouncer lived.
"Thanks." Booker yanked the money away and shoved it back in his pocket then turned out to leave. He only caught a few words from the bartender, and what he said wasn't too pleasant. Some sort of mating between the family dog and his mother. Classy.
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