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It was a dark night on the cobblestone streets of dreary 1845 London Town. The skies were masked by dark, menacing clouds, from them pouring a cold drizzle. Practically every pedestrian sported an intensely ribbed black umbrella, the ends sharp enough to skewer the unfortunate rats scuttling about in the filthy alleyways, should they feel brave enough to venture out from the rubbish and search for scraps at the feet of passers by. If you were to walk by the very same alley, you may, if you are the listening type, hear the gentle mumbling and giggling of Alistair, the poor thing, his only friends filthy rats, his only clothes the same he wore as a child, his own self still unbreeched, never becoming the man his family had always meant for him to be. With a damp rat in one of his gloved hands, he would look up at you, should you be foolish enough to investigate his existence, hold out his hand and, with a gentle smile, query...
"would you be my friend?"
"would you be my friend?"
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