Thread: Over the Tracks (Corybantic + Blinkk)

The alarm clock screamed, as if to summon the dead from the depths of the earth. One eye cracks open, disoriented by the late afternoon sun glaring through the cracked window between the heavy curtains, which coats the otherwise dark room with prismatic sprays of multi-coloured light. Slowly an arm appears from out of the covers and with a palpable air of resignation, turns the alarm off and peels back the sheets. In one corner of the room, a small landfill is beginning to gather. Discarded whisky and beer bottles, empty take-away food containers and other detritus of modern life have begun to collect, and the experienced eye can spot that these have only been accumulating for a week or so. With a groan, the man in the bed heaves himself upright and searches for a bottle, any bottle that has not yet been given last rights and a proper burial. One bottle of cheap beer seems to have a promising weight to it, and he takes a long pull of the brew, wincing at the flat, warm, stale taste of the liquid as it slides down his throat. Properly fortified, he shuffles over to the window, screws his courage to the sticking plate, and parts the curtains. Suddenly the room is suffused by a weak and anemic light, the reflection of a reflection of the sun, bounced of a skyscraper to the tenement housing across the way right into his bedroom. By the standards of the neighbourhood, this was prime real estate. Owned by some slum-lord who turned up for the rent every month but was noticeably absent when things needed to be fixed. But that was par for the course, and he was somewhat lucky that this one wasn't one of the ones that tried to squeeze even more from his tenants, off the books or the cops are called. Or one of the ones that were less interested in cash money and loved to negotiate 'alternative arrangements' if you had the right attributes. He had been unceremoniously evicted from his last flop when he had expressed his displeasure at the landlord's practices. Well, once that fucker had time to get out of hospital and round up a few thugs to escort him properly from the premises. He took that beating, knowing what was up. They mustn't have had pride in their work because they only busted 2 ribs. Harrison had been enrolled in the school of hard knocks since he could walk. His parent's had done what they could, but his mother was unable to work and his father was a small time fence operating out of a storage unit near the docs, so money was erratic at best. Harrison's mother died during his time at elementary school, and it did not take long before he began acting out. Between his unwillingness to reform and his father's coarse attempts at discipline, Harrison soon was his own man and by his early teens had left home. He fell in with some other like minded kids from the neigbourhood and they managed to avoid the consequences for their skirting the law. A run in with a persuasive army recruiter saw Harrison sign up for four years, getting his high school equivalency at age 21. Harrison did not really suit army life, the rules and regulations chafed at his rebellious, independent nature. But he stuck it out for those four years, narrowly avoiding a couple of court martials along the way. When he left the army, he drifted for a while before finding himself returning to the old city, and gravitating back to the old haunts. He found he had no more taste for his previous illegal activities, most of his old gang were gone. He fondly recalled his father's stories, and the dreams that they engendered in his young mind. He remembered vividly the dream he had of opening a bar, a neutral territory where he didn't have to break the law to earn a living, and he would still command respect from the competing interests. So he tried to start that bar, but soon found that the money he had put away during his service was not enough capital to build on, and banks were'nt exactly lining up to give him a business loan, although they seemed fine with sending him credit card offers. Failure hit him hard, and he descended into a spiral of women, booze and finally drugs. When he was 27, his long time girlfriend died from an overdose, and this scared him enough to clean out. Now he was on the path to rebuilding his life. He'd got himself back into shape using the routine he developed in the army. Harrison also landed a job at one of clubs on the fringes of the shady part of town, and now 5 years later it was a real possibility that he'd become bar manager soon. If he could keep his shit together. Yawning, Harrison scratched his thick stubble and showered, moving on auto-pilot. He even managed to shave today. Drying his dark brown hair he engaged his reflection in a staring contest. Neither was much of a winner as apparently passing out completely hammered for 10 hours didn't quite equate with a good nights sleep. Harrison rubbed his bleary eyes and finger combed his hair. He would not be looking his best tonight. Donning his customary uniform, the black button down, dark jeans, heavy work boots designed to keep him on his feet from 6pm to 6am. Finishing his ensemble with a thigh length black leather jacket, the most expensive piece of clothing he owned, Harrison locked his apartment and headed in to work to start setting up.