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Jul. 13th, 2017 03:12 pmEven by Mad Sweeney's insane fucking standards, it's been a weird bloody week.
The bed in the apartment given to him is a touch too small, and his feet hang over the end, but it's a far sight more comfortable than the ice cream truck had been and better than most of the places he's slept over the past few years by leaps and bounds, so he stays there now. When he's not too drunk to make his way home, that is, which has happened once or twice already.
But he's gone to the apartment, rolled his own cigarettes, tucked them into a silver case he'd found at a second hand store not far away. Every now and then, swiping something for no other reason than he can gives him a little wriggle of pleasure, but he has the money to spare and when he offers the owner three of his gold coins for the case, she nearly shits her pants in delight.
So he's got hand rolled cigarettes and a case to put them in, a cheap plastic lighter and his own, well loved flask, but he's in a bar where he can't drink what he's brought, can't smoke his cigarettes, can't even pick the bloody music on the jukebox, and not even his beloved Southern Comfort and coke tastes right.
The cuts on his face have yet to heal, probably because he keeps reopening them in fights that only satisfy him for an hour or so, and then he's back to this. No luck, no way out, no Dead Wife, no Wisconsin, and no fucking coin. So he's sitting here in this dark, shitty bar, poking the scab on one cheek, wondering if it's worth yanking it open again just for that little burst of pain.
"Aiteann," he mutters, though he's loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby. It's not directed at them and chances are they won't bloody well understand him anyway.
The bed in the apartment given to him is a touch too small, and his feet hang over the end, but it's a far sight more comfortable than the ice cream truck had been and better than most of the places he's slept over the past few years by leaps and bounds, so he stays there now. When he's not too drunk to make his way home, that is, which has happened once or twice already.
But he's gone to the apartment, rolled his own cigarettes, tucked them into a silver case he'd found at a second hand store not far away. Every now and then, swiping something for no other reason than he can gives him a little wriggle of pleasure, but he has the money to spare and when he offers the owner three of his gold coins for the case, she nearly shits her pants in delight.
So he's got hand rolled cigarettes and a case to put them in, a cheap plastic lighter and his own, well loved flask, but he's in a bar where he can't drink what he's brought, can't smoke his cigarettes, can't even pick the bloody music on the jukebox, and not even his beloved Southern Comfort and coke tastes right.
The cuts on his face have yet to heal, probably because he keeps reopening them in fights that only satisfy him for an hour or so, and then he's back to this. No luck, no way out, no Dead Wife, no Wisconsin, and no fucking coin. So he's sitting here in this dark, shitty bar, poking the scab on one cheek, wondering if it's worth yanking it open again just for that little burst of pain.
"Aiteann," he mutters, though he's loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby. It's not directed at them and chances are they won't bloody well understand him anyway.
