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Jul. 14th, 2018 01:43 pmBit by bit, his luck drips away.
These days, Mad Sweeney is spending most of his time either in a bar or in his apartment, doing his best to avoid any of the people he's actually come to care about. In his current state, he's bound to just hurt them somehow, inadvertently, but possibly with brutal fucking consequences and so he ignores his phone whenever it rings and drinks until he passes right the fuck out.
If he can spend a day or two lying on his living room floor in black out, utterly dreamless unconsciousness, then he'll consider it a bloody win.
When he goes to a bar, he changes the location every time so he doesn't end up bringing too much of his bad luck down on one place in particular. It means most people can't track his movements either, there's no routine, and so no one comes looking for him. Even if they do, no one finds him.
He's a few drinks in by this point, looking over at the dart board and considering giving it a go. Mostly to see just how many of the darts end up embedded in the back of someone's head due to his shitty luck. Draining the last of his Southern Comfort and coke, he sets the empty glass down on the bar top and raps his knuckles against the wood, indicating he'd like another.
Maybe he's an asshole, but he tips well, and it's not long before the bartender has refilled his drink.
These days, Mad Sweeney is spending most of his time either in a bar or in his apartment, doing his best to avoid any of the people he's actually come to care about. In his current state, he's bound to just hurt them somehow, inadvertently, but possibly with brutal fucking consequences and so he ignores his phone whenever it rings and drinks until he passes right the fuck out.
If he can spend a day or two lying on his living room floor in black out, utterly dreamless unconsciousness, then he'll consider it a bloody win.
When he goes to a bar, he changes the location every time so he doesn't end up bringing too much of his bad luck down on one place in particular. It means most people can't track his movements either, there's no routine, and so no one comes looking for him. Even if they do, no one finds him.
He's a few drinks in by this point, looking over at the dart board and considering giving it a go. Mostly to see just how many of the darts end up embedded in the back of someone's head due to his shitty luck. Draining the last of his Southern Comfort and coke, he sets the empty glass down on the bar top and raps his knuckles against the wood, indicating he'd like another.
Maybe he's an asshole, but he tips well, and it's not long before the bartender has refilled his drink.
