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Earl woke up that morning feeling a little tense. This was understandable seeing as how he had been on the run all night from a bunch of high school teenagers. Being homeless was not particularly easy or fun, but matters were much harder when bored kids with too much free time got a hold of you.
It had started off a little easier. Punch a wall, get a five spot. That accounted for the soreness of his arm. Guzzle a bottle of old spice, score a twenty. Yep the old gut was a little angry about that one. Earl leaned off his rag pile and tossed up. Much better.After that it got a little hazy. He vaguely remembered spray painting, "I eat dick" on the side of a grocery store. Also he...wait a second?
Where the fuck was he? Earl sat up and looked right out a second story window. This was not the railroad tracks. He had never even been here. He stood up on shaky legs and tried to get his bearings. Something pulled hard on his matted hair. Reaching behind his head Earl found an envelope thoughtfully duct taped to his head. He pulled the envelope, and a clump of oily hair, off his head. Inside was a letter.
"Hope you didn't forget the game. You're[sic] piece is by the stairs."
What game? What was a piece? Hell, what stairs? Where was he?"
Earl looked in his pockets, still fifty bones there. Time to go get some breakfast. Fuck those little shits. The note was probably just a part of some game anyway. There was only one door out of the classroom.
*And I have to keep writing later. Time to leave work*
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- people who have fallen into solitary, half-mad grooves of life and given up trying to be normal or decent.
George Orwell
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