In an area of shady reputation, among run-down apartment buildings, there was a certain street. That street, littered with various piles of refuse and trash, gave off the pungent aroma typical to the area, a mix of vomit, cigarette smoke and week old garbage. Along the street, there was the occasional dingy pub and on the corner a small, run-down supermarket. Among the pedestrians minding their own business, droves of drunks could be seen, hanging around under the eaves, taking cover from the rain. Sirens could constantly be heard in the distance and the dark alleyways looked anything but inviting.
In one of the less shabby pubs, a scuffle could be heard as vulgar curses and loud noises of breaking furnishing rang out. Through its door, someone who seemed to be its bouncer walked out, dragging a scraggly man with a vomit-soaked shirt behind him. The bouncer was a big, pale-skinned man of around 190cm, his bulging muscles visible under the tight shirt he was wearing. Unceremoniously, he threw the man in one of the refuse piles nearest the door and walked back into the pub, brushing his hands off. All in all, it was just another rainy day in the dreary London slums.
The man just lay there, rain pelting his back while some unknown fluid from the pile further soiled his front. After a minute the man began moving again. With a grunt of effort, he tried standing back up, immediately falling down again as the world seemed to be spinning rapidly. After a few more minutes of heroic struggle, the man began making his way home, not forgetting to kick any beggar that tried to illegally solicit funds from him.
After half an hour of trodding and swaying, the man somehow made it back to his house, a run-down, single-story brick house. With fumbling hands, he unlocked the rusted, iron gate and walked inside. Inside, the garden that lined the tiled way up to his house, was fully overgrown with weeds. It had a lone tree, a thing with a grey color and bare branches, looking dead and lifeless. On one of its branches, the remains of an old swing could be seen hanging from it, only fastened with one end of a rope.
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With unsteady steps, the man walked down the path, coming to a stop as he got a glimpse of the tree. Muttering under his breath, he said.
"Need to cut that damn thing down, it's blocking my sunlight." After saying such, he walked up to the front door, unlocking it.
The inside of the house was just as dreary as the outside. Only the bare minimum of furniture could be seen. A small table with two chairs in the kitchen. A single leather reclining chair and a medium sized tv in the large living room. In his bedroom, a single bed with an empty vodka bottle on the nightstand. Clothes were piled in a heap and everything was covered in a layer of dust, just as if it hadn't been cleaned in quite a while.
Kicking off his soaked boots, the man walked toward the kitchen. As he entered the bare, cold room, he stopped in his tracks, bewildered. After taking a moment to process, he turned his head away from the kitchen and raised his voice.
"Kaley! Get your ass over here! Where the hell is sup..."
Stopping mid-sentence, he finally remembered what had happened. He walked over the cupboard and took out a fresh bottle of brandy and headed for the living room and just before he propped himself into the chair, he seemed to remember something and stopped. Lifting the neck of his shirt to his nose, he took a whiff... and promptly had to repress a gag, recoiling from the stench.
The pungent mix of week-old sweat, vomit and the fluids that accumulate at the bottom of a dumpster assaulted his nose. It was truly an ungodly odor. After coughing for a minute while his eyes teared, he quickly stripped his clothes and before entering the shower, he made a mental note to burn them.
After returning to the living room, now clothed in a stained whitish T-shirt and a checkered pair of boxer shorts, he plopped into the recliner, opened the bottle and took a big swig.
"I'm too sober for this shit."