A disheveled man stumbled out a heavy front door.

His putrid breath reeked of alcohol and bile. Murky spots of ketchup and crumbs coated his mediocre blue suit. In his hand, he held a leather suitcase, the grip falling apart from wear. His tired blue eyes darted from spot to spot, accompanying his paranoid, mad shuffle forwards. A green glass bottle was clenched tightly in his other hand.

This man was Alister Moore.

“Fuck you, assholes!” He slurred. With unsteady aim, he kicked the heavy bar door. “Fuck all of you! See if I fucking come back, jackasses!” He yelled.

Clenching his suitcase under his armpit, he searched his pockets for a pack of lighters and a cigarette. A cold breeze gently blew across the street, the flickering flame extinguishing into a thin pillar of smoke. It grazed against Alister’s wild brown hair.

“Shit.” Alister mumbled. He tried again, only to find his cigarette soaked, the stench of alcohol brushing his nostrils. “Just my fucking luck.”

Alister slowly paced down the street. He carefully planned each step - left, right, left, left, no, right. Each step left him unsteady. Passing by a stray cat, he spat, but missed. He swerved towards a nearby building wall, stabilizing himself against it. His vision blurred and he could see everything double. His right eyelid hung loose and shut itself rhythmically, only to open again.

The streets were nearly empty. A group of teenagers hung around - a pathetic defiance against their parent’s whims. But the sun had set, and most people had retreated home. Alister lifted his bottle and chugged, smashing it against a wall when it emptied. He paused and keeled over. Alister’s stomach convulsed. A moment later, his stomach emptied again.

Slowly, Alister lifted his head. He stood face-to-face with a poster. Some electoral candidate; a republican. Brian Fox. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Fuck you.” He said, wailing his fist against the poster. The alcohol numbed the pain from smashing the brick wall. “Fuck you, piece of shit, give me my fucking job back.”

He spat on the poster. For a moment, he stopped his pitiful protest. Alister had a brilliant idea. He zipped his pants open, exposing himself publicly. Undeterred, he whipped out his John, aiming it against the candidate’s face. He cackled madly as a stream of yellow splashed against the poster. Turning his head around, he saw that the teenagers were pointing at him.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“What’re you assholes looking at?” He yelled. He flipped them off. They responded with jeers and a curse of their own, but he didn’t understand what they said. The world swirled around him, his senses numbed and twisted to a mish-mash of grey.

Alister continued down the road. Without a goal, a destination, he stumbled towards the city park. Both his eyes were now droopy, the eyelids slowly covering what little sense of vision he had left. Rows upon rows of green lamps lit the gravel road of the city park. Golden leaves flocked to and fro, swishing from here to there. A beautiful orange flourished amongst the Maple trees lining the coastline of a small pond. Right next to it was an empty bench.

Feeling sick, Alister sat himself down. He took a deep breath in. The cold air faintly seared against his throat, but he liked the burn. He grimaced, remembering that he’d run out of alcohol. Artificial light sparkled in the reflection of the pond. The moon hadn’t risen quite yet. Alister sighed.

He felt tired. The cool air was blocked out by his thick beige coat. The temperature felt just right. Perfect for a quiet nap. His mind was clouded, and in that moment, he couldn’t care less if some junky robbed his suitcase blind. His files were worth less than kindling anyhow.

He struggled to keep his eyelids up. After each opening, his eyelids closed shut harder than before. Alister slowly gave in, his eyes closing for a final time.

For a moment, it felt like something pressed against him.

A sudden splash left Alister feeling more awake than ever. Unlike a single moment before, his senses were sharp. There was a clarity to each and every thought he formed; a crystal clear reality to each sensation he felt. He knew he couldn’t have fallen asleep. The strain in his legs told him that he’d been standing for some while.

His eyes opened to an unfamiliar scene. The moon shone down a dark alleyway. Cramped in both sides by large trash cans, he smelled the faint odour of piss. And something else. A sharp note of saltiness; iron?

Alister held his left hand up to investigate the splash. Some liquid had gushed onto his face, his clothing, everything. His hand slowly travelled against a wet, grimy patch, slowly drawing a line on his right cheek. Alister stuck his hand out to examine.

His fingers were coated with a warm layer of crimson; a beautiful, ruby-red, glimmering under the moonlight.

Alister didn’t understand. He was confused. So, he looked down, to his feet, to his right hand.

His right fist clenched a knife. The surface shone with the deepest red he’d ever seen.

His outfit was completely different. The first thing he noticed was the cheap poncho he’d never bought. It, too, glimmered with this mysterious red. He wasn’t stupid enough to step into the office with rubber boots, and yet, it replaced his khaki dress shoes. Alister looked ahead at the cold cement.

In front of him lay the corpse of Brian Fox. Small geysers gushed out streams of the beautiful liquid. A crimson puddle blossomed under his very feet - he could see himself reflected in it. The corpse was riddled with cuts and stabs; the expensive navy suit ruined and ripped to shreds.

Alister tasted the blood on his lips. Warm.