1: They Would Sob

            After more than a couple of years of me being alive I realized that, though people like to masquerade as though they were a part of something better, the underlying culture of this world is that of vultures. They prey on the weak, dying, and dead, because if they try to punch up, they too will become weak, dying, and or dead. I was one of the weak and dying for a long time. Gambling houses are an easy place for Vultures to get their fill. 

            Sad, lonely, poor, and pathetic are what I would describe the people who went to those types of establishments. And, I was no exception. The people who run them though. They wouldn’t be able to look their own mother in the face without thinking, I wonder how much money I would make, if I sold her. 

            I feel sorry for their parents. 

            Kicking an addiction ain’t easy, that’s for sure, and goddamn are those slopes slippery. But, if you owe a king’s ransom worth of money to at least two different mobs, you learn to stay away from dark corners, alleys, shady pubs, dilapidated buildings, and gambling dens. 

            Now, sometimes I make the wrong turn, or I don’t read the room, and I end up like I am right now. Most likely bruised and bloody. 

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            Now if I had a mirror on me I would take it out and inspect myself, but I don’t, and I probably wouldn’t like the picture anyway. What I do know, is that I have a special knife embedded in my chest. Supposed to make me die faster or something. They were talking about something or other with triangle tips. I’m not too sure why they were talking about their pricks, maybe they should see a doctor about that. 

            Either way, I made a promise to myself, maybe twenty years ago now, when I went to the clink for the first time, to stay outta trouble and keep my head down. If I did keep that promise though, I would not be where I am today, or the man that I am. And where I am today, like stated before, is beaten, bruised, and bloodied in a back alley of some goddamn bakery or whatever. Who cares really, where I die.

            Because I know that I am dead very soon. And then those Vulture’s pretending to be people, are going to crawl out of the woodwork, and feast on my flesh. I just hope to god they leave my few worldly possessions be, but knowing them, probably not. 

            Oh, well. Good riddance. See ya, you fucking knobs. Smell you later, you unwashed donkeys. Kill yourselves, and do us all a favour.

            Last thing I remember is pulling the dagger out of my chest, and feeling blood gush out like I tore down a dam. 

            First thing I seen though? Would make those aforementioned weak and dying, fall down to their knees. And sob.