Haha, just kidding, here it it is, it's not serious at all. Enjoy this! It's one of the few opportunities you'll have in life to sneak peeks at things without getting sued/arrested!
You wake up in your quaint 3 room apartment in one of the shittier sides of Louton. It's the only place in CYStia a hired gun can live nowadays, since Madglee's the chief of police around here, and he doesn't care who kills who as long as the county's mildly tasteful humor quantities are kept up to snuff. But you're not one to complain. Even though there's a gun shot every three hours and a car crash every 5, the citizens are safe from illness, drugs, and all manner of nasty computer virusses. Besides, you were living comfortably, and that was enough for you.
You got out of your squeaky brass bed. You hadn't bothered to add any covers to the stripey blue mattress because the weather was pleasantly warm, and leaving your window open a crack saved you a veritable fortune in heating bills. For the similar reasons, you took the curtains off the windows and let the light flow in during the day. Sure, it brought out all the peeling parts of the depressingly pale, patternless wallpaper, and it made the beige carpet lose its color in places, but in addition to lowering your electric bill, it made the windows harder to see into, which made your daily movements harder to track, which kept counter-assassins, evil science enclaves, the Mad Hatter's daughter, and other filthy undesirables off your trail.
As you stretched, you admired your bedside table. It was an antique mahogany totem that you stole from Malkalack's temple of Capyism because he called you a Nintendofag... And also because you needed a bedside table. Upon it were the kind of things that everyone's bedside tables have.
Most prominently, lamp which was left unplugged, since you don't use electric lighting. you kept it around because it's an excellent bludgeoning weapon.
South of the lamp was shiny tin alarm clock with a hint of rust, marked in roman numerals. You beat it by three minutes today, as usual. Mentally patting yourself on the back, you move to push the button that notifies it of defeat before it goes off uselessly and embarrasses itself.
Next to the clock are some framed stills from a birth video that was filmed by a stranger named Tim Buckley, who was creepy enough to have a camera at the time. That's not the point, though, the point is that these are pictures from your Grandson's first birthday, whose name was... Oh, fucked if I know, the point is he's a firebreathing griffin because she had sex with a forest creature named James, and they had a shotgun wedding, and it was hilarious.
And, of course, an old can that you keep as a treasured memento of your past. It once contained beer, of the bland store-brand variety, with the usual cartoon 'xxx' on the label and the Stal-Mart logo along the rim, so that the drinker would be assaulted with subliminal messaging every time they took a sip. It used to be your favorite kind of beer. They would always have it at parties and you would always drink it because you're a shameless daydrunk as well as a part-time Scottish stock character.
You met Anya's mother when drinking this beer, you met Angela when drinking this beer, you chased a once charging bull down the streets of Vegas with a hot poker when drinking this beer, your presidential campaign began and ended as a result of drinking this golden beverage. Then one day you took a sip of it casually on a particularly boring day when you weren't already drunk and realized it was the shittiest mess of industrial-grade horse piss that you ever put in your mouth, and you never drank it again.
Ever since then, you kept it there as a reminder that even though you associate good memories with it, and you can still thoroughly enjoy it when you're out of your gourd, that doesn't mean that in the end it's all really just horrible garbage, and it's okay to admit it. Case in point: Everything that's ever been made about Sonic the Hedgehog.
Boy, you sure were looking at that totem for a long time. So long that I could explain all this shit and the reader could potentially forget what the fuck I was talking about. As you finished staring at your blasphemous bedside table, you headed out of your otherwise sparsely furnished bedroom and into your bathroom.
The bathroom was a place that did it's level best to imitate a Roman bath and failed in every possible way. Where stimulating and awe-inspiring mosaics of ancient tales should have been, there were mere beige and dark beige tiled walls. Where granite floors should have been, there was cracked linoleum. Where steaming, dignified in-ground pools should have been, there was a clunky bath-shower hybrid between two walls, and your other typical porcelain fare. A room that should have been decorated with plants and lit with braziers was lit with a single hanging light bulb and decorated with brassiers. Brassiers being the ones in the various playboy and lengerie magazines you have in the room. You're not a complete manwhore, after all.
You washed your face and shined your feathers, and then you took a bottle of ancient cologne and drank it in order to get your healing factor kicked into gear. As expected, you fell writhing to the floor and died within 10 minutes before waking up good as new. You checked your watch, which you had forgotten to take off before bed on the previous night. You were only out for 8 minutes this time. A new record! You must be building up a tolerance to leadspestos or whatever the fuck they put in cologne during the early 1900s... Quickly, you realized that you would have to cut this part out of your morning routine. You bet the Sauron-esque Lich King Mardox your soul, (and he bet you a small army of skeletons) that you could go for an entire week, (starting today) only dying once a day. No deaths can carry over from previous days. But it's alright. Nothing dangerous will happen today, probably.
You then got up, brushed yourself off, (Although nothing really got on you aside from vague remnants of the cleaning chemicals you used to scrub the floor yesterday.) and casually strolled out. You headed to the kitchen/diningroom/livingroom hybrid that was the room in between the bed and bathroom in order to make breakfast. But today was Saturday, the most special of all days, and so you didn't want to exert yourself by making anything too glorious. You instead decided to eat something that was both good and required no effort: 4 cans of Chef Corleone's Ravioli.
Procuring them from the cupboard, and a fork from the drawer, you head over to the couch with the cans and sit down, staring down the Diremoose headtrophy that you hung on the wall just above the TV.
You drove your beak into the side of one of the cans and bit it open. as you turned the TV on. You spent the majority of Tom and Jerry's all-new hour chewing the tops off of cans like a goat, but it was worth not paying $30 for a can opener at that fucking overpriced hipster cooking store. Or instead, a $5 at a big chain store that tracks your purchases and has cameras all over, but then your enemies would be able to find you, and you can't have that. Damn, this was good ravioli!
You were drinking the remaining sauce out of the last can when your phone rang. Who could it have been?...
Anya
Angela
Malkalack
Optional Lore Database
