Old friends and New Habits
Aug 24, 2012 1:10:45 GMT
Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2012 1:10:45 GMT
The apartment was sparse... Some might say that. Others might ask how long the man sprawled across his couch had been living in his apartment. Him saying three years would more then surprise them. Most people decorated the places they live in. It's not even a fully conscious act. They dropped things that they found, the collected trophies, or picked up or were given. Some went the other way, they decorated to fill the empty places inside. Picking through catalogs to find that yin-yang coffee table that would go perfectly with hand blown glasses that you can tell were hand made because of the tiny bubbles in the glass. These is what normal people had. What normal people tended to and it was just the nature of people to go for in some way or another.
The man sprawled upon the bare worn couch picked up from a curb for the sake of a place to sit. He stared at the TV which had been the only piece of furniture he had bought for the apartment. The only thing he had bothered with. The Remote lay on his lap while a glass of bourbon with ice in it sat next to an increasingly empty bottle as it made rings of moisture on the cheap wood coffee table that had come with the apartment. The glasses came from his old place and while chipped and scratched still served their purpose. It was good enough. Beyond him was the kitchen, a nice kitchen but not a lick of character. Every part of it was from the landlord. The fridge, the cabinets. No personality, not even a note on the fridge or a decorative pot holder. Everything was put away and the inside of the fridge consisted of beer and lunch meat as well as a loaf of bread. The place was... almost sterile in it's lack of character. Beyond him farther was the bedroom which was worse. A well made bed that was rarely used due to the owners tendency to fall asleep on the couch and clothes away in the closets. The only light an overhead light that was built into the ceiling.
As you panned back you might notice the door you came through to enter the apartment. It was not standard. It was a heavy steel blast door he had bought off the internet of all places. He had installed it himself. He wore the key around his neck and even he with his massive build sometimes had to shove to open it. Subtle reconstruction of the apartment and the one next to it meant bank vaults were easier to break into then these two apartments. The windows had actually been taken out and replaced with tv screens that showed what was outside. Even the floor had been reinforced as well as the ceiling. The results was the man who laid on the couch was relatively relaxed through from time to time his eyes were turn to look from the TV to the wall to his right where a large hole was in the wall to the next apartment. A man sized and shaped hole. Inside the that apartment was all kinds of gadgets and gizmos and whirling gears. His partners place and a place Jones felt like an alien. The old warhorse was happier where he was... and how he was.
While his partner was young the 'old man' of the T.A.L.O.N.S at forty three though he looked older in some regards. While he laid in a pair of jeans and a white sleeveless shirt his fit body was obvious. Constant work and activity as well as the desire not to die horribly had given him a better body then he had had when he was a mere police officer. As his partner had once drunkenly put it "He is built like a brick house made of other houses" His body was covered in scars that had yet to touch his face yet through his back and chest were more then a little ripped up. In fact a watcher would see as he rubbed fresh stitches on his chest, three diagonal lines five inches long and that had been half an inch wide when the happened. They were comfy amongst their surrounding of burns, cuts, bullet holes, and even some freezer burn (long story). The smoke from the slim cigar held in his teeth frames his grey hair cropped short and spiked by fingers ran through is hair in the morning. His five o clock shadow was uncut on a permanent basis. His steel gray eyes were shadowed by pain and undealt with anger. The eyes of a man who when faced with the seven stages of loss had gotten stuck on anger for a long long time... His face was etched in some wrinkles especially frown lines but it was on a handsome face. An old fashion handsome like chiseled from rock. Not elegant but a face you could cut rock with.
These hard ridden man reached out and flicked his cigar into a tin can he was using as an ash tray as the TV proclaimed.
"My Little Ponies, You are my very best friend."
The man sprawled upon the bare worn couch picked up from a curb for the sake of a place to sit. He stared at the TV which had been the only piece of furniture he had bought for the apartment. The only thing he had bothered with. The Remote lay on his lap while a glass of bourbon with ice in it sat next to an increasingly empty bottle as it made rings of moisture on the cheap wood coffee table that had come with the apartment. The glasses came from his old place and while chipped and scratched still served their purpose. It was good enough. Beyond him was the kitchen, a nice kitchen but not a lick of character. Every part of it was from the landlord. The fridge, the cabinets. No personality, not even a note on the fridge or a decorative pot holder. Everything was put away and the inside of the fridge consisted of beer and lunch meat as well as a loaf of bread. The place was... almost sterile in it's lack of character. Beyond him farther was the bedroom which was worse. A well made bed that was rarely used due to the owners tendency to fall asleep on the couch and clothes away in the closets. The only light an overhead light that was built into the ceiling.
As you panned back you might notice the door you came through to enter the apartment. It was not standard. It was a heavy steel blast door he had bought off the internet of all places. He had installed it himself. He wore the key around his neck and even he with his massive build sometimes had to shove to open it. Subtle reconstruction of the apartment and the one next to it meant bank vaults were easier to break into then these two apartments. The windows had actually been taken out and replaced with tv screens that showed what was outside. Even the floor had been reinforced as well as the ceiling. The results was the man who laid on the couch was relatively relaxed through from time to time his eyes were turn to look from the TV to the wall to his right where a large hole was in the wall to the next apartment. A man sized and shaped hole. Inside the that apartment was all kinds of gadgets and gizmos and whirling gears. His partners place and a place Jones felt like an alien. The old warhorse was happier where he was... and how he was.
While his partner was young the 'old man' of the T.A.L.O.N.S at forty three though he looked older in some regards. While he laid in a pair of jeans and a white sleeveless shirt his fit body was obvious. Constant work and activity as well as the desire not to die horribly had given him a better body then he had had when he was a mere police officer. As his partner had once drunkenly put it "He is built like a brick house made of other houses" His body was covered in scars that had yet to touch his face yet through his back and chest were more then a little ripped up. In fact a watcher would see as he rubbed fresh stitches on his chest, three diagonal lines five inches long and that had been half an inch wide when the happened. They were comfy amongst their surrounding of burns, cuts, bullet holes, and even some freezer burn (long story). The smoke from the slim cigar held in his teeth frames his grey hair cropped short and spiked by fingers ran through is hair in the morning. His five o clock shadow was uncut on a permanent basis. His steel gray eyes were shadowed by pain and undealt with anger. The eyes of a man who when faced with the seven stages of loss had gotten stuck on anger for a long long time... His face was etched in some wrinkles especially frown lines but it was on a handsome face. An old fashion handsome like chiseled from rock. Not elegant but a face you could cut rock with.
These hard ridden man reached out and flicked his cigar into a tin can he was using as an ash tray as the TV proclaimed.
"My Little Ponies, You are my very best friend."