Post by Bleys on Feb 22, 2007 22:57:08 GMT -5
The Suite Banner Hotel that had nothing to do with suites or banners stood tall and dark on the empty street, observing the streetlights slowly flicker and dance (Personification). In the hotel, there was only one customer, it was unknown to the managers and employees of this establishment however, because it had long been abandoned.
Scott Wells was the name of this rouge freedom fighter that didn't pay for the entrance of the hotel, for he also knew that it was emptied of residents and staff. He was at the current moment, dozing in his hard and lumpy mattress, that was retrieved from a dumpster. With his old and crusty alarm clock that was nearly expired, which didn't particularly matter to him. On his bed he slept, shortly until the obnoxious contraption stirred him from his sleep abruptly. He realized that the new worlds of grandeur were only unfortunately illusions as he pounded the alarm clock with fury, knowing one of the buttons would turn it off. It shattered into a hundred and six pieces to be particular under the force of his crushing and somewhat overexaggerated blows to the poor machine.
The high pitched beeping noise stopped, to be replaced by a faint whirring... and then nothing. Clearly satisfied, he stood out of bed, examining the mysteriously yellow covered walls, only shortly to look away after noticing the faint smell of urine. He grimaced at his living conditions, then went into the other room, down the yellow covered hallway and into the empty room that had two old, and broken down laundry machines. Scott took the laundry out of the dryer, taking a jean jacket, black t-shirt to go under it, his blue jeans, and his (fortunately white) boxers out and switched into them.
Then he took the only other outfit of clothes he had out of the washer machine, and put it into the dryer, cleaning off the dust rack and throwing in a clean sheet of fabric softener. Then he hit the button, the over-abused machine roared at him, and then set to work, thumping and thudding as it obeyed his commands to clean his next suit for the next day. Life went on like this for him, and his occupation was about to be set off to as he walked out of the door.
The street was still barely illumined by the towering street lights that hung above him, the sky with a hint of blue mixed in with black tinged the fresh and chilly air that stung his lungs just to the point of comfort. In his opinion alone, to be particular. He set out down the sidewalk, making sure his wallet was where it was supposed to be. Then he came to the city, it's street lights on still and glowing brightly.
He walked down the freshly paved area for people to travel on foot, taking a left at a particular alleyway. Then a right, then left, and from there on the pattern of twists and turns would've been so confusing that even a man with the strongest sense of direction would be left baffled. The only way that Scott was able to know these corridors, was by memory, and from having to use them to his advantage often.
He called this labrynth the checkpoint, and used it as that before setting out to do his business. When he came to a stop of the twists and turns, he came to an opening, in that opening there were some knocked down portions of a building that he could use as tables, and for hiding when necessary. The seven-teen year old man came to his familiar cardboard box, looked in, and smiled.
None of his "tools" were missing, from the small lockpick to his heavy semi automatic pistol, for a last resort. The tools strewn carefully beside eachother were used for his occupation... And he intended on using a few of them today. He reached for the lock pick, the gun, and his camera. He laughed to himself "Time to go to work." He said slyly.
Scott Wells was the name of this rouge freedom fighter that didn't pay for the entrance of the hotel, for he also knew that it was emptied of residents and staff. He was at the current moment, dozing in his hard and lumpy mattress, that was retrieved from a dumpster. With his old and crusty alarm clock that was nearly expired, which didn't particularly matter to him. On his bed he slept, shortly until the obnoxious contraption stirred him from his sleep abruptly. He realized that the new worlds of grandeur were only unfortunately illusions as he pounded the alarm clock with fury, knowing one of the buttons would turn it off. It shattered into a hundred and six pieces to be particular under the force of his crushing and somewhat overexaggerated blows to the poor machine.
The high pitched beeping noise stopped, to be replaced by a faint whirring... and then nothing. Clearly satisfied, he stood out of bed, examining the mysteriously yellow covered walls, only shortly to look away after noticing the faint smell of urine. He grimaced at his living conditions, then went into the other room, down the yellow covered hallway and into the empty room that had two old, and broken down laundry machines. Scott took the laundry out of the dryer, taking a jean jacket, black t-shirt to go under it, his blue jeans, and his (fortunately white) boxers out and switched into them.
Then he took the only other outfit of clothes he had out of the washer machine, and put it into the dryer, cleaning off the dust rack and throwing in a clean sheet of fabric softener. Then he hit the button, the over-abused machine roared at him, and then set to work, thumping and thudding as it obeyed his commands to clean his next suit for the next day. Life went on like this for him, and his occupation was about to be set off to as he walked out of the door.
The street was still barely illumined by the towering street lights that hung above him, the sky with a hint of blue mixed in with black tinged the fresh and chilly air that stung his lungs just to the point of comfort. In his opinion alone, to be particular. He set out down the sidewalk, making sure his wallet was where it was supposed to be. Then he came to the city, it's street lights on still and glowing brightly.
He walked down the freshly paved area for people to travel on foot, taking a left at a particular alleyway. Then a right, then left, and from there on the pattern of twists and turns would've been so confusing that even a man with the strongest sense of direction would be left baffled. The only way that Scott was able to know these corridors, was by memory, and from having to use them to his advantage often.
He called this labrynth the checkpoint, and used it as that before setting out to do his business. When he came to a stop of the twists and turns, he came to an opening, in that opening there were some knocked down portions of a building that he could use as tables, and for hiding when necessary. The seven-teen year old man came to his familiar cardboard box, looked in, and smiled.
None of his "tools" were missing, from the small lockpick to his heavy semi automatic pistol, for a last resort. The tools strewn carefully beside eachother were used for his occupation... And he intended on using a few of them today. He reached for the lock pick, the gun, and his camera. He laughed to himself "Time to go to work." He said slyly.