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SA: The Prospects of Depravity

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SA: The Prospects of Depravity

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Kouketsu on Sun Feb 25, 2007 11:05 am

My Last Affair.

"My happiness is misery~.." A soothing voice pervaded and echoed about the interior of a shoddy single-room apartment, crackling noises providing unwanted interruption throughout a jazzy melody thrown underneath it, although not enough to deter from that impeccable smoothness that only a jazz goddess could impart.

Daily tabloids soaked in alcohol, torn works and outdated bibles reeking of cigarette smoke, and the latest best-seller from another Verisimilitude pissant looking for nothing less than a little distinction for his new-age key-to-happiness self-motivation bullshit littered the floor. Absolute garbage, the whole lot of it. A shame it was to juxtapose such a classy melody with such classless refuse.

A solitary window was all the exposure to the world that little flat would be offered, a single ray of daylight extending inwards and providing just enough illumination to get a little reading done. Pages were flipped through idly by unenthusiastic fingertips still a little restless after what could've been no less than a long night. A few too many trigger pulls maybe. Yeah. That's what it was. A few too many gunshots.

Maybe under different circumstances that lanky figure sporting the ivory dress shirt and matching slacks would've crooned along and brightened up the morning a little bit beyond the dreariness only Veritas could provide dawn after dawn, but there were just a few problems with that. She sings better alone anyway. He'd have to be content with the tapping.

A pair of Dual 9mm Berettas, one deconstructed and sprawled out, lay atop his table like any other natural place setting, the textbook complement to the entire scene. Any bastard fortunate enough to get a peek of that interior and live to retell the tale could tell that there was a little somethin' unusual about that frame leaning back in his chair and perusing the latest reports from outside. One of his profession always needed to be pretty well-informed and up-to-date on the goings-on of the world. In all honesty he only scanned the headlines more often than not, nice big bold letters shouting out all that was necessary to know. He knew the news before it happened anyway.

Mafiosi Family Shot to Death! A casual shake of the head was all he could offer before fingertips flipped to the next page, barraged as usual with columns of neo-animism propaganda. Can't even fuckin' blink these days without another damn cult poppin' up.

One could only expect as much. This wasn't Verisimilitude. There were no polished space ports, no panoramic view of an unpolluted sky. There were no glossy glimmering skylines and scapes dotted with the spires of success. All they had was the towering smog of mob-run industrial facilities, beggars lining the sidewalks and whores taking the corners. It was a destitute hodge-podge of immorality and decay, permanently immersed it seemed in an impermeable umbra that came as much from the tasteless filth which walked the streets as it did from the industrial waste it had no qualms in mass producing. It didn't help much that the chasm of the cosmos was absolutely classless either. And as unfavorable to some as his methods may have been, that's all the man was really tryin' to do. Generate a little sophistication, bring about another level of living for the people of a burned-out metropolis that couldn't see beyond their own fucking noses at night, too immured in a little after-hours fun or a half-empty bottle of Jack.


There wasn't another city in the entire world he'd rather be in.

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