none_one

so. im gonna write a book. a short book. dealing with a young man in the future, working for shit pay at a pizza place in a city with crime and war lord mob bosses that control everything. him and his friends will be the only ones that go through this pre-mature apocalypse wearing their heart on their sleeves and not falling in to the drugs, murders, and corruption of the city. consider them a new type of renegade. a new version of a revolutionary. in this world i have created in my head.....they are the new heroes. here is the rough draft of the introduction......

Finally, Smith thought to himself. As he packed his pipe with the rare, almost non exsinant tobacco that he had in his pouch, he felt releaved. A break from the chaotic, almost unbearable choures of his daily twelve hour work day. Every shift one was allowed thirty minutes to walk out the back door of the shop and take time to read The Book, inject the neural and physical stimulant known as Phathetic Serion, deal with whatever "illegal" activities most do to make ends meet, or in special circumstances just sit back, puff on your pipe and try to forget how the world has turned to a revolving rotten apple which, we, the people are now the maggots finishing the last of the core.
Inside the pizza shop of which Smith worked, the hustle and bustle of telephones ringing, machines pounding out electrical droned sounds and the shouts of the workers calling out orders could still be heard outside. Smith tried to block it out by focusing on the other sounds that city made. The constant noise of traffic, the fighting in the streets, the police sirens, the sound of a once well maintained shuttle, now almost as deteriorated as the world itself, making its slow clickity calck sound that only the shuttle could make. In the short distance, Smith could over hear two men arguing about something. He sat down with his lit pipe in his mouth and watched from afar. The argument, from what Smith could faintly hear, was something about property lines. These types of arguments happened daily and often led to a poor soul losing the verbal fight with their life. It was almost like the stories of "pirates" in the old days. Smith never believed the books of the old days. This is what he knew. A city. Overcrowded. Underpaid. Drug induced. And his home.
Briefly, Smith ignored the fighting going on a few yards away from him and thought about plans for the night. As always, there were none pleasant enough for him. He would most likely go home, watch the television, and soon after fall asleep and dream of what the world used to, and still could be.
"This is my land and you have no right even thinking of moving some of those hideous animals on to my property!"
Laughing at his opponents remark, the other man said boldly, "You think you own that property? Everybody in the city knows Kurt Vought makes the decision of who owns what, where they work, and the limits of their authority." He glared at the upset and said grinning, "And sadly for you old man, you no longer have any rights. You are retired. A has been. And I can take what you claim to own as mine."
The upset old man had nothing to say back, he just stood there and shook with anger. He became outraged out at the situation at hand and began to scream, "You low life son of a-"
Before the old man could finish, a gun was drawn from his opponents coat and was fixed pointing on the old mans head.
"That's what's wrong with this city now! You young punks think that everything can be solved in bloodshed and no democracy still stands! Go ahead, take your best-"
The shot of the gun pierced Smiths eardrum and in slow motion Smith turned back to the argument he was once watching and saw the bullet heading straight for the old mans face.
"Another day in paradise," Smith said as the bullet struck the old man in the check bone and penetrated his skull, going through the tissues and muscles of his brain, and eventually exiting the back of his head.
Another death. Another family losing everything. Another man stealing what wasn't his. Another day in the life of the city that chews you up and spits you out.
Smith sat and watched as the old man fell to ground. Nobody stopped to help. Nobody cared. Times had changed and so had the people. Smith looked at his watch and realized his thirty minutes were almost over so he finished what was left in his pipe, stowed it away in his jacket pocket and opened the back door to get back to work. Before he went in he took one last look at the poor old man an thought to himself, I need to get the fuck out of this city.


now, i know that i have bad grammar and i really have no idea how to write a "proper" story let alone a book. but fuck it. im gonna do it.




NONE

EDIT.....well i cut and pasted the shit that i had wrote but it didnt come out right on the post so hope if you read it that you got the idea and could deal with the misspelled words and such. i had run spell check but apparently that didnt work. like i said earlier......fuck it.