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Another Wake Up; A Jimmy Ronan oneshot; Location: ???
Topic Started: Nov 13 2016, 06:35 PM (83 Views)
HenchmenF
Wasteland leader
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Waking up is never pleasant.

It’s a harsh slap of reality to your face after you’ve been lost in the world of happy make believe that follows when you close your eyes. It’s a kick to the ribs from the universe reminding you to get up and deal with everything that it wants to throw your way. A set of bloodshot eyes flick open, lungs immediately erupting into a hacking fit as they struggle for air after who knows who long of being polluted with whatever substances it’s owners could find, and a head pounded like a gorilla would on its chest. A pitiful groan erupted from Jimmy’s throat as he rubbed his hand over his face.

His hacking fit drew a few murmurs of discontent from the sleeping bodies around him. Another blink. The sun shone brightly through the large hole in the roof and illuminated the room. Specks of dust floated gracefully in the air, constricting against the sleeping bodies strewn haphazardly around him. Clutching his forehead, Jimmy breathed deeply through his nose to steady his stomach as it screamed out in pain. Minutes seemed to pass as he struggled not to puke before everything settled down.

Grabbing onto the corner of the couch nearby, Jimmy pulled himself up and pressed his arm against it to steady himself as the rush of blood flowed throughout his body. Multiple people were strewn about the room; some in various stages of nakedness. Firearms lay conveniently on the table in front of the sofa and empty bottles of booze were either lying next to the sleeping bodies or dumped in some piles in random locations throughout the room. The entire room smelled like a rancid combination of piss, Torch, paint, and body odor.

Jimmy ran a hand through his raggled Mohawk, only to have something smack against his face. Looking at his arm, Jimmy rolled his eyes and pulled out a syringe. A small trickle of blood emerged from the open wound as he flicked the syringe into the corner with a soft ting. Jimmy blinked again.

The characters strewn around the room were the rougher sort. Scars were easily apparent on everybody, and their faces were all uniformly dirty and unwashed. Bits and pieces of improvised armor were strewn around the room. One man in the corner was carefully cuddling his rifle in the corner, occasionally muttering sweet nothings to it in his half-drunk half-drugged sleep. Jimmy licked his cracked lips with his dry tongue as he took a shallow breath.

First he stepped with his left foot, and then dragged his right foot. The navigation out of the room was certainly more difficult than it would be in the ever shifting sands of the wasteland. One wrong step and he could get a bullet for carelessly waking up the wrong person. Another step with his left foot, and then a drag with his right foot.

None of these people would remember Jimmy, and Jimmy certainly doesn’t remember any of them. Maybe one of two them might remember Jimmy stumbling into the room, or remember him tagging along with them as they left some roughneck bar somewhere. They would laughed off by the rest with a quick “what are you talking about?” as they search for the loose cigarettes and bottles of half-full booze that Jimmy was freely pilfering as he made his way out the door.

It was less of a door and more of what remains of a doorframe, a blanket covering the entrance only partly. Jimmy pushed the blanket aside without a second thought. Stepping out into the soft sands of the wasteland, he took a deep breath as his shaky hand placed a cigarette in his mouth. A match was struck against the door frame, and a flame appeared. The cigarette was lit, a drag was taken, and smoke appeared.

Jimmy rolled his neck; a few bones cracked with the movements. The first few steps were unsteady, both of his legs felt like they were the sand that he walked upon. But with each step and each drag of the cigarette Jimmy felt his strength regain. Finally he was back off to his usual shuffle, taking a long drag of his cigarette and unscrewing the top of the bottle of hooch he had in his hand.

Just another day, right?
Jimmy Ronan
Karmichael Sandoval - HC -
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The Wastes TV Tropes page. Open edit
Plat: If Hench is the monarch I'd willingly accept a life of serfdom.
CP: homie you a rauccous college student why you need a bed time
LMG: Hench is the real enemy of Democracy
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Triminac
Private Dick
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Hey Hench. Good to see you back in the works. Sorry this took so gosh darned long, but I'll try and make it up to you. This is only a Junior Mod grading, so if a super mod sees fit, this is subject to change.

The first paragraph was poetic; I thought it was an excellent start, but you changed tenses. Worse, you changed tenses within the same paragraph. Stay consistent, mi amigo.

Also, try not to use the same word repeatedly, at least two or three sentences apart. Two paragraphs and I grew to hate the word “Room”

Usually, your word choice is rather excellent. I appreciate the breadth of your vocabulary. The imagery of Jimmy being lame was also excellent. It was quick thing, but painted a clear picture of ya boy’s condition.

It was a good, brief piece. I dig it, and would like to see more.

Quote:
 
ONTO THE REWARDS:

Slosh: There wasn't much alcohol in any bottle you took, but there WAS enough if you throw 'em all into one vodka bottle. This slurry of beer, whiskey, rum, and wine make for one disgusting mixture, it will get you fucked up and light on fire like nobody's business. No one in their right mind would buy it from you though.

5 Cigarettes: They're battered and stale, but they'll do the job.
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