A Day in the Life

[Godhand]

Godhand woke up with a start. Was today the day he'd write the great Coronian novel?

"Might as well."

The mercenary got out of bed and ambled about the room looking for a pen and a notebook. He thought he remembered getting a couple of spiral notebooks the last time he was at the store, but then with the way he'd been drinking he didn't really know which memories were real and which had been nothing but ethanol-soaked hallucinations. The mobster walked over to his bedside stand's drawer and opening it up, found what he was looking for. At some point during one of his more frenzied moments he'd had the presence of mind to bundle the book and pencil together. He thought about his week so far. Things weren't going too well; he'd been drinking. He was always drinking, but this time he had a reason. The ponies weren't treating him real good these days, and he was in the hole for something like two grand. This depressed him but at least he didn't have to worry about paying it back anytime soon. What were they going to do, muscle him? He was the muscle.

The gunman cleared the table from all the bottles he'd placed on them and for a moment regretted the fact that he didn't have a typewriter. It was some stupid thing; he was suggestible. Whenever he saw pictures of the big time writers they were always next to their typewriters, grinning their million dollar grins like it was some sort of fuckin' sex machine. It made him feel low for just having a pen and paper, but what could he do?

[Godhand]

Tony looked around, worried that he was being followed. He knew it was no good letting Jackey live, but try as he might he just couldn't bring himself to pop the kid. Had he gotten soft back in the joint? Maybe. Who's to say? Most of the people he'd run with had gotten washed a long time ago. There was nobody else from back in the day to let him know if he'd changed or not. And anyway, so what!? Soft or no, he was still king of the streets! None of those assholes could hold a candle to him! It was as he was telling himself this that a gunshot rang out through Picadilly Plaza, and the mobster fell to the ground, dead.

"Jesus, I'm depressing myself."

Tony looked around, worried that he was being followed. He knew it was no good letting Jackey live, but try as he might he just couldn't bring himself to pop the kid. Had he gotten soft back in the joint? Maybe. Who's to say? Most of the people he'd run with had gotten washed a long time ago. There was nobody else from back in the day to let him know if he'd changed or not. And anyway, so what!? Soft or no, he was still king of the streets! None of those assholes could hold a candle to him! It was as he was telling himself this that a gunshot rang out through Picadilly Plaza, and the mobster fell to the ground, dead. dodged his attacker's bullet, using his superior kung fu to disarm his assailant without harming him.

"No, that's fucking stupid."

Tony looked around, worried that he was being followed. He knew it was no good letting Jackey live, but try as he might he just couldn't bring himself to pop the kid. Had he gotten soft back in the joint? Maybe. Who's to say? Most of the people he'd run with had gotten washed a long time ago. There was nobody else from back in the day to let him know if he'd changed or not. And anyway, so what!? Soft or no, he was still king of the streets! None of those assholes could hold a candle to him! It was as he was telling himself this that a gunshot rang out through Picadilly Plaza, and the mobster fell to the ground, dead. dodged his attacker's bullet, using his superior kung fu to disarm his assailant without harming him.dove beneath a nearby street vendor's cart, searching the area madly for his attacker. Madly as in really quickly and nervously, not madly as in angrily.

"Oh, for Christ's sake..."

[Godhand]

Godhand paced back and forth across the room, shooting dreadful scowls at his notebook. It couldn't possibly be this hard; those smiling writers didn't have a hair on their ass between 'em and they seemed to get along just fine, so why couldn't he? Was it the typewriter? No, that's stupid! If people needed a typewriter to write then how come there was all that literature created before the dark elves put the device out to market? He reached for the booze but caught himself just in time. No reason to go for the crutch yet; he could beat this. It was just a piece of paper. He pulled the chair back and sat down again, picking up the pen and setting it against his notebook. He grit his teeth, desperately trying to come up with that terrible opening line, but finally managed to grind one out.

Candido looked around the table, gazing at each of the gentlemen presently with a calm and collected...

Posture? Air? Ugh...

Candido looked around the table, gazing at each of the gentlemen presently with a calm and collected-

D...The word started with a d...

Demeanor!

Candido looked around the table, gazing at each of the gentlemen presently with a calm and collected demeanor

Pumping his fist in the air in victory, the mercenary picked up the nearest bottle of scotch and took a swig without even realizing he was doing it.

"Jesus, I really have a problem."

[Godhand]

Ilrathion looked at the young swordsman, laughing haughtily. "Foolish young swordsman," he began, "you shall never defeat me!" Icarus drew his blade and pointed the glowing tip at the foul necromancer. "Foul necromancer," he roared, "your reign of terror ends here!"

"Something is wrong with this paragraph."

Ilrathion looked at the young swordsman, laughing haughtily. "Foolish young swordsman youthful fencer," he began, "you shall never defeat me!" Icarus drew his blade and pointed the glowing tip at the foul necromancer. "Foul necromancer unpleasant reanimator," he roared, "your reign of terror ends here!"

"This is stupid!"

The irritated mobster flung the notebook across the room. What was the big fucking secret? How did those smiling writers do this!? There had to be some sort of trick to it, something he hadn't thought about. What did those writers have that he didn't? He scoured his memory, trying to find something, anything, of use. The tweed coats? That couldn't be it. And it wasn't the fucking typewriters; he refused to believe that. Godhand began to feel slightly nauseous, a lump forming in his stomach whenever he tried to put pen to paper. He began to slowly pound his head on his desk, the liquor long since poured down the shower drain. Right then he started to regret doing that.

[Godhand]

The elderly gentleman gave the weasel-like banker a hard glare. He was an honest man; a farmer. He worked on the land his father gave him, and his father worked on the land his grandfather gave him, and so on for five generations. It was all for nothing, though. People didn't want to buy an honest farmer's vegetables anymore. Not when mages right in town could have them appear fresh on the spot and sell them at half the price. He'd come to the bank looking for a loan, but they'd turned him down. It was an age of progress, they said. There was no more place for an honest farmer these days.

"Filler, filler..."

No publisher was ever going to look at a book with five hundred words per chapter. He needed to stretch somehow; throw in some meaningless drivel. What is the banker wearing? What are the colors of the building's windows? Goddamnit, none of that mattered! Couldn't they see he was trying to put forth a sincere effort at capturing the troubles of an honest farmer? It didn't matter what the banker was wearing! Shit!

The "writer" cleared his desk with a mighty swipe, papers and pencils flying into the air. He reached into his recently restocked drawer and pulled out a small bottle of gin. He brought the mouth of it up to his nose, breathing in deeply and letting it relaxing.

Now, what was the banker wearing?

[Godhand]

Godhand sat upon his bed with a grunt, reaching over to retrieve his guitar. It was nice; a good, solid Telecaster. A lot of people didn't like Telecasters, or Broadcasters for that matter, because they hanged funny due to body-weighting, but Godhand liked the weight it put on his fret palm. He'd bought it something like twenty years ago, and most guitars made around that time were pretty bad because there were droughts in most major pine producing regions of Corone, leading to a hollow and insincere sound. The mobster's Telecaster was made out of ten year old book-matched, so it didn't have that problem.

Godhand had a good ear, meaning he could tell when a guitar was good just by plucking on one of the strings and putting his ear to the bottom of the instrument. This didn't translate to being a good musician, however. The truth was he only knew about three or four chords. He clumsily plucked out the opening strains of "Blank Generation", but after that he could barely fake his way through the rest of the song.

The gunman sighed and ran a hand through his greying hair. He was aging so Goddamn badly. Even that bastard Bloodrose had some pepper to go with the salt. He grabbed a fistfull of hair and smiled; at least it was still thick and, here was a word that he loved, luxurious. A bit long, though. He'd have to get it cut soon; didn't want people thinking he was some sort of hippy. Well, might as well do it now. This book certainly wasn't going anywhere.