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?