Another one of those days. Those days. You know the kind. It is hotter than shit outside, but stagnant and dry. Brad fishes through his front pocket and extracts a slightly smashed pack of Marlboro 72s. Tips it upside down. One left. Fuck. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans; extracts a wallet. Unfolds two wrinkled tens. Enough for smokes and some gas. He flicks his lighter and savors the tobacco. Blows a cloud toward the ceiling of his dingy little apartment and watches it drift lazily out a window. Reaches for the fridge door. It is empty except for a half eaten Subway sandwich and a six-pack of Budweiser. He grabs a can and glances at the clock. Noon. Its five o'clock somewhere, right? Tilts his head back and downs the can. At least its cold. He crushes the can; grabs another. Fuck weekends. Cracks the second beer as he scratches absentmindedly at his Semper Fi tattoo. Should probably go get more smokes. He walks out, neglecting to lock the door. It's not like there is anything inside worth stealing anyway. Work for an ex-marine with a criminal record is rather scarce, and luxries are a thing he neither wants or can afford. Not since he lost everything he ever cared about. He walks slowly to a battered and worn Harley, the last thing he really owns. Throws the now empty beer can into the street, sampling the sounds of his surroundings. Single mom in Unit 4 yelling on the phone, baby crying. Abusive husband in Unit 7 is drunk again. Stoners in Unit 12 seem to have picked up today, from the coughing. It was the same shit, different day. It always was since the service, since Michelle left him, since the law failed him.