Hoboken Start 1
From Create Your Own Story
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| - | "Hey-eh, beep freakin' beep, you pansy-ass piece of shit, I been waitin' here for two hours!" says your alarm clock. You groggily open your eyes to find your cat, Mr. Hash, staring you in the face. Shoving him away and sitting up, you see that it's already eleven A.M. Who gives a damn? You don't have anywhere to be. | + | "Hey-eh, beep freakin' beep, you pansy-ass piece of shit, I been waitin' here for two hours!" says your alarm clock. You groggily open your eyes to find your cat, [[Mr. Hash]], staring you in the face. Shoving him away and sitting up, you see that it's already eleven A.M. Who gives a damn? You don't have anywhere to be. |
You're [[Hal Ford]], age nineteen, unemployed and living in the basement of your mother's small house in the slums. Your room smells like cat piss and weed. Apart from your futon, you've got a couple gigantic Lansings hooked up to a turntable you found on the side of the road, and a cardboard box containing a couple bags of shrooms and a jug of formaldehyde. Your only other possessions are the clothes on your back, a laptop from 2001, propped up against the wall in a corner, and $21, all in ones, in your pocket. You used to have plenty of CDs, but you pawned them to buy vinyl and got robbed on the way home. | You're [[Hal Ford]], age nineteen, unemployed and living in the basement of your mother's small house in the slums. Your room smells like cat piss and weed. Apart from your futon, you've got a couple gigantic Lansings hooked up to a turntable you found on the side of the road, and a cardboard box containing a couple bags of shrooms and a jug of formaldehyde. Your only other possessions are the clothes on your back, a laptop from 2001, propped up against the wall in a corner, and $21, all in ones, in your pocket. You used to have plenty of CDs, but you pawned them to buy vinyl and got robbed on the way home. | ||
Current revision as of 22:12, 4 August 2010
"Hey-eh, beep freakin' beep, you pansy-ass piece of shit, I been waitin' here for two hours!" says your alarm clock. You groggily open your eyes to find your cat, Mr. Hash, staring you in the face. Shoving him away and sitting up, you see that it's already eleven A.M. Who gives a damn? You don't have anywhere to be.
You're Hal Ford, age nineteen, unemployed and living in the basement of your mother's small house in the slums. Your room smells like cat piss and weed. Apart from your futon, you've got a couple gigantic Lansings hooked up to a turntable you found on the side of the road, and a cardboard box containing a couple bags of shrooms and a jug of formaldehyde. Your only other possessions are the clothes on your back, a laptop from 2001, propped up against the wall in a corner, and $21, all in ones, in your pocket. You used to have plenty of CDs, but you pawned them to buy vinyl and got robbed on the way home.
You stand on your futon to check your reflection in the window. Your scraggly, long hair has left grease-stains on your Dio t-shirt, and one of the legs of your blue jeans is missing from the knee down, thanks to a stray dog. As you begin to inspect your teeth, you hear the phone ringing upstairs.
What the Hell now?
