Been swinging dead animals in a room that's too small...
Ran didn't know what he expected to see when he drove into Chicago, but as he pulls the stolen car off the main highway onto a small road, he knows he's not impressed. Something smells, and he can practically feel the death radiating from the city's pores.
...okay, so that part he likes. The worst city he's ever lived in had a cow for a mascot and sold tiny hats shaped like cow's ears. It didn't smell like death, and the residents smelled like milk. So maybe he hates milk now. No big fucking deal, and anyone living in that town would have hated it too, but they were all brainwashed into Stepford Citizens. He skipped that town as fast as he could and didn't even look back. In contrast, Chicago is practically Nirvana, and as he parks his car in a lot, he breaths in the smoggy air.
Home sweet fucking home.
He reads the sign, shrugging his shoulders. Grant Park. He has several goals in mind now: find an apartment, and buy an internet connection with his carefully hoarded savings. He has an internet date with thousands of other Xbox players. The world won't save itself from alien infestation, and after forty-eight hours of straight driving he needs a break.
There's only one problem...he doesn't know shit about Chicago. He doesn't know his way around, and his map-reading skills are rather limited. Every time he asks for directions people assume he can't speak English, and when he opens his mouth to tell them off, all they can say is how adorable his Irish accent is. He hates that, so he settles for wandering aimlessly until he finds his destination. It's not like he has better things to do.
He walks over to a park bench, hands in the pockets of his black holey jeans. He's wearing an equally tattered green t-shirt, and he hasn't bathed in three days. Something about Chicago feels right, he just can't place it. He'll figure it out; he has time.
...okay, so that part he likes. The worst city he's ever lived in had a cow for a mascot and sold tiny hats shaped like cow's ears. It didn't smell like death, and the residents smelled like milk. So maybe he hates milk now. No big fucking deal, and anyone living in that town would have hated it too, but they were all brainwashed into Stepford Citizens. He skipped that town as fast as he could and didn't even look back. In contrast, Chicago is practically Nirvana, and as he parks his car in a lot, he breaths in the smoggy air.
Home sweet fucking home.
He reads the sign, shrugging his shoulders. Grant Park. He has several goals in mind now: find an apartment, and buy an internet connection with his carefully hoarded savings. He has an internet date with thousands of other Xbox players. The world won't save itself from alien infestation, and after forty-eight hours of straight driving he needs a break.
There's only one problem...he doesn't know shit about Chicago. He doesn't know his way around, and his map-reading skills are rather limited. Every time he asks for directions people assume he can't speak English, and when he opens his mouth to tell them off, all they can say is how adorable his Irish accent is. He hates that, so he settles for wandering aimlessly until he finds his destination. It's not like he has better things to do.
He walks over to a park bench, hands in the pockets of his black holey jeans. He's wearing an equally tattered green t-shirt, and he hasn't bathed in three days. Something about Chicago feels right, he just can't place it. He'll figure it out; he has time.