Post by Noah on Dec 30, 2008 10:14:47 GMT -5
A young man wanders into the club through the ruined doorway. He looks like he is around eighteen years old, maybe older. Stubble lins his chin and upper lip while rough cut hair sticks awkwardly from under a dark blue baseball hat on his head. A Mossberg 590 is in his hands and pressed into his shoulder. It sweeps the room as he creeps along the floor and heads for the cover of a case of food. Cracked glasses just barely hang onto his face. Duct tape keeps the lenses in and holds the broken ear pieces against his head.
After assertaining the fact that no threats lurk in the dark reaches of the room, he lowers the Mossberg and sits down in a corner. After nodding to the DJ and the other residents of the room, he puts the hood of his German army coat over his head and falls asleep. He holds his shotgun tightly in his gloved hands, like a small child's teddy bear.
The bar residents look at this newcomer curiosly, noticing that his other hand rests on a lumpy back pack with 12-gauge shotgun shells sewn on it in random places. Everywhere else that lacks shotgun shells either holds pistol clips or has random odds and ends hanging from it. The straps are well worn from use and patched with odd bits of scrap cloth and duct tape. A vagabond if there ever was one.
His face is gaunt from lack of sufficient food and large bags hang beneath his eyes from too many sleepless nights. A bowie knife is clipped on his belt on the left side and a 9mm SIG P226 on the right. The handles of both are well worn. Around his neck hangs a sheath which holds a small black knife. The only revelation to what the pack holds is that there was too much in it, large lumps straining against the nylon, trying their best to burst free like that thing in "Alien," although probably less gross.
After assertaining the fact that no threats lurk in the dark reaches of the room, he lowers the Mossberg and sits down in a corner. After nodding to the DJ and the other residents of the room, he puts the hood of his German army coat over his head and falls asleep. He holds his shotgun tightly in his gloved hands, like a small child's teddy bear.
The bar residents look at this newcomer curiosly, noticing that his other hand rests on a lumpy back pack with 12-gauge shotgun shells sewn on it in random places. Everywhere else that lacks shotgun shells either holds pistol clips or has random odds and ends hanging from it. The straps are well worn from use and patched with odd bits of scrap cloth and duct tape. A vagabond if there ever was one.
His face is gaunt from lack of sufficient food and large bags hang beneath his eyes from too many sleepless nights. A bowie knife is clipped on his belt on the left side and a 9mm SIG P226 on the right. The handles of both are well worn. Around his neck hangs a sheath which holds a small black knife. The only revelation to what the pack holds is that there was too much in it, large lumps straining against the nylon, trying their best to burst free like that thing in "Alien," although probably less gross.