The Tin Cowboy

[MalReynolds]

Tough crap I already edited the main text in the actual Word Book file to include a conclusion to Gary.

And I like his conclusion. It brings up the other side of the drug use. Not everyone that uses it is a villian that needs to be put down.

[ShastaTwist]

Hey, I didn't say I didn't like it.

You just said, "People are going to die," and I guess I was expecting more people to die.

Don't be like that. ):

[MalReynolds]

Here goes:

Editing over the next few weeks. Anything you think is weak story/character wise or any complaints you have in general should be posted and I'll do my best to address them.

Thanks!

[MalReynolds]

Started editing today. Got through about one page in 25 minutes.

So far -

0.5% complete.

Or

99.5% to completion.

Originally Posted by Edit

I woke up as I was handing over a small stack of money to the moon faced cab driver. My eyes were burning and my skull was on fire as I watched the car pull away from the curb, peeling out and sending a thick smoke into the air. In that moment, I had my first cognizant thought.
The thought was, “I hope I tipped him.”

I’d had thoughts before that moment, but none that I can recall. I’d had memories, to be sure, but none that I can remember. What I assumed was the primordial sensation of panic set in as I realized that could not remember anything before that cab driver’s **** eating grin – not even where I was... Or who I was.

I took a deep breath in. It was cold - I knew that much - I could see my breath, and my lungs ached from the sour air and rubber smoke. I ran my hands down my back to my jeans searching for the homely lump of a wallet, which I soon found dutifully resting in my right back pocket. The wallet looked like cracked leather, as if it had been run through an industrial washer a few times. I opened it, but there was no ID, no credit cards, not even a library card. The six small pockets included for such items were sadly barren. There were just a couple of bills in the fold – enough to reassure me temporarily, but not enough to offset my posture, should I choose to sit down.

I inhaled again, my lungs either getting accustomed to the cold, or numbing. In front of me was a building, cold and steel stretching up into the sky. There were a few more scattered down the block in both directions. I stared towards the roof, but the building was so tall and the night was so dark that there was no end in sight. A snowflake caught my eye and I smiled as it drifted down, pin wheeling in front of me as it fell by my feet. I watched it melt, then pool, and I couldn’t break my gaze as the puddle grew when more flakes chose to accompany their dying brethren.

My next cognizant thought was, “I have some nice shoes.”

The perfect sound of abstract silence was broken as I heard a door opening behind me. I turned and was met with a sign that simply read, “Westing College,” with no other marker, not even an establishing date. It was old sign and didn’t at all fit with the buildings that surrounded it. It was old fashioned, compared to the industrialized monstrosities that rose up at every turn. The building the sign announced was equally as antiquated, sitting ten or so yards back and across a small, grassy knoll. It looked like it might have been made out of brick, but my night vision was failing me and all I could really see was the light coming from the open door, and the restless shadows filing in.