Name : (Uh,) Wyoming takes the train home.
Summary: ” “
Rating: Should be G
Wyoming couldn’t but think what a mundanely boring train ride it was, going home from the office. The carriage was worse than its usual graffiti affair, unintelligible scrawls in blue, white and red covering not only the walls and doors, but the seats and floors as well.
It went without saying that he would much rather stand, eyeing the hand print on one side of the soft bench, grasping the metallic pole gingerly with one hand. His other hand grasped a small briefcase, filled with two unfinished reports and other odds and ends that he had never bothered to clear out.
Behind him, two construction workers read their newspapers in relative silence, exchanging a comment here and there, about drive by shootings and soccer, not a mention about a unknown colleague who may have died falling from a green-veiled building.
Idly, he wondered who might’ve been the one to kill that poor fellow – or it could’ve been an accident, who knows.
(And if he knew there had been hypothetical problems with the management, well, he wouldn’t be telling anyone, would he?)
Giving into an internal sigh as he stepped off the tin can of a train, he absentmindedly dusted his hand off his trousers, making his way quickly through the small crowd of people. As he passed the tollgates, he appraised the location, giving a shady fellow in black (who was wearing the most ridiculous yellow wrist-bands. Youths these days.) a suspicious look before continuing on, out into the quiet street.
Two blocks and three turns later, he stood at Apartment 11/14’s door, drawing a small ring of keys from the bullet casings and ticket stubs that he needed to clear out. Inside was pleasantly warm, his curtains shut against the mild chill outside, and he wasted no time getting to the couch, unceremoniously sprawling over it, after setting the briefcase down on the coffee table with slightly more care.
Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he let out a deep breath and sat up, mind flashing to everything else he could do for a moment before furrowing his eyebrows, and snapping open his briefcase. His two reports were snug in their folder, but, he decided, he really needed to get a proper holder for his pistol. That paper bag of gum wrappers and wadded cling wrap needed to go, as well as that blood-soaked handkerchief inside a zip lock bag. A new pencil case would also be nice as well; there were black pens scattered through everything and if he could stow those small blocks of bribery-chocolate away with them, then that would be wonderful.