Untitled

Chapter 1

Sunlight began filtering through the old wooden Venetian blinds.
However, it was the sudden blare of his cell's alarm that ultimately
succeeded in waking him.

He sheers at the device. Cursing under his breath, before reaching
blindly to tum the wretched thing off. Sighing and heaving his
languid legs over the bed's edge. Letting them dangle like dead
weight.

"Hell, running the speakeasy was less of a hassle"

He mutters in discontent. Briefly running a few fingers through
shaggy, jet-black hair, before admitting defeat he collapses back
into feather down bliss. The man in question is Curcher Blackburn.
whether his name was a cruel twist of slight anagram irony on his
grandmother’s part, he would never know.

A deeply religious woman. Whom which he was adopted at a mere
six months of age. Born to an opium addicted prostitute sometime
in 1883. It’s been said his father traveled with P.T. Barnum and
dabbled in the dark arts. Although this was generally considered
hearsay.

Glancing briefly at the time displayed on the phone before calling
for his Sphynx cat, Kevorkian. Seeing as he resided in a
semi-converted, early 20th century funeral parlor, seemed only
fitting to name his pet after Dr. Death.

Hearing the hyperbole mews before eyes could behold this
eccentric, bald beauty. A ’scrotum with legs’, as Curcher so
affectionately labeled him. The lanky hairless creature springs onto the
bed. Making his way ever so closer to his master.

Full bodied purring resonating in the man’s ears as Kevorkian was
now settled comfortably on a sliver of pillow beside his head. The
otherwise dopamine inducing beams of light had now become the
bane of Curcher's existence. The feline stirs slightly as his owner
awoke for a second time. Lazily slipping on the dark denim on his
bedside floor.

"Kev, you think if call in dead anyone would question it?"