CHANSIK, THE STRAY DOGS, the worn linings of a spring-hardened couch; a bar of xanax and ice cream sandwiches for lunch. a pack of smokes; cracked window and the neighbor's cooking (garlic, onion, tomato — soup?) wafting in. typical day in the life. skip work, smoke a bowl, try to make some food, end up scraping it out the window to the dogs outside his apartment. shower, cleans the stove, back to the couch; if it weren't for the dogs he'd never get out, but they ‘gotta get some exercise, so reluctantly there'll be a half-hour trip down to parkers with them following in tow like a second shadow, when he feels particularly inspired.
he finds it’s best to go when his mind’s running a mile a minute, and the threat of being the next one to line the streets in a pool of his own blood isn’t quite as terrifying as being left alone with his own thoughts. another bar’s swallowed with an entire glass of water, and now a tootsie pop he hasn’t paid for is tucked in his cheek for the dry-mouth. his fingers dig into the worn indentations in his wallet, fishing out crumpled bills for the pack of pop tarts he wilfully intends to be having for dinner later on that night.
“ yea that’l be all, ” is all but a mumbled slur to the nameless person behind the cash register, one who seems to fully be aware chan's not intending on paying for the confectionary he'd plucked up and unwrapped like a kid at a candy store. blown pupils span to the presence looming behind him then, heightened senses picking up on it before they themselves can even make a noise. his grin spans sharp, full of teeth. “ oh.. i’ll pay for theirs, too. interestin’ choices, my friend. ”
