After losing the game of roulette, Edwards walked out of the shading gambling ring saddened. A piece of news paper blew onto his shoe, about an incredibly cheap housing deal in America. Earl though this was fate and immediately found a ship to hide in that was heading to the new world. Earl awoke and found himself still on the ship and expecting to see a majestic view soon discovered that the new world had the same problems as the old world. Sir Edwards was not amused.
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Edwards crept into his room with the war journal he had just gotten from some owner or worker of the bookstore, he just as soon forgot their name as he had learnt it. Edwards was not a man to remember people's names, it was tedious task that he took no pleasure in.
As he opened the door Roger was sleeping on his bed.
"What in God's name are you doing here? Don't you have your own bed to sleep in? How did you even get in here?"
"Well, I don't personally own a room, and also you left the door open when you rushed out to go somewh--- Say, how was it?"
"Was it what?"
"You know, out. Mingling with the people. Meeting the citizens. Interacting with the---"
"I get your point roger. It was fine, now please leave."
After Roger was gone, Sir Edwards opened the War Journal and begun to examine it. He wondered why a book store owner had this, but he thought nothing more of it.
Expecting to find a lovely depiction of heroic escapades, he was immersed in the dirtiest trench known to man. Everybody in the trench had some sort of sickness. Some people suffered from mustard gas, others feet were in a most gruesome condition, and others had ghastly wounds bandaged up yet were still in the fight. Edwards at that point vomited a little in his mouth. He never realized how terrible war really was. While the rest of the world had been making laws so that terrible weapons could never be legally used, and created decades of anti-war films, Earl was in his little world reading novels romanticizing such acts.
How Scrant read tons of war novels but never once came across books such as All Quiet on the Western Front was a mystery in itself.
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Scrant walked into the Rare book shop and slammed the journal on the desk. He started to scream at the worker behind the desk, but his screaming made him sound like a nervous chicken bent on world destruction. He looked pathetic, and made an ass out of himself.
Scrant didn't feel comfortable anymore, and began to feel increasingly violent. He noticed a dirty Italian immigrant strolling on the sidewalk and kicked this man in the back of the knee. As soon as Edwards noticed that this man was stronger than him and very angry, Edwards engaged the "Russian Winter Evasive Maneuver" and ran as fast as he could to his apartment. Earl tripped up the set of apartment stairs and fell down into a wall. Edward arrived back at the world's dirtiest trench. A whistle just blew, signaling another pointless charge into the enemies trench. "Crap", thought Scrant.
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A Previous Entry
Layers of old paint had been scraped off the window's pitted edge; left open in the vacant apartment in hopes of catching a faint breeze from the grimy city air outside. A black journal on a packing crate nearest the window had been left carelessly open, with loose pages strewn about the floor as various black ink splotches lead a faint trail towards the door. A sudden breeze stirs the pages and they flip open to reveal a previous entry.
Month one, Day 12______________Time:The darkest hour
Perhaps if I am slowly going insane, I am not the only one. A solitary passenger clinging with desperate conviction to a sinking lifeboat. Or perhaps, in a poor attempt to rationalize my own acute neurosis, I perceive it popping up in those around me. Today, as I was making my way up to my floor close to midnight I overhead a rather one-way conversation. For no reason I could discern, it held my interest. I watched as a gentlemen in a shabby overcoat tightly clutching a black book in his left hand, attempt to unlock his apartment door. The argument heightened as he grew more and more agitated at trying to unlock his door and shut this unseen assailant out. I could not see his face, but his hands were blustered and his posture poor, as if the weight of the world on his shoulders was slowly growing with each fumble of the key.
“Roger! I tell you, not now!”
Had he been drinking? My keen sense of smell picked up a strong trail of old cigar smoke and the damp yeasty smell that prevailed from the tavern, wafting from his coat in onslaughts as he fumbled with the lock. A sharp angle jutting out from the hallway corner kept his attacker just out of sight. But still no audible reply was issued, of this I felt sure. I paused on the step hesitant, but something rooted me to the spot. Exhaustion?
“Blimey Roger, I just don't have it okay…I don't have any of it!”
The door finally swung open, hitting the interior of the apartment as the silhouetted figure burst through from the hallway.
“There's none left!” He thundered murderously, before slamming the door in punctuation. I peered around the angled wall to finally catch a glimpse of his tormentor. There was no one there.
"He noticed a dirty Italian immigrant strolling on the sidewalk and kicked this man in the back of the knee. As soon as Edwards noticed that this man was stronger than him and very angry, Edwards engaged the "Russian Winter Evasive Maneuver" and ran as fast as he could to his apartment." Magnificent, no one could have put it better!
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