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18.01.2020 – As an extreme example compare her to an 80 year old person you know. The union suit was the precursor of long johns , a two-piece garment consisting of a long-sleeved top and long pants possibly named after American boxer John L. She went on vacation and literally expected everything to grind to a complete halt. But as a woman, Nathan understood there was nothing of a seductive nature in what her visitor had suggested, that this was purely a business transaction.

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Nathan Connor is a mess of a human being. He thought about this as he accidentally splattered ink on the corner of his kitchen table. He tried to obscure it by smearing it with his thumb into the worn pine, only to permanently stain it a dark grey.

He cursed and grabbed a paper towel, and tried to rub the grey shade out, then loudly cursed again as a thick red paste was added to the mix.

The supposedly clean paper towel had come into contact with the open bottle of red ink at his elbow. He gave up the effort and tossed the paper towel onto the floor, where the oak planks at his feet were littered with crumpled papers and ink blotches and the crumby remains of breakfast toast.

He rested his elbows on the surface of the table and pressed the heels of his hands at his temples, which were already bearing the warrior marks of his efforts, thick smudges of grey, black and red ink leaking into his scalp.

He studied the pencilled in illustration framed beneath him, a depiction of a large, burly Sasquatch with massive clawed hands and shark teeth drooling over a meek, t-shirted young man sitting in a chair in front of his TV.

Nathan had been very careful in his detailing of the brain of the youth. He hoped his idea of subversive resistance, expressed through the imposing violence of the Sasquatch upon the suggestion of a questioning thought would go over better with the chief editor of The Weekly Weird than his last illustration had.

Nathan had been very careful in his detailing of the brain of the youth. Also videos of the founder trying on bras and discussing the proper exercises to keep a man around. Basic black jersey bra and knicker set jesus More like a burgundy.

Honestly, what were you thinking? His cheeks burned in prideful fury.

No later. So now here he was, well past his deadline, stuck in his cramped bachelor apartment with a detail of an open skull and its leaky brain glaring back at him from the pencilled illustration.

There was no question. He gritted his teeth, and poised his pen over the paper, the Sasquatch clawing at the nub with. He placed the tip of his pen on the paper, and began to carefully trace.

A sonic boom pounded through the tiny apartment, followed by another, and then another, and then. His terror had been cancelled out.

Cursing, Nathan tried to fix the mistake, only to be outdone once again by the loud noises of the apartment next door, the screaming and pounding breaking all concentration and leaving him as furious as the cause clearly was.

His neighbours were too earnestly violent to hear him.

Angry, he reached across the table to turn on his small CD player, the volume ratcheted up to the max, the funky rhythm of The Specials blasting Monkey Man into the din.

This of course started what he knew would be a chain reaction, with the neighbour beneath him now pounding on his ceiling, demanding he turn that goddamned shit off.

Annoyed at how his work was nearly ruined, and edgy over its lack of progress, Nathan stomped his feet on the oak floors, echoing the blows beneath him as a therapeutic catharsis.

He took a few pieces of paper towel off the roll and tried to wipe it off, only to prove the extent of the damage was considerable.

Good thing he only ever wore black, at least his clothes were salvageable. His chest, however, was now a rosy pink hue that clung to his skin like a Hello Kitty burn.

Red footprints were left in his wake as he headed for the kitchen sink, the water running red as murder. A sudden, eerie quiet lay behind the whitewashed brick wall of his flat, and he quickly turned off his.

Carefully, on tip-toe, he made his way to the pull-out couch that was pressed against the brick wall, a. Balancing unevenly on the cushions of his beige tartan sofa, Nathan pressed his ear against the cool, white-washed bricks.

A resounding thump pushed him off, the apartment next door exploding into pounding punches of. Cursing, he tested the sore spot at his temples with his fingertips, which were now genuinely stained with droplets of blood.

He pounded his fists on the white bricks, demanding silence. Chips of concrete fell onto his worn sofa. His fury earned him nothing but sore hands and greyish-pink ink smudges on the crumbling white bricks.

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He turned and leaned his back against the cool bricks, the fighting behind him. His poster lay massacred on the floor, his work in a likewise state from this view into the corner that served as his dining room.

So much for cheap rent and the room to act out his particular brand of genius on a tight budget. He almost regretted leaving that awful teaching job back at the college, but he was determined to be a professional doodler and practise what he preached.

Even if the pay was shit. Speaking of starving artists, he was damned hungry.

Where the hell was Mark with his dinner? Careful to avoid any cutting blades of glass, he left his sofa to attempt a good view out of his second floor apartment window.

The dark grey hue of the world outside the glass suggested to him it was raining, and there were warped, colourful circular patterns moving like an assembly line on what he knew was the busy sidewalk below.

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He opened his window, allowing in a thin sheen of rain that collected in ashen grey puddles on the windowsill. The circles were umbrellas belonging to harried pedestrians, rushing to get somewhere dry, some undefinable elsewhere that would provide them with calm, cozy warmth.

When he and his brother Mark had first moved to this city, it was on a warm, sunny day full of promise and excitement, a new page turned in the ever thinning volume that was his biography.

The landlord may hold pride in how the lovingly preserved original fixtures and decor gave the place the illusion of a historic building, but it was merely a decrepit shell of itself, with the dirt original to the construction.

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Nathan sighed, thinking that he and his brother should have sensed an ample warning thanks to the massive stained glass window embedded against the outside wall of the main staircase.

The stained glass mural was plainly visible to the main street, a source of embarrassment for nearly a hundred years, Nathan was sure.

The artwork was solid enough, a good example of early art nouveau styling depicting a large, black, olive green, gold, and red tree, but the construction crew ofnot being art aficionados, had accidentally installed the window upside down.

Thus, the grim tangle of black roots crawled eerily towards the ceiling of the grand staircase of Crescent Manor, right up to the fourth floor.

The equally crawly olive green and dark gold leaves and branches strained towards the lobby, as though trying to claw the inhabitants of the Manor into the central red and black maw that was its trunk.

Just thinking on the sombre hues and mixing it with the grey of the early evening and the constant, now low thumping and complaining from the apartment next door put Nathan into a deep blue funk.

He rested his elbows on the windowsill, the misty rain pelting his face. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he was doing here, in this stupid city, following his brother around like the connection they shared even mattered.

So what if they were twins? They were fraternal, not connected in any special way like identicals were. They were just ordinary siblings.

Hell, they were barely strangers for all they had in common.

It was madness trying to force a connection that refused to exist, but as usual, Nathan got the word, handed in his notice, and ran with Mark to this town like the devil himself was after him.

He sighed. There was his demon now, walking with hunched shoulders, his neat beige trenchcoat soaked at the back, a clear plastic bag holding several Styrofoam packets in his damp grip.

Mark shrugged, his eternally weary stance ready to collapse into a puddle at his feet.

He closes at five on Mondays. It was very rude. This thing, right here? It gets hot and you can cook things in it.

And that white, rounded shape on the other side, here? Stuff that predates this place, for all I know. He was brave and opened the fridge, releasing a stench that resembled sour milk and dog shit.

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He quickly closed it again, dry heaving. Nathan cleared the kitchen table by wiping the red massacre from earlier off with a quick swipe of his arm, the papers and all attempts to keep his job now laying in white, red, and black tatters on the floor.

A rancid collection of squirrel meat? This flat is like the bottom of a restroom wastebasket. Are you in trouble again?

Mark cautiously sat in the squeaking pine chair, his beige trenchcoat still on, his food stubbornly untouched.

Girl trouble. He opened his Styrofoam packet and was happy to see that Wong Fu was a firm believer in simple, nutritious fare. Plain white rice.

Easily identifiable beef. Nathan let out a derisive snort. The poster fell off the wall. If Mark was doubtful, his feeling was suddenly exacerbated by the shuddering smash of a hard, large object against the other side of the brick wall.

Harry Potter! Basic black jersey bra and knicker set jesus The crotch was left open for hygiene reasons. Good task, cheers.

He gave the increasing violence a horrified study as the bricks seemed to heave beneath it, bits of white concrete flaking onto the ugly beige tartan sofa, leaving small grey wounds in the wall.

His shock turned to ire at his brother, as if it was he who had something to do with it. Nathan shovelled another plastic forkful of white rice into his mouth.

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