The Man with a Loco Motive

Chapter 1

A/N: This is a draft and is not edited yet. Of course, though, any feedback (including CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, comments, and anything else) is always welcome!

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~This story takes place in the time of 1952, though most fashions and customs are advanced beyond this...~

He held the gun to his head. “This is it,” he spoke. “I'm going to end my life. Right here, right now.”

He gripped on to the gun tighter, his neon green eyes shining bright. “Just one click away, and my misery will end. My life is nothing but a scarred past, a wasted present, and a tortured future. I have no one. I am no one.”

He shut his eyes tightly. “If there's any reason for me to live, just tell me in the next five seconds or I'll...” he paused. “Or I'll shoot.

5

4

3

2...”

The door bell rang.

Startled, he dropped the gun and fell backwards, barely catching himself on the wall behind him. He glanced at the door and tried to catch his breath. “Oh dear god...”

When his nerves were calmed, he slowly approached the door and opened it, looking up to see a tall man in a small blue hat and mustache wearing a messenger bag. The blue dressed man handed him a letter and the answerer took it, mumbling a quiet “thanks”.

Shutting the door, he looked at the letter, reading “To William, my son”.

“What...?” he started. “This is my sign. The reason I should live.”

He walked to a counter in his kitchen and threw the letter down, leaning over it while holding himself up with his arms straightened out. “My father? This? THIS? I'd rather die than read anything he has to say!”

He looked at the gun on the floor and picked it up, immediately pressing it to the side of his head. “Goodbye.”

He shut his eyes,

and pulled the trigger.

A click.

Widening his eyes, he dropped the gun, this time not moving except for the release of his fingers. He started shaking and brought his hands close to his face. “I'm still... alive... why, why? Why were there no bullets?” He pressed his hands to his face and started sobbing.

Slowly, he relaxed a bit and removed his hands from his face, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket almost as a reflex. Grabbing a stick, he simultaneously swiped a lighter from his other pocket and lit it. He puffed a breath of smoke out and put away the packet and lighter.

After a few minutes, he stared at the letter on the counter and scowled as he walked toward it. Slowly, he took his cigarette and pressed it against the mysterious message, every twist showing more anger than the last.

He watched as it burned, small flames spurring up. “That's right, burn. I don't care about what you do. I don't care about your words. I don't care what you wrote. I don't care about you.”

After a small hole started to form with a circle of fire, he quickly threw it in the sink and turned on the faucet.

'Why did I just do that?' he thought in confusion.

He pulled the soggy letter out of the sink and brought back to the counter, trying to dry it with his hands. Carefully, he opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, the cigarette hole making part of it unreadable. It read:

To my dear son, William,

I am sorry to inform you this, but I am unable to pay for your rent any longer with my increasingly lower income rate. Since I know you are having trouble looking for a job, it is best that you stay with me on the Golden Robin. Your Uncle ------------- is the reason I am losing money. I'd advise you to come as soon as I arrive to Hudson City next, which should be, as you know, at 9:00 a.m. and we'll leave at 10:00 a.m. You need to remember how to drive it anyway, so when I retire, you can take over. You're the only person capable of handling the controls as well as me. Don't let me down!

Sincerely, your father,

John Robins

“Damn it!” He slammed the letter on the counter, the thump silencing the room. “That's my only choice? First I can't kill myself, and now this? I don't even get to live in my own apartment?” He glanced at a clock hanging on the wall. “He's arriving today... shit.”

With a small shout of fury, he sat down in a chair sticking out from a table and breathed in another puff of smoke. “I give up. And now, I have only one option. And unfortunately it's not death.” He sighed in frustration and stood up, walking toward the bathroom after putting out his cigarette.

He grabbed some clothes sitting on the floor, first putting on a long-sleeved, tight black shirt to go over his black tank-top and cover the tattoos on his arms. He then grabbed a purple belt to hold up his skinny, black leather pants. His tall, buckle covered boots were next. After sitting down on the ground and strapping those on, he took his short, gray half-jacket and put it on, chaining it together with a few small chains instead of using a zipper. He stood up and straightened his jacket - along with his back - and turned his head slightly.

He saw his horrifying face in the mirror. He approached it closer and got a better look at himself, viewing the pale whiteness that was his face. Piercings were seen on his nose, eyebrows, ears, lips, and tongue. His hair was dyed completely black and spiked downward, some hair covering part of his eyeliner covered, sleep deprived eyes, though the illuminating green glow from them shone through.

He was very tall, but had a terrible posture, always slightly hunched over. He was also extremely skinny - nearly emaciated.

“I have no friends, no home, no job, no money, and definitely no life. This disturbing face is me. This, is Pierce Robins.”