Chapter the first: a beginning, of sorts

The black myopia of sleep floats, an inky blackness. In this dark realm, storm clouds swirl, foreboding. But a swift blade of light cuts across the horizon, accompanied by a searing noise, a ringing in the ears. A ringing of an alarm clock. The light gradually presses the ground and sky away, until the eye within blinks out into the daylight.

And so, Bob woke up.

Fighting out of the tangles of his sheets, he rose like a zombie, and tripped, catching his elbow on his bedside table. As he flung his arm out, cursing, to break his fall, the alarm clock, still ringing, plummeted off the table and proceeded to try to flee across the floor, evading his flailing arms. Eventually, he managed to leave the floor, cradling his wounds, and struggle into his shirt, fumbling the buttons.

After nearly hanging himself on his tie, Bob staggered out to the kitchen, and once he'd raided the fridge of last night's cold lasagne, collapsed into a chair. As he drowned himself in coffee, Bob began to fight off the fog of sleep that continued to plague him, and gradually became observant of his surroundings. The cracked lino on the floor exuded its mould children into his mangy slippers, the water stains continued their crusade across the walls, and the sink swore in protest at the crumbling ceiling plaster falling into its territory. Still, combing his oily black hair out of his face, Bob snapped his genuine Seagull watch around his wrist…

And saw the time.

Stumbling out of his battered Nissan, brushing runaway lasagne off his lap, Bob tried to stride magnificently into the office. He strode across the reception room, his shoes clicking on the fake white marble, and stared contemptuously down at the tired receptionist.

"Bob Rutherford," the receptionist smiled, combing back his oily hair. Languishing every syllable, he continued. "The boss shall see you in his office."

Bob stomped out the door, ripping his tie off from his neck and throwing it violently on the ground. How could they just fire him like that!?  He spun around, raising a finger, and kicked the door of his boss's car with all his pent up anger.

Nothing like a broken toe to sober you up.

Later, as a ray of afternoon sunshine beamed through the bars of the window, illuminating the mad dance of dust particles, Bob lay in his cell, cradling his still salty toe. He watched as the dust particles spiraled, in the golden light, and speculated on his future.

The office job had been good, and despite not paying too well, it'd been his only option. Sloppy work ethic, hmph! Now, with what had been the only job that would accept him gone, how was he going to make a living? He'd have to find enough money to pay his landlord… Shoot. He could sell his car? His computer? But it'd still not be enough to keep him off the street. His thoughts spiralled in towards depression, like inky water down the drain, and his consciousness went with them, dumping him into sleep.

After leaving the police station with a small fine for vandalism and a reminder to respect others' property, et cetera, Bob limped home. He stumbled up his garden path, with its cracked flagstones, and pulled the newspaper from his rusting mailbox. As he shoulder barged his way through his warped plywood door, and collapsed into his chair, the one thing going through his mind was: what am i going to do now?  He dejectedly opened the newspaper, reading out of force of habit. His eyes were on the verge of glazing over… when something snagged his vision.

Deep within the classified section it lurked… His one leyline to the future… He saw the opportunity, and seized it.

Gravedigger wanted!