Aden stared into the maw of his own demise. His mind could not quite grasp what was happening to him, until Greg pointed out that the maw was a half-drunk bottle of cheap bourbon. Aden stared at his best mate blankly. He was sure he felt some dribble wander down his chin.
“You sure you're ok to walk home?”, Gregg asked, looking at Aden on the street.
From his place leaning against a shop window, a Gucci boutique whose doorway he had just used to relieve himself, Aden nodded vague assurances that he was perfectly capable of getting himself home. Greg was half cut himself, or he would not have accepted Aden's promises. He did. Aden feebly waved as Greg walked over to the taxi rank to get a ride to his own pad, a few miles away.
Souls met. The sparks didn't fly. But they weren't that type of soul. Dom was right into her right from the beginning, her first words. She just asked a simple question.
How are you?
That was it. Dom was hooked. Her voice was perfect, that subtle blend of nuanced sexuality with a heavy dose of barely concealed smarts that every dude secretly wants. With that, Dom just dove straight in. Whatever concerns he might have had about her, as few as they were, went straight out the window. In some ways, Dom felt like a pioneer without really knowing why. Georgina was a wonderful woman with whom Dom could spend hours just talking to. And he did.
The mark had no idea. I mean, when you walk through life like a mushroom fed on BS, what can you expect. Tiberius Gubon Fallweather III was just such a gullible piece of over-privileged shyte that taking this job was almost a crime. So many would have done it for free. But, you know, a dude has to smoke. A dude has to eat.