Morg Malden ambled into his tiny living room from his even tinier bedroom. Eleven o’clock. Good thing he didn’t have anything pressing today. Or the next day. Or the day after that. He’d have to do something, sooner or later. But he’d get to that.
Breakfast first. Morg flipped open a pizza box lying on the floor since the night before. God damn. Ants. This shouldn’t have been surprising. But Morg had been leaving pizza sitting on the floor overnight at least weekly for the past several years. Never had any problems. Oh, well. Live and learn. But he’d have to get that pizza out of here. Otherwise ants would just continue to congregate in the middle of the tatty carpet.
He threw out his breakfast, lunch and dinner, cursing at himself as he did. Now breakfast would be just beer. He thought back to his late grandfather. It was hard to believe Morg had been a kid. But he had. And his toy had broken. His grandfather had shrugged. “Life’s a gyp, kid.” That’s probably offensive now, Morg thought. Not that his grandfather would have cared.
Morg ambled over to the refrigerator. No pizza, no grandpa and nothing in the refrigerator besides beer. Oh, he had memories. Memories of his grandfather and memories of the pizza. Fat lot of good that did him. He reached for a cheap beer and cracked it open. Here was breakfast. He raised the open bottle to toast no one in particular. Life’s a gyp, kid.