Post by Dante on Sept 4, 2011 17:23:30 GMT -5
Another day out to the racetrack. Why? Because it was his day off and it was too early for Connor to hit the bar, that was why. The man, in his mid-twenties, was watching people pass by the betting booth with a lit cigarette between his lips, smoke wafting upwards. Yep, he knew it was going to kill him, but he was addicted. He wanted it. Besides, no one had to live long to be awesome. You only had to look at the horses to know that. He inhaled the smoke and puffed it back out through his nose, walking through the crowd of people and down near the front of the grandstands, close to the track. A race had just finished, and stomping, snorting, sweaty horses were leaving the winners circle. He wasn't sure about the age of the winner, but horses didn't race long most of the time. Some died on the track - they broke a leg, busted up their hearts, whatever. Sometimes they died. And he trained them to run, in a renovated prison.
"Mum always said I'd end up in prison." The man remarked to no one with a small chuckle, smoke coming out through his nose. If she was still talking to him, she might have been amused, but Connor and mama didn't get along anymore. Not since his first stint into "real" prison when he was 18. But he was okay with that. He'd made it to a good track, and if he didn't mess it up, Connor was here to stay...now whether or not anyone here - all of them presumably never having dabbled in drugs, underage drinking, petty robbery and recklessness in a vehicle among other things - accepted him was another story. Connor found himself a more deserted area, and watched as horses were loaded into gates, like bullets into a gun to him. Poetry in motion, that was what it was. More poetic than he had words for.
The race was just about to begin when the man felt a presence nearby. He barely turned his head as he removed the cig from his mouth. "I suppose you're here to tell me to put this out." It as probably some racetrack staff, or angry parent, after all...
