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Background Post - Another Sleepy Day

I'm an Attention Whore

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Chris J. Canatsey
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Background Post - Another Sleepy Day

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Brogan paces back and forth, his weapon of choice held up in a defensive posture. He watches his fowl foe rise slowly to the occasion, the smell of defeat lingering off as Brogan stood back ready to strike the final blow. Making a swift slide to the left and dropping the iron protection his foe hides behind, Brogan stabs forward and makes three vertical cuts along his foes mid-section. Seeing the juices run freely, Brogan smiles wide. He puts down his knife, reaching for the next instrument in his struggle.

Pulling the Duck pot pie from the stove with his heat-resistant mitts, Brogan takes a deep whiff and sighs happily at the completed work. The crust was browned just right, the juices ran clear and free from the ventilation slits and he could see the vegitables inside had distrubuted just right. Setting it on a rack to cool for later, Brogan begins to hum as he scrubs the various dishware used for the meal. It was a good day today, very few customer's in McNeils this day meant more time for experimentation with various meals. It was a slow paced life, the only real struggle he dealt with daily was the Marquis and Marquess fighting for his service (and of course the Pooka and her 'borrowing' of his various kitchen tools). No one had called upon his Knightly duties since he arrived some 5 years ago, and life was at peace.

The thunderclap rolls across the sky, as a chill wind begins to set in. As a cloud moves to cover the skies, Brogan gives a shiver down his spine at the sudden change of weather. It was a frustration, the quick change of weather here in Florida, and one that tended to set him on edge. Especially when it involved incoming thunderstorms, which Florida was also famous for. Shutting his small window and curtains, Brogan shakes his head as he does his best to block out the drum beat inside his own veins that accomplinies the pitter-patter of the rains that fall from the storming skies.

"McNeil, I'm checing out for the day. Its slow, and we won't have any customers with this storm." He grabs his coat and hat, getting the standard nod from McNeil, then pulls his hat down low as he steps out into the storm. Brogan gives a sigh of relief as he heads out, feeling the wind begin to whip against his exposed skin and the rain water begin to seep into his clothing. Moving about down the street, he helps various ladies (caught in the middle of thier mid-day strolls) inside by proiding shelter of his small umbrella and opening doors, until he is the only one left about.

Making his way back to his small home, Brogan breathes deep in the purity of the thunderstorms fresh air. Stepping inside long enough to kick off his shoes, he heads to his rooftop sanctuary. Placing his hand on the well-weathered steering wheel fixed upon his roof, Brogan tilts his head back and stares into the storm itself. He gives the wheel a spin, feeling the drumming inside his veins pounding away again as he relives memories of yesteryear. He gives a soft chuckle, imagining that he was back on the ship again. Brogan closes his eyes and loses himself in the memories, seeking that sweet release even for just a few hours as the storm rages overhead.

A few hours of violence, several weeks of peace. Life is good to Brogan.
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