The Old Man woke again, he hated when that happened. So inconvenient to be conscious. Whoever created awakeness would get a good boop on the ear if The Old Man had anything to say about it.
His small shack was nothing big to look at, and he had only taken residence here a few years ago. The Old Man boiled a pot of water and threw in some leaves that he had found in his pockets, he forgot where he had found them. He did that alot, just grabbing things and stashing them away without noticing it himself.
Some would call him a Kleptomaniac, however he didn't think that was his name. He had no need for his name, discarding it from his conscious mind. Names are such a useless thing, though he had to admit there was a game about collecting them like they were little trinkets.
The Old Man couldn't quite remember his name, though he remembered how boring it was. There were people out there with the most unique names, the kinds that made someone say, yes this guy is interesting. Gol, Baihin, Nekure, those are interesting names. Gol, right it had only been a few years since the pirate kings death huh? Nekure was the one who brought him down, now he is an admiral right? So interesting. Now Baihin is the biggest pirate in the world!
“Right.” The Old Man said, tapping his fist to his palm in realization. “Robert! That idiot doesn't have that good of a name.” Content The Old Man continued brewing what he called tea, those of the sane walk of life would call it dirt water. Though some would still argue that counts as water.
Robert S Maxis, he had to start going by Maxis because Robert was so boring. He gets behind the banner of a man named robert? Now Maxis, that's a name, sounds like a general, an admiral even.
The Old Man felt a small grumble in his stomach. Right, it had been over a week since he had eaten hadn't it? He opened the cold box he had, the ice had almost finished melting, it was empty besides that.
“Well that is annoying.” The Old Man said, looking around. “I should have something in the traps though.”
He did, the trap in question was a mouse trap set up at a small split in the rood of his ramshackled shack. He never knew why he never just fixed that, until times like this. He picked up the rat that was long dead, then dropped it into the boiling dirt water and waited. People in the more civilized space would scoff if they saw him prepare the rat like that, but in truth leaving the fur on gave it so much more flavor! It's like seasoning a steak while you cook it, some people are just so strange.
With his stomach full, well full by his standards, The Old Man pushed the door open to the world outside. Stralouse Island is a very interesting island in the grand scheme of islands here in the New World. The top of the island was flat like a disc, yet was tipped at one end, which made one half dip into the sea while another rose into the air.
The Old Man had a working theory that the island was tipped this way by a giant from the lands of Avadlis. Those brutes would do something like this, just to annoy The Old Man even though it had been tipped like this since the Void Century. No recorded record said the island was ever not like this, yet if you look at the island from afar you would agree it was once completely flat like a coin.
The Old Man’s shack was built into a pile of garbage, inconspicuous like. Behind him he could spot the giant steel wall that curved like a wave, the Great Divide. It was built to keep the trash that was attracted to the lower section of the island from spilling into the fancier folks living areas. Because of that, this area known as The Traps, became a large garbage dump.
Garbage was a subjective term though as The Old Man knew well. Past the great divide was the farming areas of Milieu, and beyond that near the tip of the island was the great city of Toutes. That place is garbage. Lower Celestial Dragons took up residence there, a trend that was becoming more popular since the pirate king's death. Thanks to that though the seas were infested with navy who kept the island safe from any danger, and led to more treasures arriving on The Old Man’s door step.
The Old Man went about his daily ritual, a nice stretch to keep his body lean, realize he was in fact not wearing pants still, then continue on his walk. He wore now shoes either, if you weren't going to wear pants why shoes? If he went to some fancy shmancy restaurant up in the big city he would wear shoes, as it said on the sign that it was required along with a shirt. Neither had to be clean off course, though he wasn't sure his clothing had ever been clean at any point in time.
At one point his brown shirt was another color, though The Old Man had forgotten what it was. Maybe a magenta? It was too hard to try and remember something so meaningless.
The Old Man found a set of damp cloth below a broken chair. He picked it up and turned it into a sling bag, then took a piece of the broken chair and put it in the sling. You never knew when you would need a piece of nice pine wood splinters. Oh a nice broken watch, the hands of it would be nice. And is that a used bathtub! Those knobs would look so nice on his door! Though he already had several already on the front door for no perceived reason as all you had to do was pull and the door would open. This was his lucky day, what finds!
He continued looking. Half a pair of scissors, a jar of toe nails, a bleeding boy, oh and is that a waffle iron! The Old Man always wanted one of these things, now he just needed to find a way to make waffles. While thinking about the idea of rat waffles The Old Man took true notice of the bleeding boy before him.
He kicked him with his foot. “Hey, you alive, hey.” Each word was met with a light kick on his head. A groan informed The Old Man he was alive. The boy shifted slightly, revealing an older, weathered face. The Old Man felt a moment of panic, then knelt near the boy. “Hey, how old ya?” No response. “Seriously, like, fifteen? Eighteen? I cant tell.”
The boy groaned.
“Guess I'll just have to wait till you wake up.” The Old Man said casually, watching the boy as more blood began to pool on his garbage, destroying a nice erotic magazine he would have enjoyed. The Old Man looked him over, then realized the source of the blood. His arm sat completely limp, all the muscles and other innards removed, leaving an empty hollow of gore.
“Damn, someone got ya good huh?” The Old Man said. “Ugh, fine I guess i'll fix ya up, though I'll have ya know I really liked my stuff so you'll owe me.” He began to drag the boy across the pile of garbage towards his crap shack. The whole way the boy groaned as his face smashed on the ground or was sliced by the endless supply of sharpened objects that littered the floors. The old man had grown immune to the pain of the little pricks.
The Old Man saw himself as a surgeon of the highest caliber, working his magic to save this boy's life. He was sweating under an intense heat lamp, scalpel moving to cut away dead flesh, inserting prosthetics to save the boy's arm.
In reality, what he was doing was considered a crime on every island that has ever had a sentient being on it for even a moment. The horrific work he had done could only be described as undefinable. The things inserted into the boy were several levels of toxic, and some didn't even have a true purpose, just there to make it look even more like a hodgepodge of disastrous waste. He didnt even do anything to cover the wound, just left it open to the elements.
“There.” The Old Man said, wiping the sweat from his brow like the surgeon he believed he was would do. “All better.”
The boy was not better.
“Alright, how old are you?” The Old Man said, kicking the boy again.
The boy had become conscious at some point, yet didn't really react much. Probably due to the fact that The Old Man pressed him to his slab of a table with a loud of heavy shit he had found. A fridge held one hand in place.
“Seventeen.” The boy said.
“Still a boy then!” The Old Man said happily.
Once the boy had recovered enough The Old Man had begun teaching him the ways of garbage collecting. Sadly it seemed the boy was not very talkative. The boy called himself Jericho, Jericho V something or other. The Old Man didn't really care actually. He still called him Boy, sometimes Jerry if he felt nice. Other times he was Dalilah, that was on the days where The Old Man found booze though.
JeriJeri would sit in the corner watching The Old Man most nights, as if he was a frightened cat. The Old Man didn't care, just meant more Rat stew for him. Jerome was welcome to stay for a year, in that time The Old Man would teach him how to survive here. He mostly taught him to enjoy the taste of rat fur of course.
Jackie was the one who suggested feeding the rats cheese, fatten them up a bit to make them tastier. It was that kind of thinking that brought a tear to The Old Man’s eye. He was like a proud father, and patted his adopted funny looking son on his shoulder. This always led to James falling in pain from his open wound. It was a nice time for The Old Man, times he would never forget.
