Stepping out of the building, with his wrists creased and the sweat finally sweeping off his brow, Scratchy takes a deep breathe as the cold air pierces his lungs. As the ocean of people start flooding out their houses to the great outdoors, they wear coats - huddled together in pairs it seems. With only a white buttoned shirt to keep him warm he finds the nearest street to find a taxi.

Ten minutes later

Scratchy meets his apartment door, with the neighbours seemingly having their quarrel that usually ends with a fist on either side, Scratchy grabs his keys from his ruined pants. Walking in throwing his keys against the wall and slamming the door, hoping the people next to him wake up, he looks around his dank apartment with mold and the smell of rot.

Scratchy takes off his new watch, placing it on half broken nightstand, looking towards the pyramid of bottles that lay on the floor - finding one with two shots worth inside with a straw inside, with a grin he lies face up on the bed, "What a life," Scratchy says out loud, even with the neighbours screaming from either side of his room, nursing on the bottle as he slowly drifts off into his own consciousness.