Running out of Time
Micheal James Davis. Technically, he was Micheal James Davis-Way. The payout had erased that last part though. His whole life had been a jumble of different houses and jobs and friends couches and a struggle to survive. Twenty-one years. Twenty fucking one. Then there would be another one, and another one, and year after year after fucking year until this current year was just another faint memory, like all the rest. Twenty one. His 'brother'? He lived in the lap of luxury, pet dog of the President. Micheal had seen him on TV a couple of times. He looked like a lost puppy. A sad lost puppy, and MIcheal would be fine with only seeing him as that but he just had to go and become the thirty-fifth president of the United States of America. Now he was just a lost dog, scrounging for food to steal. And the Butcher needed to stay in business.
The Butcher.
Stupid fucking name for a stupid fucking man with a stupid fucking job.
It wasn't like he wanted his life to turn out this way. When he was a kid he wanted to be in a band. He would play the bass guitar, or maybe electric. Too late now. His mother used to lecture him when he got into fights, but it wasn't his fault. It never was. Everyone's done something wrong, he was just correcting the course. Altering history. When he got paid to do it? That was just a bonus.
And now he had a brand new target staring back at him through the TV.