As Lewis Gallivan woke that Sunday morning, the sunlight glaring in his eyes, he made a mental note to buy thicker curtains as soon as Capone gave him his meager paycheck.
Still tired from a late night at work, Lewis rolled over, turning his back on the window with the thin curtains that were currently the thing Lewis hated the most. To foil his dastardly foe’s attack on his eyes, he covered his head with his pillow. Subconsciously, he knew that he should get up and out of bed, but that little voice was being smothered by the needs of the rest of Lewis’s body. Namely, the need for more sleep.
The brain, however, had one sympathetic ally in Lewis’ body, one that held immense control and influence. This ally made itself known, giving Lewis the option between getting out of bed or having to wash the sheets.
Lewis, still in that fragile state of being between awake and asleep, gave in to the demands of his bladder and lurched out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom a changed man. He had showered, shaved, and combed his sparse red hair (he feared that he was already starting to bald, even at the age of thirty). Fully awakened, he set about on his morning routine. He dressed himself in a brown three-piece suit, filed his fingernails, disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his sidearm, and shined his shoes.
He set the old rag aside and held one of the leather wingtip shoes up against the light, angling it to make sure the shine was just right. In his inspection, he noticed a dime-sized spot of unwelcome color on the sole. Lewis picked up the rag again and scrubbed the dried blood away.
Satisfied, he slipped the shoe on, feeling slightly aggravated that it didn’t fit as well as it once had. Continue reading “A Life Of Crime”