The story so far:
Igor stumbled and fell. Bits of the skylight now embedded in his right forearm which had hit the floor just before his flabby jowls. He swore under his breath and looked around for the safest way to return to a standing position without incurring more deposits to his skin from the little chips of glass that surrounded him. He decided to slide over to the stool next to the stove. It sure was convenient having a stool in that position. "I don't even have to dirty a plate" had been his daily mantra.
Now, atop the stool, he could reach the doorless cabinet which held the whiskey. And right here in the drawer he found the tweezers he knew would be there. Wasn't this just about the best seat in the house, he mused. After about 20 grueling minutes he managed to get the last of the little ****ers.
Streaks of blood ran down to his elbow, some had dried and they reminded him of the wrigglers his dad used to catch is thier backyard. "Gotta squeeze gently, son." He would whisper, as if the worms had ears. Once he had a canful he would turn them out into the sink to "wash the human stink from 'em". "It's the way of nature, son. God give us these here worms so's I could ketch them fish." He was sure good at fishing, I'll give him that, but nothing else. Igors' smile had turned to a grimace with this reflection. "Yep. A toast to you dad. You old fool." and lifted the bottle for yet another dose of love.
"And a toast to you, my friend." This gesture towards the framed photo of he and his ex-partner Stan. "You son-of-a-bitch." Stanley Porter was the singular reason why Igor was holed up in this shabby place with the windows taped and the mail drop plugged up, waiting for the anticipated "bling" which would announce he had mail. The volume on his Mac was all the way up. He'd hear it from anywhere in the apartment. Now, as he made his way to fetch the broom, he heard it.