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Looking down at the yellow piss stained water as it growled its own fantastic demise, Jacob Reynolds considered his own fate. The forty-five in the other room could handle it, but could he handle what it would cost?

Doing something, he thought, would be time better spent, than staring at piss water rushing down a drain. But still, watching that soggy mess seep away held a peculiar, if not grotesque enchantment upon the man.

He'd been working odd jobs for years, and never once had let any of them get him down. Not until yesterday, when the saggy bag three floors down challenged his authority as the resident plumber. That was the trade of late, plumber, and wouldn't have been the case had it not been for a married into the family uncle on his mother's side.

The whirling water was nearly clear again, when it belched an alarming bubble back up at him threatening to hit his leg with a dying last driblet of his own piss. He took a step back and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He saw in its reflection a man of thirty eight who looked much much older. Alcohol had a way of killing a man, and turning his skin into sagging droops of yellow demise. His hand raked over the three day's growth of scruff as he tried to stare himself down. He lost. He was the picture image of crashing humanity. He was a man at war with himself.

Jacob turned and walked out of the little cramped bathroom to face the horror of his almost as small apartment beyond. The moth eaten couch with its strawberry stains and aromatic displeasures in one corner. Dripping faucet in a half kitchenette with a view of a crummy cracked back wall and a bare bulb swinging just overhead. A fridge that started its life out as a white wonder, was giving up the ghost in a fading smoker's leftovers of yellow poison.

Yellow, often associated with the happy, sunny times of life held a different sway on Jacob. It was everywhere his depressed eyes fell, and was buried just below the surface of every thought his mind considered. Yellow for him was the color of sorrow, the wasted tear of a man who'd had enough. Not the color of the sun, but the stinking stain color of golden piss.

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