It's the bus station. It's the summer break. It's morning. Blazing shards of light fry the sidewalks, lighting up the flakes of dust in the still air. A dismal banner displays the fact that the local art gallery is hosting a display of works of "talented young beginners". Somewhere nearby, one child attempts to murder another, judging by the sounds.
Bishop steps off the bus and slings his bag over his shoulder, dodging to the side just in time as the bus roars away. He spits, flips the rumbling vehicle the bird and lights up a cigarette. "Okay, shitsville, what've you got for me." He drops his sunglasses down and scans the area.
Across the road, a teenager of uncertain age and gender toys with a Gameboy. Down the road, a cafe houses several more specimens of teenage youth. The place is dry and quiet, beaten down by the heat of the day.
The spirit of shitsville is not being very forthcoming. You get strong vibes of 'what're you doin' here, STRANGER?'
Bishop flicks on the recorder and wanders into town. "Lonely. Bleak. Time's cracked this town open and scooped out the fleshy parts, devoured them. People here know they're leftovers, stuck in architectural bits of tupperware and left to be forgotte - holy fuck."
Bishop drops his army duffel to the ground and crouches beside it, palm to earth. His nostrils flare. "Following some chickens."
A breeze rustles across the pavement, for what feels like the first time this morning. It bears with it the unmistakeable scents of smoke, roast pork, and chicken dung.
Bishop pats his hand against the earth - a genial enough gesture. He straightens and hefts the bag with a grunt. "It's breakfast time and mama Bishop's boy has got a hankering for eggs and steak and chicken shit." He follows the smell.
Slowly, as the city unrolls around him, he finds himself wandering into the old slaughterhouse district. It is an area of high warehousing, big lorries, old crumbling walls, concrete, rusting iron, and drying moss.
Bishop's lips begin to curl into a smile. "Now this is more like it. It's old and there's just too much juicy green for it to be really home but oh can you smell the rust." He looks for signs of life - recent tire tracks, lights and the like as he wanders through.
Several fresh scrapes on the wall at one junction betray the fact that lorries have recently been attempting turns down through it. A recently repaired sign on the wall marking one street shows recent interference. The two guys sitting and smoking cigarettes outside a large old warehouse further down the street are suggestive in themselves.
Bishop sets his duffle against one side of the junction and drops down to sit on it, squirming to get comfortable. He lights another cigarette and pulls out a map, watching the men over it. Are they guards, he wonders, or workers.
The men don't seem to be doing any particular work. They hold their position, stubbing out their cigarettes and starting new ones. One gestures in a way that suggests he's trying to describe football maneuvers. Both of them have noticeable beer-bellies, and are sweating in the heat.
Bishop folds up his map and pockets it. Slinging the bag, he wanders over towards them.
They both look up as he approaches. One removes the cigarette from his mouth, thoughtfully.
The guy without an in-mouth cigarette says, "Yeah?"
Bishop blows smoke into the heavy air. "Where can a guy find work around here?" His interest strays to the building behind the two men.
The building looks like a warehouse.
The other man, cigarette still dangling from his lips, says, "You looking for work?"
Bishop nods. "Be in town for a while."
The first man says, "There's a temp agency downtown. They do jobs."
Bishop rubs his jaw. "They won't want me."
There is a definite, brief flash of interest in the first man's eyes, though his voice remains flat. "Oh?"
Bishop shrugs, looks around. "Don't spend much time in any one place; don't like filling out papers, putting my name on things."
The two men exchange glances. The second says, firmly, "Not our decision. You gonna haveta talk to the boss, if you want a job."
Bishop nods, and shrugs. "Way it usually goes."
Bishop says "I didn't peg you for the HR department."
Both men snort.
The first man says, "You wanna come back this afternoon? Nobody around at the moment."
Bishop nods, and glances at his wrist - no watch. "What time?"
The first guy says, "Four, five o'clock?"
Bishop nods. "It's a date, snookums."
Both of them snort again. The first guy returns to chewing on his cigarette.
Bishop turns and heads back towards town - to find a place to sleep where the bugs won't violate him too badly.
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