Al.
That was the name of the boy who was born with misfortune trailing behind him like a shadow. He was bought from one slave trader to another; like a toy with an increasing value yet decreasing worth. When he was saved, they thought he would finally be lifted from the misfortune he carried from his birth—but no, he had died such a meaningless death. Misfortune did not leave him.
It just waited.
And when it finally showed itself once more, the boy who was born with it had finally met his end.
--
Or so he thinks.
Al Francis slowly opened his eyes, welcoming the rays of the sun to his face. He sat down abruptly, realizing he had slept. HE HAD SLEPT.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath as he sees the drool over the large paper he was drawing on last night.
His own drool had ruined his plates.
**
"Man, that's some crazy bed hair."
