How did you come to be at QBN? Tell us the story, no matter how dull.
Out of context: Reply #72
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- cannonball19786
I killed a man by accident. I was on my way to get cigs from the bar real quick and cross some train tracks in the foggy dusk when a hobo jumped out from the other side of the berm.
“Qooooobs” he rasped, wiggling his fingers through his fingerless gloves at me.
I told him I didn't want to be bothered but he chased after me, hauling a strangely flat hobo satchel on his back. I ran down the tracks for a bit hoping I could lose him but when I crossed he tackled around my legs and we both fell down the gravel.
A short struggle ensued. As the bell for an approaching train began to ring I hit him over the head with a brick and he flew limp to one side.
No response. No pulse. No wallet or ID, but the strange satchel contained a binder with the word “portfolio” stenciled across. Within the leaflets, strange printouts of unrelated paper stock, drawings, logos.
Everything bore a strange and unnecessary style to it where all the lines ran at 45 degree angles. The last leaflet bore a stack of what seemed like business card-shaped compact disks. On the back of this satchel, a sticker with the letters Q B and N.
Suddenly, a hand shot up, grabbed me by the collar, to which I responded by beating the mans skull into a soupy pulp with my brick as the train flew by in a deafening blizzard of clattering steel.
I have since been looking for clues as to who this man was. A uni student? A young designer. I sometimes interview youngsters for a fake, nonexistent job hoping I might see his mushed up face someday whereupon I might redeem myself.