I feel like some Max Payne noir needs to be written to fit this scene, especially the second image:
And there I was, slumped against a dumpster in some empty sewer, sleeping on a bed of trash, feces, and my own self-pity. This scene was nothing like a train wreck, the devastation so pathetic you couldn’t help but look away and move on with your life, which was hopefully not as sad of an excuse for one as mine was. If this senseless alcoholism wasn’t the thing that’d kill me, this election would thankfully do the job better than a 9 millimeter for breakfast ever could. It’d be waiting for me in some rain-soaked backstreet, with a baseball bat, six inch nails jutting out of it, perfect for putting me six feet under, and a name painted onto it. The name wouldn’t be “Marco Abiatti,” but what any sensible person would call this drunk failure of a human being buried under discarded pizza boxes, opened tin cans of Molto Bene spaghetti, and yesterday’s news: “Loser.”
My campaign—what was it supposed to be anyway? Dream-chasing? Yet another poor excuse to rinse my soul clean from my body with booze and nameless recreational drugs? A quick fix to my need for a fix? I was out there on the streets, kissing babies, shaking hands with people as fake as the nightly news, slamming closed fists atop rickety podiums, coughing out words I didn’t even know and hadn’t even written, all while accompanied by an outfit of bodyguards who missed out on the class of “Ass-Kicking 101” by one semester. What I really was doing all this time was running, stumbling across dank alleyways after a pipe dream, nothing more than some hyped-up fantasy of what could never be. I’d cooked up the idea one day in a pool of my own puke, thinking things could only get better from there, or that I could only stand up from there. Little did I know that standing in a pool of vomit would be slippery.
I was a stray dog chasing after the shadow of its tail, trying to catch it, chew it up in its canines, and never let go, all in the middle of Sapienza rush-hour traffic. Everybody was going home. I was going in circles, making round trips from hell and back again and again and again. It was only a matter of time 'til I got what was coming to me–a split-second meeting, or melding, of my mind with the polished metal of some poor bastard’s recently repaired front bumper. From hero to zero, from politician to the victim identified on some overworked, overtired police officer’s accident report. I was spiraling, going down harder and faster than my painkiller high could lift me up.
I once believed the results of this election were gonna turn in my favor. I wished for my extreme right-wing policies to carry me toward some incredible, life-changing victory pulled straight from movies, the history of the Alamo, helping me escape this miles-deep grave I shoveled for myself, but deep down I knew the only result that awaited me at the end of this political ladder. The result could already be found in the smells surrounding my beaten corpse: body odor, piss, and complete shit.