London is filled with narrow alleyways and tiny, filthy backyards in the most unthinkable neighborhoods. They're all parts of that musty, intricate labyrinth of old and new buildings that makes up the UKs capital. Whilst most of the city thoroughly modernistic built up of tall buildings in glass and metal, it there still traces of old-London's former self. The so-called backside of the oh-so-famous medal. Dark, smelly alleys filled with dark, smelly people. Actions has been taken, of course, to clean this shame-spot of Londons perfectly clean reputation(at least in the citizens' eyes), but somehow the dirt seems to have grown permanent roots. It was in one of these lugubrious passages that former rockstar Curt Wild had passed out sometimes ago.

His hair a dirt-blonde, tangled mess flowing down upon his bony shoulders. He looked like more of a skeleton than a living human being,as he laid in fetalposition underneath a urine smelling, overfilled dupster. The males skinny frame were shivering in the frosted, polluted March-air. His clothes didn't help him keep up his bodywarmth at all. The thin, sweaty cotton shirt he was wearing might once have been white, or maybe grey, and his leather jacked had wide gaps. His jeans were worn and currently undone Originally, they'd been bleached a pale, azure nuance Brian'd loved. Now, the color was barely visible because of the many spots and stains covering its surface. Some of them were innocent stains from food, motor oil and such, but a suspicious amount of the not-so-innocent stains were located around his groin. A slight strip of his pallid, bruised skin was visible, due to his undone pants.

Stirring slightly, he let out a slight groan. As he regained the feelings in his aching limbs, he realized he was clinking sober. Fluttering his dark lashes somewhat, he took in glances of his surroundings.

"Shit, no, not again.." His voice were a raspy whisper, barely audible.

And with a massive groan, he felt his way to his pocket, and fumbled around. The previously, half-empty baggie were gone.

"Oh, fuck"

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"Brian? Brian! Don't you hang up on me again! We've been through this before, the contract is still binding, no matter what kind of bloody messed up moodswingi.."

"BEEP"

Jerry's rant was abruptly interrupted by the electronic sound of his office's phone.

He slammed the flat on his hand in his mahogany desk, ignoring the pain the solid material caused him.

"Bloody 'ell! He actually hung up on me! Could you believe that?"

He continued shouting at no one in particular, as busy people rushed through his office, most of them in platform boots and carrying meter-high stables of documents.

Shannon sat in an especially uncomfortable designer chair, gazing upon the mess that was her job. Ever since Brian'd, recording to rumors, ended his relationship with his male guitarist and gotten so broken up about it that he'd refused to talk to anyone. Even his wife, Mandy, hadn't seen him for nearly a month now. Regretting it all, she sighed deeply. 'Why'd she even answered that add?'

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"Curt!"

She rustled the lifeless man she'd just recognized as Curt Wild, a former patient of hers. Finally, his eyes opened, though Curt didn't seem to be able to focus on anything. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say her something but ended up closing it as he found out he was unable of producing a single sound even close to a word. His eyes rolled back in its sockets, and his head fell back against the green dumpster with a loud thud as he passed out again.

Emily Margareth Brown sighed of relief. At least her patient (now, he could surely be considered as a patient) was alive. On Curts now exposed neck was a vein visible, pulsating evenly.

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Brians shining red cell phone danced over the table. He snatched it on the fourth ring.

"Yes, Jerry, I'm sure. My decision is final! Now stop calling m…What?"

He bolted upright in the couch he'd been spending the last few days in.

"You did really!? Where?" He interrupted himself "No, it doesn't matter, I'll be there right away!"

Thrilled, he rushed through his apartment, not realizing he was only dressed in a pair of Curts underpants before he reached the hall with the broken mirror. He still hadn't picked up the bloody shards covering the most of the floorspace. Digging into a pile of clothes lying in rather large heap on the floor, he produced a somewhat clean pair of glittering, skinny jeans in minutes. Luckily there were a set of car keys in one of the pockets. He snatched a red, pleather jacket on his way out as he kipped on a pair of Curts worn vans.

'Finally, Finally! Curt!'

The doubt, however, started flowing through him as the bitter truth seeped into his conciousness. What if Curt didn't want to see him? After all, Curt was the one who'd ran out on him. It became harder and harder not to turn the car around, to head home.

'Home.. Home to what? The remainders of his stash of coke and vodka?'

'No,' he thought. 'This is a chance I'll have to take.'

And somewhere in the depths of his mind, a little voice reminded him that Curt might just as well need him. ¨There had been something in the shrinks voice that'd alarmed his, hmm, subconscious mind? Something in her tone, certainly not joy or relief ..

'Curt couldn't be… No, not Curt..'

He swallowed harshly.

'No,' he decided 'she'd told him that..'