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Having blown his bus fare on an animal which thought running through hedges was a good tactic, the man left the bookie's and began his solemn walk home. He didn't want to go home, you understand, but having no money wasn't exactly conductive to spending any more time staring at screens and increasing his blood pressure to dangerous levels.
It was ill-advised to walk along the motorway, wearing a black jacket and black jeans; it was even more ill-advised to do so walking with the traffic. He didn't care, though. Not tonight. Hell would be a preferable destination to the front door of his run-down flat. "You've been at it again haven't you?" She'd scream at him, throwing the rolling pin at his aching head. That's what she'd done last time, anyhow.
As he was running that warm greeting through his mind and a finger over the scar, he almost didn't notice the fellow in front of him on the hard shoulder.
"Watch it, geezer."
Steve Claridge. Great...
"It's the betting, son. Getting out of control, ain't it? Yes it is, very bad habit, that. Anyway, me and some of the other pundits, Merse and that, have put our head together and come up with a plan like, to save you from yourself. You stay on the right road and you can be just like us in no time!"
The man blinked slowly, thought for a nano-second, then threw himself in front of an oncoming lorry.
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