Utterly Mad

Filth.
Disease.
A pestilence upon our society.
Maggots, unbelieving and unworthy of higher existence.
He'd show them. He'd show them all.

Jericho doesn't get out of bed, because he hasn't been sleeping. Except for one or two hours every few days, but certainly not last night. Breakfast is the usual: cheap gin and three tabs of codeine. Jericho wasn't hungry, he never was this early. Besides, he had big plans for today. Real big plans. Getting dressed in his usual outfit, he walks over to his closet, opening it up. Inside, he spies his prized possessions, and the only things that keep Jericho's mind generally on what he deems the right track; an old surplus gas mask and trench helmet, courtesy of his granddad, a serviceman back in the Great War, a Taurus .38 Super automatic with gold fixtures and mother-of-peal grips that Jericho's had since the USMC, lovingly called Mouth Opener, and a basket-hilted Scottish broadsword, with the word 'Honor' etched into the blade in Gaelic.

Collecting these four items on his person, Jericho quickly left his apartment. He had a date with fate tonight, and it started in a parking lot on the east side of town.