He cracks his back as he pushes away from the work bench, "Huh. Chainsaw is missin' where'd I put, bah fuck it." He knelt down to view his pathetic amount of food that was nestled comfortably, under his work bench. Grabbing a can of sardines and the jerrycan over to the barrel. Flame was already gently dancing above the rim of the barrel, but to make sure it'd burn a little hotter and a little longer he poured a small amount of petrol into the barrel, causing the fires to rise just a tad bit. He tore open the can o' fish, tossed it on the grill, then went to the corner with journal in hand to relieve himself.
With what little light he had in the basement, along with the water damage that the journal had sustained after being through sewers, violent urban areas, and hell its been shot a few times too; he attempted to read the latest passage to see if he could find some sort of clue as to what to do today (AKA: Wilson writes me a quest or journal entry, feel free to go wild with it buddy!). Finishing up, he grabbed the hot tin of fish, and quickly scarfed them down, spitting out chewed up little spines and bones that he couldn't swallow.
Taking a quick break, he then proceeded towards his bench of many supplies and grabbed the following:
[Corkscrew]
[Milk Jug of Water]
[Can of Bread]
[Box of Nails]
[Bottle of Wine]
[Flathead Screwdriver]
[Phillipshead Screwdriver]
Along with the Cellar's key which he slipped into his pocket (My pocket will only carry keys).
The wooden-steps creaked as he went up to the cellar-doors, he slipped the key into the rusted padlocked, gently gave it a turn until it clicked. Pushing open the hefty doors, he braced himself as he stepped out into the bar, ready to take on whatever today threw at him.
Weapon: Hatchet
Daypack:
[Corkscrew]
[Milk Jug of Water]
[Can of Bread]
[Box of Nails]
[Bottle of Wine]
[Flathead Screwdriver]
[Phillipshead Screwdriver]
Pocket:
[Key to Cellar Padlock]
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