Jim Moriarty poured himself a glass of milk and knew that it was going to be a rotten day.
For starters, he was evolving a splitting head ache that felt like a massive fissure of trembling earth pouring from just above his right eye to below his left temple.
He took a sip of the frothy soy milk with one hand and gently kneaded his face with the other, hoping that whatever the source of the pain, he could get over it before his ten o clock rendezvous with some German ammunition dealers. Speaking German, for and length of time, annoyed him deeply, and would do nothing for the mood he was cultivating.
One other thing: he'd fallen to sleep cleanly-shaven, and woken up with a thick, thick shadow stretching from just about where his headache ended, to about halfway down his neck. He couldn't believe that his hair had grown that fast. He itched it and rubbed his hand over the forest of stubble, and still tried to disprove its existence, but either way he thought about it, he was going to have to shave it before noon. At noon he had a face-to-face conference with a few potential snipers who could join the upper ranks of his organization, and he wanted to impress.
Last bit of annoyance for the morning that tipped the scales of his mood from sour, to poisonous: His right hand man, Sebastian Moran had the audacity to call in sick…well, wounded. Apparently the man he'd been trying to snipe, had sniped back and now he'd be in the hospital, taking up precious working hours bleeding on the disinfected linoleum.
Jim snorted, and took another sip of milk. He paused, testing the liquid with his tongue and sloshing it around in his mouth. It tasted funny. He picked up the carton and checked the date.
"No, it's still good…." He thought, testing the milk with another small, thoughtful sip. "It must just be me, overthinking again."
He finished his milk with a few, mighty glugs and tossed the cup carelessly into the sink where it rattled against metal and plastic dangerously.
He brushed the crumbs of a small breakfast off his hands, and sighed.
"Shave, teeth, hair…" Jim counted off the things he needed done on his fingers. "…text, car, coffee!"
He stretched, and then stopped. His hands felt strange.
He brought his arms down slowly, and with wonder, gazing in awe and horror at the marvel that was his hands.