Bernard Black sat slouched in his chair behind his desk, dozing slightly thanks to the hot, suffocating air of the shop. A smouldering fag hung at his lips as he breathed though his nose. He twitched and wiped at his face with the back of his jacket sleeve before settling down once more; the fag moved and found itself positioned more firmly in his mouth. Though in a hazy, drunken stupor – as usual - he could feel his tousled, greasy hair writhe with god-knows-what. But the thought never bothered him of just what could possibly be growing in it – actually, it suited him quite fine.
On the other hand, he was somewhat oblivious to everything else save from his very good self. He ignored Manny's voice as he pottered about him. He would normally be moaning about the state of the kitchen and the amount of dust that covered every inch of everywhere. If the moaning got too much, after a prolonged period of exposure to it, Bernard would lazily raise a hand and mumble a very much called for "Feck arf," before continuing to ignore him.
He sniffed gingerly and removed the fag from his lips before it burnt him, stubbing out the sorry remains in an over-flowing ashtray. Shuffling in his seat, he reached out for his half-empty glass of wine and downed the rest of it. Nectar of the fecking Gods. Letting a somewhat contented sigh pass his lips, he shouted for Manny to fetch another bottle before looking out at whoever appeared to be in his shop.
Ahh, there would always be some fecking toff looking for some toff-o book – fecking toff. Then there was the odd geek, scouring madly over a pair of milk-bottles perched at the end of their greasy, acne-infested nose. Bernard shuddered and hastily dug into his jacket pocket for his next fix of nicotine – if the ugly bastards weren't leaving his shop any time soon, at least the smoke from his cigarette would hide the fuckers away. He took a long, lazy draw and exhaled quickly.
Sniffling and scratching at his stubble, his blood-shot eyes looked down at the book he had seemingly forgotten about that still lay sprawled across his lap. He had lost his place again, and would end up reading the same sentence several times over, again. But it didn't bother him too much. Oh, the tragic and hard life of a writer and book-shop owner.
"Manny, where the feck's that wine!!" he whined impatiently before throwing dirty looks toward the nosy bastards who'd dared look round at him.
Screw the bastards; they could all go fuck themselves – for all he cared. This was his shop and he could do what he liked!