Even if Roy didn't receive his just due at the end of L.A. Noire, he still is nothing more than an overindulgent shell of a man. This story was inspired by "Hedonism" by Skunk Anansie.
Words: 493
Prompt: Avoid all forms of "to be."
Nice guys finished last.
Roy, traversing Hollywood as he did on a daily basis, could list many more unfortunate clichés like that which proved, in his experience, to be true. The bright-eyed Hollywood hopeful sucked the director's cock for a part. The "devoted housewife" fucked a guy ten years her junior behind her husband's back.
"Hey handsome, come back to bed," invited some floozy with a nice rack and long blonde hair. She dropped the sheet at her chest ever so slightly to reveal a nipple.
"Clean yourself up, and get out," Roy tossed over his shoulder as he shut his bedroom door behind himself.
Common men romanticized the polished of image of the gangster, presented to them by Hollywood to capitalize on the monotony of their lives. Crusty old men felt up little boys and girls who cried for their parents.
Roy couldn't keep the shit-eating grin off of his face, despite the loaded gun in front of it. Cole barely kept his anger at bay behind his Colt, and all the while wore his nicely pressed suit. A ghost of Phelps's past lay at his feet, and Roy figured that Cole's wallet probably still held a picture of his wife and children.
He needed to credit Cole, and Elsa as well, for playing their parts in this little drama of the utterly destroyed Golden Boy. The Academy Award, if you please! Fork over the royalties, pronto!
Bring out the best scotch! Who gives a fuck, I can pay for it!
He wakes up with a hangover. Stumbling slightly, and taking care not to trip on a bottle, he comes back to do it all again.
Bring on the sludge of Tinsel Town, and Roy can find a way to spin it to gold. At some point, he resolves, he might reel in a nice-looking broad that will give him some kids as a legacy. No need to worry; Roy has more than enough sense to pick one that can keep her mouth shut, and hold the sniveling brats at bay.
The whirring of the elevator gives Roy pause.
Roy leans back against the wall, and the apartment complex elevator rumbles past him. A young man walks by him, but doesn't acknowledge his presence.
His vision swims, and he presses his hand to his throbbing forehead. Roy's surroundings feel hollow to him, as if he is encased in a rubber tube.
He decorates that tube with his spun gold, but it doesn't take away that disturbing image ripped from his memory from another elevator car: the utterly haunted look in Cole's eyes, and the slight slumping forward of his shoulders, as if before the executioner's blade. "Life has a way of making you pay for your pride."
The elevator's doors whoosh open, breathing air into the tube, and Roy straightens up. "Co—"
A stranger brushes past him upon exit, and the half-formed name of his former partner dies on Roy's lips.