Anything, Anywhere, Anytime // OC X John Lydon (Johny Rotten)

Could life get any more boring?

Dramy groggily woke up in the abandoned building, their ankle, much to their disappointment, still throbbed with pain.
They had spent a restless night on the cold, hard floor, and they knew they had to find a way out and get back to the hotel where they worked, well, more like lived.
Their boss lets them crash in the spare bedroom in exchange for cheap labor on Dramys part.
Despite them wanting to do everything else but face their angry boss, they couldn't afford to lose the job as it was the only source of income in their life.
And so they gathered themselves, mentally preparing for the journey back.

And with that, Dramy limped their way out of the building and onto the same old streets of London they were in just the night before.
Their questionable attire, which consisted of a long red checkered kilt and a The Clash shirt, and messy makeup, that was now even more smudged than yesterday, drew some curious glances from passersby, but they didn't care, matter of fact, the little attention whore couldn't get enough of it! The more eyes on them the better, am I right?
And on the other hand, they had bigger things to worry about, like how to explain their absence to the boss, Roger.

After what seemed like an eternity of painful limping, Dramy finally reached the rundown hotel, with a big "Hanging Lock" sign towering over the building. They took a deep breath in and entered the lobby, only to be met with a stern-looking Roger behind the reception desk, he quickly made his way towards them.

"Finally decided to show up, did you? Where the bloody hell have you been, Dramy?"
Their boss wasted no time and spoke up the second Dramy walked through the door.

"None of your business, Roger. I had some personal shit to take care of."
Dramy has always treated Roger with the same utter disrespect he had treated them with.

"Personal, huh? Well, you've been gone for four fucking days without a single word. You think you can just skip work whenever you feel like it?"

"Yeah, I fucking do. It's not like you pay me enough to care about this shitty job anyway."
This wasn't helping their case, in fact, they did care, even with the absurdly small amount of money he was paying them.

"Oh, I pay you enough, alright. You're living in one of my rooms for free, ain't ya?"

Dramy rolled their eyes, knowing that their boss was only keeping them around because they were willing to work for the minimum wage and live in one of the hotel's shabby rooms.

"Yeah, well, that's only because this shitty hotel is a dump, and you can't get anyone else to work here."

Roger's face turned red with anger, and he slammed his fist on the reception desk, the vases and pencil holders wobbling slightly.

"You watch your fucking mouth! You're lucky to have a job at all in this godforsaken economy. Hell, you're lucky someone with as many police charges as you could even step foot in here, you fucking junkie! You were probably out drinking and snorting coke anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, I'm here now, so can I get back to work or what?"
They tossed their hands up in defeat, he was somewhat right in that last statement.
Getting called a junkie wasn't anything new for Dramy anyway.

"Don't think you can just waltz in here like nothing happened! You better make up for those four days you've been slacking off."

"Oh, buzz off, Roger. I'll do my fucking job like I always do."

With that, Dramy walked off, ignoring Roger's further furious cursing.
They wasted no time, quickly checked in some guests, cleaned the lobby, and took care of other hotel duties, trying to push through the pain in their ankle.
If past them could see them now, in a run down hotel in London, working minimum wage for some lazy pig theyd, have a heart attack. So much for having a "bright future."