Untitled, sorry it's secret.

Introduction

His ham radio went on and on, cold war this, and cold war that. Not even mentioning the weather in Houston. Either way, it was an effective alarm for Peter Richmond.

He chuckled softly as he rolled over in his king sized bed, white linen sheets engulfing his stocky build in a comfortable embrace. As he came to however, his happiness subsided until it was no more. His chuckle devolving to a simple groan of displeasure at the unpleasant results of drinking one too many bottles of whiskey before bed. Pain leading to his quick exit from the warmth of his bed in order to blindly stumble across his room to the restroom in order to remind himself what his last meal looked like.

Once he finished expelling his dinner into the toilet bowl, he produced a bottle of bourbon from the shelf above the very same toilet and took a swig. He removed the bottle from his chapped lips and regained his balance upright on both feet.

He slowly slouched his way over to the mirror, to observe the horrible mess that was the morning after. His hair was reduced to a strange deformed lump of curled jet black disappointment. His pearly whites were stained with lack of care and his emerald green eyes were really brought out by flattering circles of drinking until they saw sunlight.

"Jeez-us Petey...." He grumbled as he tilted his head sideways to the shower. A soft exhale of irritation escaping his lips at the prospect of tidying up, or functioning in general. In spite of this, he forced his unwilling mass to the shower.

Once the heat hit his back and he rejoiced at the sight of steam. Physical agony washes over his dime a dozen body. Revealing slowly that what lay under layers of self destructive behaviour and alcohol was the mindset, physique and intellect of a high ranked military serviceman.

"Worthless shitbag" He mumbled However. A decorated soldier, former CIA operative and active drinker. Recognised as a war hero, commended for his leadership skills, tactics and brutal efficiency. He'd left the force to fade into obscurity, hiding behind smokes and alcohol bottles.

How could he face his day, knowing what he knew? Having seen what he'd seen? How could anyone? Devastating reports from his former bosses indicated things were worse than the public knew. He'd seen the video tapes, listened to the tapes. It was an uncomfortable reality, to think that the commies were not the worst threat anymore. That something much more dreadful was underway.