Father Monk
Без минусов вся прелесть жизни показалась бы обычной пресной водой.
Не успел пожаловаться об отстутствии творчества, как пробило. Но пробило странно, в "моем стиле", ибо Лингвистика в этом семестре настолько, гм, интересна, что я нахожу любое занятие, лишь бы только не помереть от скуки.
Началось все с попытки нарисовать комикс про испанца в шляпе и избитого парня на стуле, перешло в литературный текст, и вуаля, пошло-поехало.
Думаю, сделать из этого эксперимент - читатели озвучивают свои идеи, как они хотят, чтобы развивался сюжет (к примеру, был уже задан вопрос, зачем главный герой был похищен неизвестными, и мне дали причину), а я, по мере возможности, пытаться этим идеям следовать.
Декорации - нечто фантастическое в плане несуществующее, город Нью-Париж, смесь национальностей, киберпанк-антиутопия. Никаких лазеров, но налет фантастики в плане, как и где люди живут.

There was no light in the room when I woke up. The chair, which I was sitting on with my hands tied behind my back, softly creaked when I tried to move. There was a distant sound of cars passing by the building. From what I could gather, it must have been a highway; no driver would have been driving that fast in the town centre, the police there was quite watchful and numerous these days, possibly trying to impress the Governor to get a bigger budget.
I tried to move again, and again there was this soft creak from the chair. Most likely it was cheap rubbish found somewhere nearby; those who had taken me didn't seem to be the kind of people who would be planning much beforehand. I hesitated for a moment to cry for help, but it would be utterly stupid to expect that they had simply put me in the busy neighbourhood like Whitehill. As unprepared as they seemed, I wouldn't go as far as having the preposterous expectations that they hadn't thought it through at all. If I were them, I would choose something like Hope Street - not a soul around, lots of old and abandoned buildings, no cops. And a highway just nearby, a good getaway if things turn bad...
So it was Hope Street. Must be. I couldn't think of any other quite place that these buggers could come up with, and, frankly enough, no other place would be appropriate.
I was, as they say in New Paris, in shit. They had all the time in the world to come up with a good plan to get rid of me, and I had no miracle to wait for.
Arsed. Fucked. Shit!
The chair creaked again.