The man swung his old, tired legs off the bed and onto the chilly hardwood floor. A heavy sigh soon followed.
Another day in this goddamn Socialist paradise.
Nick eased one foot into his warm slipper followed quickly by the other. Sometimes this morning ritual was the best part of his day.
Nick pushed himself off his twin-sized mattress. As his feet met the floor, something wet and scaly brushed against his bare skin. He froze: spine shivering, heart pounding.
Then came the claws – powerful, cold, unyielding.
He could scream, but why bother?
Few would hear.
Even fewer would care.
The Weekday One Hundred 