StoryOne.txt

He sat at the bar, smoke curling from his cigarette like regrets haning[sic] in the air, a broken jukebox humming the blues of a thousand empty nights.
Depressed, he kept smoking, sending his lungs down a future path of pain and regret, just like his life currently.
"Mike, Mr. Banks wants to see you in the back. He says he has a job for ya."
Begrudgingly, Mike gets up and drunkily walks to what job awaits him.