After failing to pay the appropriate rent, Gordon Hunter was banished from his apartment by the rail-thin, bug-eyed landlord. Gordon so resignedly accepted this fate that the landlord felt a tinge of pity and grew very soft, which Gordon misconstrued as a reaction to the destruction of his room. Packing was not a problem; one would be amazed how the tactical solution of destroying large objects reduces one’s burden in such affairs. After gathering his essentials, Gordon fashioned a temporary place of residence out of his automobile. It was, truly, the most exquisite abode that had ever been created from such means, including but not limited to: A bedroom (the rear seat, not quite long enough for his frame), a kitchen (the small cooler in the trunk), and a washroom (any place outside). To further insure his financial status, Gordon withdrew the savings he had from the bank in part, savings that were to one day allow him to purchase a legitimate house and that were now used for more important necessities such as cigarettes and liquor. He felt an ironic, smug sense of superiority watching the zombies scurry outside his window while he was hammered and numb, enjoying, no doubt, a parallel quality of life.
Wintertime brought a new set of problems. The nights were extremely cold, too cold to sleep without the aid of booze. The days seemed to be but a precursor to the nights, to give one a bit of a warning of what was to follow. Some days would be exceptionally frigid, with audible wind rocking the car—those were the days of fearfully cold nights, where restarting the car time and time again to warm it up had little effect, where the only recourse was to drink until one blacked out, then awake in disembodied pain and start drinking again. Rather than regarding Gordon with curiosity, the general populace took no notice of his living arrangements. To him it was further proof that England, the very womb that bore him, would have no qualms about sweeping him into the gutter of poverty.