<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>None<br/><strong>Date:</strong>25 December, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>On the streets of Gomorra<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nell Robinson, closed<br/><hr/><br/><br/>Growing up, Christmas had always been a special day for Tommy. Christmas was the day that men stayed home with their wives and children, them that had 'em, enjoying grand Christmas dinners and then heading out to church to show off what god-fearing men they were to all the other upstanding citizens. On Christmas there were brightly-wrapped presents and carols bumped off-key by cups of Christmas cheer. There were extra logs on the fire and no one complaining about the cold, brand new shoes and jackets, and plenty of pudding to go around.<br/><br/>At least, that's what Tommy imagined. In his personal experience the only benefit was that it was the one day of the year that those same god-fearing men felt too ashamed to seek their pleasure with a rented woman. And so the whorehouse got only half its usual customers. But those that came were lonely, desperate and mean. Christmas had been a special day growing up. But not a happy one.<br/><br/>Such maudlin thoughts pulled the corners of the normally cheerful man's mouth groundward as he trudged through the snow. There were none around to see. Though Gomorra wasn't exactly a family sort of town it seemed most of its citizens had managed to find some sort of company tonight, judging from the laughter and lights spilling out onto the snow-covered back street. Tommy paused under a slight overhang and began to roll another cigarette.<br/><br/>He'd been in town scarcely a month, living on savings and getting the lay of the land. Other than a few fellows he'd met across the card table he knew almost no one in town, certainly no one well enough to impose himself into their holidays. It would be difficult even to scrounge up a full table for poker, he knew, and his heart wasn't in it anyway. Under his coat he carried a bottle of whiskey, for which he'd paid a premium. It was very likely to be his only companion for the night, he thought, with a distinct lack of prophetic insight.<br/><br/><br/>