[WP] your cousin offers you a house-sitting job to "make sure nothing happens to his goldfish." at 1:52 AM on the first night, you realize you're in over your head.

...

Before it all went to complete and total shit, the very first thing which cut-out on Taylor was the television.

At the time it sputtered and died (late-night channel shifting out to a final lapse of static and darkness within his first 24 hours in the hellish country-side home Taylor would soon come to know as purgatory) this event alone was more than enough trouble to cause no-small level of distress. All the problems in the world, and it just had to be the T.V that went.

For Taylor, alone in his cousin's quiet and boring house, the T.V was the closest available form to a semi-constant source of comfort against the rooted insomnia following about his every evening. His old laptop was far from an alternative source of entertainment (what with it's somewhat faulty charger, cracked screen, and prominent lack of wifi) as there were only so many games of solitaire or Full Tilt Pinball he could stand before reaching the highest limits of boredom. It wasn't as though the small home offered any other valid distractions. That old, rounded, ancient-era television which looked as though it might have stumbled out of an abandoned 90's electronic sale-pamphlet had been the closest thing to companion here; besides the fish, of course.

The fish. Months in now, and the fish was the only thing keeping him sane.

"Ha... Sunny the god-damn goldfish." Taylor let his voice growl aloud to no one. as the lights flickered in the small living-room. "What a crock of shit, Rob said two weeks and it's been MONTHS!" He shouted the last word, slamming his fist on the table beside his sprawled form. "Months... Months, months... on and on." Trailing off, Taylor groaned with anger. "Not even a phone call. Not a Postcard, nothing."

It wasn't as though he had any real right to complain. Many people didn't have homes at all these days, and he wasn't paying rent or fighting to proof himself to some government official handing out food-tickets. He wasn't fighting for much of anything at all actually. The commute to work and back wasn't terrible so long as his bike still sparked up every morning, and considering the area might as well be one banjo and a front porch away from the sticks, what had begun as a detriment had only improved with time. These days, urban life was the last thing to yearn for. With the electric bill on autopilot, all Taylor really had to do was bring in the occasional mail, take out the garbage, maintain the yard, and most importantly: Take care of the Sunny.

Sunny, the ever-beloved goldfish.

Sole pet to the most border-line generous, eccentric, intelligent, crazed and terrifying individual Taylor had the pleasure of being related to; or even knowing at all, for that matter.

Harvard drop-out, MIT Graduate, ex-military, gun-enthusiast, wild-child entrepreneur; the great, the terrifying, the benevolent: Cousin Rob.

Right on the fridge, beyond the dated text saved on Taylor's currently useless cell-phone, was the only proof for all his wasted time.

Taylor,

Watch Sunny for me. Going on an Adventure with Joe, should be back eventually. Feel free to drink the beer.

The weather patterns could keep getting worse, the government radio reports of disasters along the coasts could send shivers up Taylor's spine, and the grocery-stores could find themselves lacking for anything but canned goods- hell, military helicopters could land in the front yard and men in black-suits could knock on the door to take him away, but fuck all else if Taylor wasn't going to take care of Sunny the Goldfish. There are many uncertainties in life, What-Ifs and Maybes but if Taylor knew one thing for utmost certainty, he had to keep that tiny orange fish alive. Taylor know this had not been an optional request of his services.

Feed the fish, get new water for the fish, clean the bowl... He had the tricks and techniques of Sunny-caretaking down pat by now, but it still put a chill up his spine. The curious question into the void of "What-if" Taylor unwittingly dropped the tiny orange soul upon the old-style bear-skin carpet of the living room floor.

Topics like this one were subject to drive a man to drink, even without insomnia creeping at his every thought.

Still, he did wish there was some beer left, like the note still unknowingly suggested. Unfortunately, on this night though, it seemed life was cut out to be much, much more cruel than Taylor had anticipated.

The beer. Staring off into the kitchen beyond the living room's threshold, he peered at the note.

Feel free to drink the beer.

As of this night, the note lied.

There had originally been half a six-pack of blue moon, ten cases of bacon, and a three-figure bottle of scotch missing a cap- instead adorned with a half-assed covering of cling-wrap in there.

Originally, of course.

The bacon was long gone, as was the beer, and now all that remained was the last item of significance; whiskey Taylor had finally worked up the courage to take a glass of only-just the previous night, on ritual of the ninety-second day anniversary of Television's once tragic demise.

It was as good as he'd hoped, but he was unwilling to take much more for fear Rob might abruptly show back up and confront him about it. Instead he managed to scrounge up the pennies for a less expensive alcoholic medium of his own, managing to scrounge it from the half-empty shelf of the local liquor store right before it shut down by local militia orders. No government stipend was providing liquor these days, and with times getting as tough as they were

For tonight's entertainment though, slow-progress towards oblivion wasn't his only option, or course. cigarettes, which was somewhat entertaining on its own. Good for wasting minutes and tasting like smoke, all while encouraging some minor level of unnecessary substance addiction. Wired-up on anxiety and unable to sleep as he was already though, the concept of adding further to the system of dwindling prescription medications in his blood-stream seemed a highly impractical idea. It was almost on par with having agreed to take care of this house-sitting job in the first place, not that he'd really had a choice.

Sitting up, Taylor watched as Sunny the Goldfish stared at him, quietly fixated from the corner of the room.

"I can't believe I agreed to do something this stupid." Taylor finally muttered, sprawling sideways on the rugged sofa, laptop on the end-table beside him more or less forgotten. "No service, no internet, now no TV? How do you even live like this?" He selfish as it was, he pondered the inhumanity of it all. It was bordering cruel and unusual punishment. Despite the global issues pressing at the recent months, this day and age it was a commonly known fact that food and shelter were not enough in life. Internet was being classified as a utility some places, after all: A basic human right. Living without and form of entertainment but lewd magazines and prepper-handbooks was akin in Taylor's mind to being hanged, drawn, and quartered. "When you get home Rob, I swear to god- you're dead to me."

"Bulb." Came the distant reply from the corner of the room by the window, drawing Taylor's attention away from the perfectly aligned ceiling panels. "Splash." Sunny the Goldfish was active again, moving in quick rapid spins about its bowl.

Sitting up slowly, Taylor wondered if it was the booze or the ground that was shaking his vision. As he settled himself to a stretched lean to straighten out the details, the lamp to the room's corner flickered ominously. "What the hell..."

"Blub, Blub" Said Sunny the Goldfish, now swimming in more panicked circles within the rounded glass bowl. Ominously, if Taylor had to deeply interpret the actions of an undersized carp. The droning noise in the distance he'd been all but ignoring seemed to be much more prevelant all of a sudden.

"I don't suppose you know what that is, do you?" Taylor turned towards the window as he questioned the fish, rising unsteadily to meander cautiously towards the blinds. The droning only seemed to get louder by the second, pitch rising until it sounded like the very house might begin to vibrate. As he pulled the blind back cautiously, the pitchblack of night greeted him, broken only by a spotlight directly in the center of the yard. As if floating, the dark shadow of a human figure seemed to suspend there, hanging off of a... rope? That couldn't be right, Taylor though. There weren't suppose to be people outside- or ropes for that matter. "Rob, is that you?

BANG BANG BANG From the front door of the house, a loud set of knocks came in quick succession, followed by a dramatic "CRASH" that showed dust and spinters, leaving Taylor speechless to the large men in black combat gear closing in on him.

"Holy shit!" Taylor yelped, tripping backwards as the red-dots of laser sights fell on his chest, quick steps clearing the distance in an instant. "Take the fish too!" Were the last words Taylor managed to get out of his mouth before the black hood fell over his head.