The Real World | A Walking Dead Story

1.1.1 (7)

Mr. Draegons House (Georgia, Atlanta)

Mr. Draegon enters his colossal elegant mansion, with clean reflective oak wood doors, exquisite marble flooring that has tepid heaters to keep the material warm at times, delicately ordered furniture and decorations, such as Iris, Orchids, Roses and Carnations flowers beside each and every window creating a fresh grand smell around the residence.

Mr. Draegon seeming to be the fashionable type, he's show off his wealth with various amounts of enriched ornaments around his place, such as; a fish tank below the floor filled with vasts amount of species of fishes, too many to name all, with fleshly polished glass above the fish as flooring that Mr. Draegon and guests can step over, two white three-sided corner couches opposite each other acting as a duo, both of them facing an easily operating flat-screen TV that can be controlled to absorb into the ground for when unaccustomed, and upwards when is, four garnishing extravagant chandeliers hanging below the high ceiling, and a quantity of beautifying glass desks along the walls, with a cornucopia of historical statues that you would think only would be seen in Victorian times.

But, Mr. Draegon adores the Victorian times, as having heard of stories of it as a child, he wished he was rather born in those years rather these more modern and technological times. He loves the idea of the Victorian era, everyone was so... Victorian. Rather than the upgraded computerized intelligence that our years have now, it weakens our mind and natural instincts, it makes life too easy. He believed that people speak their minds too much nowadays and that the heightened of the human population that has drastically increased is the reason for that, that there are too many different people, because of how many people there are. Too many ideas. From too many people. Victorian's did not have that.

Mr. Draegon walks toward a walnut and rosewood serpentine partner desk, where he keeps a boundless amount of alcohol, for his treat of the day, something that makes all his time and progress worth it. He brushes his unblemished black blazer off himself and folds it into two vertically symmetric folds, then places it gently against a red patterned chair he pulled out.

Mr. Draegon softly seizes his transparent half-empty or half-full whiskey bottle, and pours a fair amount of the alcohol in a small glass, with a pattern of golden flicks. He lifts the glass up to his mouth and drinks, he tastes the burnt ass of the whiskey, being one of many who can withstand the strength of the alcohol.

As he takes his gradual sips of the drink, he loses his focus onto his garden area, he deeply analyses the look of the garden, as if judging every aspect and direction of taste between each crumb of grass. He's looking to see if it's perfect. He's looking to see if it's presentable. Of course, to Mr. Draegon, Perfect is Presentable, and Presentable is Perfect. Why try to look presentable, when you can look perfect? As he urges his perfectionism onto the criticism of his own garden, where he is the master, of course, he is the master of most things. He is successful.

He notices a leaf rake leaning against his strong wooden shed, and suddenly becomes disturbed by where it is placed. He shoves his drink on the desk, creating a spilled tiny puddle of whiskey touching the desk. He pathetically jogs toward the leaf rake, moving his sliding glass door to the outer part, entering into his garden, he reaches the misplaced leaf rake and understands that his gardener had forgotten to store the garden tool in the shed, like it should be, like every gardening tool should be.

Mr. Draegon picks up the leaf rake and attempts to split it in half in anger, he weakly fails the first time, but the second time, he succeeds. The gardening tool not even being owned by Mr. Draegon, but by the gardener, Mr. Draegon does not care. It was not perfect. It was misplaced. It was not where it was supposed to be. He gets prompted to fire his gardener from his exaggerated mistake, as he takes his phone out of his breast pocket.