Weatherfield

Gregor Vidal was unlucky and hard to love. The countryside would have been better for him, not this town surrounded by blurs of yellow and electric blue. He considered each word carefully, talked slowly in rambling sentences, and didn't have the excuse of being old. He was the type of person who couldn't sell a dollar for a dime. He was also the type of person would then have that dollar stolen from him. This happened on a regular basis, to the point where Gregor stopped carrying large amounts of money on his way home from work. The muggers did love him. He provided them a consistent source of income, was unfailingly polite to them when they demanded money, and played his part in the scene overall very well with a stutter so perfect you almost thought he practiced it at home. Maybe he did. His wife was a terror. Gregor Vidal was unlucky and hard to love. Despite myself, I loved him anyway with a vague affection and took him a pie every Friday. This was how I found the door ajar on a misty Friday evening and yellow rosebuds withered on the stems. This was how I discovered Gregor had been murdered.