It was a dark and stormy night. Max Sanders arose from the pink and white striped plastic lawn chair that was his bed. He was soaked, but made no effort to do anything about it. It was almost as if he didn’t notice. He walked over to the railing that thinly protected him from stepping over and plummeting nine stories down the side of Watershed Heights. He looked out over the trash and poverty ridden city that he called his home and saw a man dancing outside Second Chance, the local strip joint. The man fell over. He was drunk. Max turned away and looked at his home. Yes, Max Sanders lived on the roof of an apartment building with five locks on every door and a temporarily broken elevator. Looking at the living space right now, you would think it was repulsive and utterly drab, but minus the rain it wasn’t half bad. There were a number of nice plants (ok some of them were dead…ok all of them were dead, but they were still plants); the ground was covered with towels making for a very sufficient carpet; and there was plenty of walking space. Max liked it. The people in the city did not know him as Max Sanders; they knew him as Mad Max. Max did not understand this because he didn’t think he was mad at all; in fact, he thought he was perfectly un-mad. But who is a mad person to say whether or not they’re mad? Anyways. No one knew where Max was before he came to this city. No one remembered him even arriving there. They didn’t know why he was there. He obviously didn’t have a job that brought him there. He was quite homeless, and didn’t seem to have any intention of changing that. Maybe he just went there because he had nothing else to do. “HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST WHAT THE HELL DOES IT TAKE TO GET A BOWL OF GOD DAMN SOUP AROUND HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Max walked toward the exit, opened the door and slammed it behind him as he made his way to the local soup kitchen.