It does no one any good to mourn the loss of Shipley.
He was a man shrouded in angst, hounded by dread, defenseless against the demons that danced in his head.
His bad day was always your worst moment but thankfully you could walk away and leave it at that.
He lived with the malaise. A malaise of his own making, marking the pain on calendar pages and paper scraps with notes to strangers.
He hid most often from sight as he hid the demon that cowered inside him; disagreeable and demanding little urchin that spent it’s nights eating at his gut. The days too bright.
I mean Shipley was the kind of dude that wore shades at night. His eyes said too much otherwise. In fact when Shipley did not wear his specs he looked strangely naked and vulnerable, but still angry as heck. Pissed off, like he had to get up early after a night of bingeing.
He carried a knife in a sheath on his belt. Didn’t try to hide, or show it. Just wore it. Never drew it, but you knew it was there.
Some say Shipley had a bad set of cards when it came to women, but more say it was them that were jinxed by his black heart…the Ace of Spades. It’s hard to read a man that hides behind shades.
So Shipley went in the night, the urchin wins, eaten up inside, his heart finally gives. He died. And it does no one any good to mourn the filthy dreg, nor is it right to spit on him instead.
