Wilmont derived his pleasure from watching the others wallow in their misery. Often he would walk the promenade with his dogs (two hard-hounds on chain leashes) to walk past the expensive brothels and saloons to observe the mighty enjoying their fallen state. Never staring directly, he pretended to be enjoying the air, and the sunset, that outshone the blinking banks of neon facades with scarlet clouds edged with gold above the ocean of molten reflections.
Those who had been destroyed by their addictions slumped against the walkway railings or lay in the sand, oblivious to the expensive real estate, and the gloating smirk on Wilmont’s face as he guided his animals close by to relieve themselves.
Afterwards he would return to his carefully manicured garden behind the high, protecting walls of his Mother’s estate, where he would release the dogs to roam before joining his alcohol stimulated parent for a dinner of roasted lamb, sugared carrots, white gravy, and frozen chocolate parfaits.
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