Froyd Frink was famous once, for about 15 minutes, just like the cliché. He never forgot and did his best to make sure we didn’t either.

Froyd lived in a borrowed apartment, up five flights of fire-escape, at the flat end of Frodokin -- a rundown designer neighborhood southwest of Bubbleonia City.

He was a busker by trade and reputation, mostly because he couldn’t hold a job or run a decent fraudulent scheme. Froyd liked to joke that everything he ever tried in life had come easy to him, and it had, largely because he never tried to do anything particularly difficult or impressive.

This tendency to exceed his own low standards is what gave Froyd most his cocksure strut and spittle. If it carried the unfortunate side-effect of making him look like a total dipshit, he never noticed. Froyd was oblivious to the disdain of his peer group, and was therefore immune to peer-pressure.

But – let’s back up a moment. The word “peers” implies that there were other people, traveling in roughly the same circles, operating under similar constraints, and frankly – that would be an exaggeration.

Among the drop-outs and derelicts in and around Frodokin, along the mountains on the west side of Bubbleonia, Froyd was treated like an aberration; a complete kook and a jinx. Most days, he was barely compliant within the limits of his own classification and completely lopsided on his allotment.

Worse – Froyd had a reputation as a fink and a snitch. This reputation was largely unearned because he didn’t have the guts to inform on the other lowlifes in his neighborhood and he wasn’t articulate enough to defend himself against the accusations of those who did.

This forced Froyd to explore unfamiliar zones and environments to get his daily fix, and that took a lot of work. Often out of place, Froyd attracted all the wrong kinds of attention. Occasionally, this earned Froyd a fat lip, or a black eye for his trouble. Once or twice he got it a lot worse than that.

In short: Froyd Frink was fucked, knew it, and never did anything to reverse his own fortunes, or follow any of the numerous paths out of his own stupid shadow. I’d like to think it was his dedication to this premise that saved him in the end.

*****

Froyd woke up late on a workday during the last week of April 5176. He was in pain and could taste blood in his mouth. His right eye extended outward, away from his face even further than his nose. He tried to remember why but it was Tax Day and he was already late for his shift, downtown at the Plex.

Froyd didn’t shower because his squat didn’t have running water. He didn’t get dressed because he’d slept in clothes again, and none of his clothes were particularly clean or fashionable anyway.

Froyd tried to focus, taking inventory of his flat with his other senses. The air reeked like half-eaten takeout and stale laundry. An imposing roach skittered across a low rectangular box that Froyd used as a bed-side table, and its jerky, robotic motion set Froyd’s teeth on edge. He kneeled next to it and tried to meet its gaze head-on, and failed. It’s cold drone stare made him feel empty and uncomfortable.

Rolling awkwardly to his feet, Froyd stumbled to the open window for fresh air. He vomited into a paper sack before reaching reflexively for his smokes -- his allotment. The pack was completely empty.

Froyd cursed his rotten luck as he wiped his face on the sack, before tossing it onto the floor again. From this angle, his squat looked like a post-apocalyptic nightmare flattened between two black holes. Froyd shuddered and climbed out of the open window and on to the fire escape.

He was cold as he began the slow climb down the five floors to the alley on the north side of his building. The ladder was icy and treacherous. Froyd wondered what it might be like to fall from that height and not die. That would be par for the course, he reasoned.

Somehow, he managed to make it down to the street without breaking anything. When he emerged from the alley, he checked both sides of the street for any sign of the ‘Rollin’ Bozo’s’ – a tourist gang who claimed this part of the Frodokin as their personal playground. They hated Froyd and had twice beaten him stupid, just outside his own building. He was pretty sure that they were the architects of his current face, as well.

For the moment, the street was clear. Froyd tucked his stringy hair up under his ball-cap and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his face. He was mumbling a mantra about being ‘unseen.’

A speeding cubby touched down nearby in a rush of damp air and blowing trash. Froyd screwed his good eye shut and coughed into his sleeve. Olna Cobinni – an occasional prostitute and even more occasional neighbor – stepped out of the cubby and gave Froyd the finger.

Froyd smiled meekly as Olna frowned. Before she could say anything, Froyd darted across the street. Olna watched him sprint away -- from one shadow to the next -- working his way up market and away from the neighborhood that hated his guts.

It was just after seven in the morning, and Froyd’s pain was insistent, throbbing and hot on his face, but that was nothing compared to his shame.