the drapes are drawn in the woods home, unopened mail piles up against the front door and the phones hang off their hooks. its strangely quiet, the wife’s gone to her mothers with the kids and she’s taken the family dog. empty beer cans litter the floor around a sofa where our fallen hero lies. through alcohol soaked eyes he stares vacantly at the jumble of trophies that fight for space on the mantelpiece, his left hand ponderously picking food out of his week old facial growth.