Bob Ferguson had always loved derelict Liverpool as he felt at home there but it was a place where he always felt concerned for his safety.
He was a creepy, callous, port drinker with grubby eyes and skinny arms. His friends saw him as fresh and always ready for another pint. Once, he had even rescued a deaf person from a burning building after a night of heavy drinking. After being treated for smoke inhalation he went back to the pub for another pint. That's the sort of man he was.
Bob walked over to the window and reflected on his wild surroundings. The sleet rained like jumping kittens.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Rick Pitt. Rick was a rude writer with slimy eyes and wide legs like tree trunks
Bob gulped. He was not prepared for Rick, not at this time of day.
"Not at this time of the day." I would love to see that end in a movie. Nice one