Memoirs of a Northern Bastard (Series)

Dear Readers,

Viggo once told me that life was like a journey. It would begin with
the individual meandering through the wilderness of the human
existence, upon which there would ultimately be a transition of
emotions, mind and soul from a state of ignorance towards a
heightened level of awareness. Life was therefore, I heard him say
(after my fourth pint of beer or so… my memory eludes me), a process
of self-discovery through the endless kaleidoscope of experiences
that helped shape our perceptions of the present.

I did not quite know what to make of it really, especially since
Viggo just looked at me as if he was waiting for a profound response
or something of that nature. All I knew was that a few seconds
later, there was a mad dash towards the bathroom where I proceeded
to throw up whatever I had consumed on that faithful night.

In any case, even if I had stayed, I would have disagreed because
life, to me, was more like a story existing in a contrived sequence
of a narrative structure. In short, life, like all stories, must
have a beginning, middle and an end. These `stories' would begin
with a state of equilibrium, followed by a conflict or tension and
end neatly with a resolution: the end of all disequilibrium and the
re-establishment of an order of sorts.

So, if most stories follow this particular narrative structure, how
then do I begin the story of my life? The beginnings are always
mundane and must not be dwelled upon lest my readers find my prose
too tedious, but I shall endeavour to keep this as short as possible.

The story shall begin with the rudimentary introduction of
characters, I suppose. I, Sean Bean, (aged 20, blond with green
eyes, good-looking Caucasian with rock hard buns), was a first year
student at the University of New York, taking Literature in English
as a major. Viggo Mortensen (aged 23, dark haired, blue-eyed
Caucasian with a questionable sense of fashion), on the other hand,
was my room mate and a third year student taking Art History over at
the same university. I had the pleasure of gaining Viggo's
acquaintance by sheer coincidence (and a happy coincidence at that).
In all truth, dear Readers, I had (by accident of course) inevitably
placed a dent in his car while throwing a baseball around with a
couple of my friends.

Viggo was nice about it though. After being informed that I had no
way of paying for the damage caused and in view of my mortified
expression, he offered me a job at his father's club instead – Club
40 Below it was called. It was there that I was to be a bartender
until I had fully repaid my debts.

A month passed and since he was pleased with the work I did (during
which we became fast friends), he allowed me to continue working for
him and even offered me free accommodation at his apartment.
Apparently, he had a room that was left unoccupied by a previous
inhabitant. I assumed the room once belonged to a now estranged
girlfriend or something, but Viggo would not say much about that. I
didn't press him for more information as he seemed to be an
individual who valued his privacy.

Nevertheless, life was good and I had everything I wanted here at
Greenwich Village. I had a fantastic time at the University, lots of
friends, women, a well-paying job, women, a place that was dirt
cheap to live in and did I mention women? And then, I had Viggo – he
who might just be the most amazing and the most giving individual I
had ever met. Of course, the fact that I didn't have to pay rent and
merely contributed a paltry amount of money for the bills and
groceries helped elevate his standing in my eyes, but then that's
just me.

Thus, with that comes the end of this prologue upon which I will
resume my story-telling post-haste in a manner that shall be deemed
acceptable to even the most finicky readers amongst you out there.

Onward to Chapter One.

Yours ever,
Sean Bean