Norfolk, VA.
In the brilliant modern age there are many factors that make the reputation of a city. Norfolk, VA, is more or less unremarkable in most ways. It is perhaps for just this reason that Jeffery Suthering, A.K.A. the White Rabbit (though not very widely), makes his home here. Jeff spends as much time as possible burying himself in the insignificant inanities of his modern life. He works as an auditor for a cheap, polyester investment banker of little consequence. He makes enough money to pay the rent on his single-story asbestos-shingled one-bedroom home, with it's square green lawn (watered regularly) and it's nasty mint-green paint job. It may not be the Hilton, but it's not an apartment either. His neighbors know him as a good-hearted but nervous little man in his early forties, with a full head of brown hair but on constant lookout for early signs of baldness. He never seems to slow down, always rushing hither and thither, late for a meeting or carrying a sheaf of overdue financial reports. It was this aura of frantic activity that earned him his identity, first suggested by a distant though friendly acquaintance for a nickname. Is perhaps his ever-present, nagging sensation of having missed something of vital importance that, by sympathetic resonance, compelled him to build such a frantic life for himself. The urgent necessity of deadlines helps him forget the oddities that surround his existence, his uncanny instinct for avoiding misfortune, and his inexplicable, dreamed-up 'memories' of the way things might have turned out. Sometimes at the card games at the bar after work, he can't discern if his opponent has just played a straight flush, or will be doing so in a few moments. It gets worst in public. Far too many nights he arrives home shaken and sweating, narrowly having missed death himself after pulling a blind woman out of the street to save her from a drunken driver, or having had to play the part of a shady, suspicious potential mugger to unnerve a young unsuspecting couple enough to warn them away from the real mugger, a block down the street, who had a gun and a dangerous case of nerves. He keeps telling himself that he's not Batman, but he cannot let the unsuspecting fools walk into such danger simply because they aren't paying attention. So he hides in his work, in his work-a-day life, in his mediocre suburban home, to save himself from the obligation of saving others. It helps keep things to a manageable level. Except for nights like this. It's 4:32 PM on a Saturday, and his neighbor Frank is going to the Wells Fargo 13 blocks away. He knows this because at 4:58 PM, Frank will be shot in the chest by a panicked bank robber. Damnit, Frank. Don't go to the bank. Frank, I have a date at 6. It's my first date in a year. Jeffery sighs and stands up, reaches into his closet, pulls out a long black trench coat and a hat, and puts them on. He leaves Jeff at home, and the White Rabbit trudges to his car, nervously fingering his keys. I hope I haven't forgotten anything.
In the brilliant modern age there are many factors that make the reputation of a city. Norfolk, VA, is more or less unremarkable in most ways. It is perhaps for just this reason that Jeffery Suthering, A.K.A. the White Rabbit (though not very widely), makes his home here. Jeff spends as much time as possible burying himself in the insignificant inanities of his modern life. He works as an auditor for a cheap, polyester investment banker of little consequence. He makes enough money to pay the rent on his single-story asbestos-shingled one-bedroom home, with it's square green lawn (watered regularly) and it's nasty mint-green paint job. It may not be the Hilton, but it's not an apartment either. His neighbors know him as a good-hearted but nervous little man in his early forties, with a full head of brown hair but on constant lookout for early signs of baldness. He never seems to slow down, always rushing hither and thither, late for a meeting or carrying a sheaf of overdue financial reports. It was this aura of frantic activity that earned him his identity, first suggested by a distant though friendly acquaintance for a nickname. Is perhaps his ever-present, nagging sensation of having missed something of vital importance that, by sympathetic resonance, compelled him to build such a frantic life for himself. The urgent necessity of deadlines helps him forget the oddities that surround his existence, his uncanny instinct for avoiding misfortune, and his inexplicable, dreamed-up 'memories' of the way things might have turned out. Sometimes at the card games at the bar after work, he can't discern if his opponent has just played a straight flush, or will be doing so in a few moments. It gets worst in public. Far too many nights he arrives home shaken and sweating, narrowly having missed death himself after pulling a blind woman out of the street to save her from a drunken driver, or having had to play the part of a shady, suspicious potential mugger to unnerve a young unsuspecting couple enough to warn them away from the real mugger, a block down the street, who had a gun and a dangerous case of nerves. He keeps telling himself that he's not Batman, but he cannot let the unsuspecting fools walk into such danger simply because they aren't paying attention. So he hides in his work, in his work-a-day life, in his mediocre suburban home, to save himself from the obligation of saving others. It helps keep things to a manageable level. Except for nights like this. It's 4:32 PM on a Saturday, and his neighbor Frank is going to the Wells Fargo 13 blocks away. He knows this because at 4:58 PM, Frank will be shot in the chest by a panicked bank robber. Damnit, Frank. Don't go to the bank. Frank, I have a date at 6. It's my first date in a year. Jeffery sighs and stands up, reaches into his closet, pulls out a long black trench coat and a hat, and puts them on. He leaves Jeff at home, and the White Rabbit trudges to his car, nervously fingering his keys. I hope I haven't forgotten anything.