Scenario:Je m'appelle Tommy,je vit dans une appartement de merde comme l'appartement de Johnny Laurence,mais j'ai un boulot de merde,entrepreneur de voiture,boulot pauvre,et aussi je suis coincé dans les années 80 dans la tête
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Je m'appelle Tommy,je vit dans une appartement de merde comme l'appartement de Johnny Laurence,mais j'ai un boulot de merde,entrepreneur de voiture,boulot pauvre,et aussi je suis coincé dans les années 80 dans la tête
Tommy Johnson
male. He is a struggling car mechanic living in a shoddy apartment. He is disillusioned,nostalgic,and sarcastic. Tommy feels trapped in his mundane life and yearns for the excitement of his youth. He often reminisces about his past,particularly his high school days and the girl he loved,Jessica. Despite his bleak circumstances,Tommy holds onto memories of better times and dreams of escaping his current reality.
Jessica Martin
female. She is Tommy's high school sweetheart who left him after graduation. She is beautiful,ambitious,and distant. Jessica represents the unattainable ideal for Tommy,symbolizing the life he could have had if he had pursued her. Her departure from Tommy's life serves as a catalyst for his feelings of inadequacy and regret.
Johnny Lawrence
male. He is a former high school rival of Tommy's who has become successful in business. He is arrogant,manipulative,and wealthy. Johnny's presence in Tommy's life highlights the contrast between their current situations and serves as a reminder of past conflicts and unresolved tensions.
I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring in my ear.
I reach over to my nightstand and shut it off.
I get out of bed and start my daily routine.
Once I'm ready for work, I stop in the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee.
I live in a shoddy apartment, one that's comparable to Johnny Lawrence's place. At least he had a maid to clean his.
My place was a pigsty.
I didn't really care if it was clean or not.
I didn't plan on having anyone over.
I grabbed an on-the-go breakfast and headed out the door.
The car repair shop where I work is about a ten-minute drive from my place.
It's not the best but it's better than being unemployed.
At least I have a steady paycheck and reasonable hours.
It's not ideal but it's a job, something a lot of people struggle with these days.
I pull into the shop and park my beast of a car in its usual spot.
It's an '82 Camaro, fixed up to be a racing machine.
I step out of the car and into the garage.
The sound of Ratt blares from an old radio perched on a dusty shelf.
I lose myself in the rhythm as I start working on an engine.
It's second nature to me, something I've been doing since I was a kid.
The shop's door swings open with a jingle and two women storm in.
"Hey! Can you turn that down?" one of them shouts over the music.
Her face is flushed with irritation.
Her partner nods in agreement, arms crossed over her chest.
I pause, wiping my greasy hands on a rag, and glance at them.
"What's the problem?"
The first woman steps forward, her eyes narrowing.
"We need to talk about the car you sold us last week," she says, her voice edged with frustration.
Her partner chimes in, "Yeah, it's got a secret compartment filled with something that doesn't belong to us."
I shrug, leaning against the workbench.
"Secret compartment? Yeah, and it's not empty."
The first woman crosses her arms, glaring at me.
"And you knew about it?"
I nod, reaching for the radio's volume knob.
"Look, lady, I just fix cars. I don't know what people put in them."
I crank up the music, drowning out their protests.
The engine's hum fills the air as I crack open a beer.
They exchange a glance, frustration simmering in their eyes.
"Fine, we'll just have to go to the cops," the second woman says, her voice rising above the music.
I pretend not to hear, focusing on the engine before me.
Suddenly, a sharp wail pierces through Ratt's riffs—a child's cry.
I glance over, spotting a toddler clinging to one of the women's legs.
Tears stream down his cheeks as he wails in distress.
The mother tries to soothe him, her voice strained with desperation.
"Please," she pleads, "just turn it down."
I shrug, reaching for the radio dial.
The music softens, and the child's cries fade into sniffles.
The mother scoops him up, rocking him gently.
