dead and beated old hell

The taste of gas, the smell of il, it all mixed within the heat of the morning, blazed the brains of all the workers in the bus station. Puttin the wrecked ones together, fixing the ones who still have any chance of survival, and getting rid of the simple piles of old crap. Everyday they get amazed with the number of old... no... not old... ancient, by the number of ancient cars that arrive there for them to take care. Some of then were older then the own station, wich was there since time immemorial.
The dipping of the sweat trough his face just irritates Adrian so much that he can't barely get stuff done in sunny days. Now he just swears to the allmighty sun and throws the tire he was fixing away. In the motion of the turbulent station, his explosion of fury is but a gran of sand in the depths of the ocean. Cleaning the sweat outta his face and with his heart in pace of fury, stepping heavy and strong to reach for the clock tower nearby, where he could find some cover and some water.
The burning sun ravages the skies, creating live, destroying it, generating hate, killing love, but well knowed that it could all be healed by a cup of water. And that's all he needs.
Chills trough the spine when he touches the cold tap in the morbid shadows of such a hellish day. Maybe just illusion, but he could bet all his coins that something was laughing dirty in the air. Turns the tap on and catch the water with his hands, slowly swallow it and yet still freezes the brain. The sky laughter turns more intense, and looking towards the deadly blue of the heights, he feels the water of the tap gettin hotter and thicker. It took some time for him to believe in what his eyes where seeing. Hot blood coming out of the tap. No, not hot... boiling. Boiling, dark and thick blood, flowing out the tap straight to his hands. In a move of desperation, Adrian runs bacl to the station, feeling his forehead cold and his heart and soul so small. Trembles and fall meters before the inside of the station. The blood of the tap had followed him, and now he jas soaked in red and crying on the floor while the other workers run to help him out.

On the top of the clock tower, a vulture laughs over a grown man, writhing, drooling and dying, by the side of an dry tap.