He sold everything except his dogged shoes, a crumbled pack of cigarettes (which also held a small lighter the shape of a Pepsi bottle) and a backpack, which he didn’t pack, as he had nothing. So he just protected his smokes inside his old brown leather jacket, which he’d stolen from a neighbour’s house after their apartment block flitted during a new military game called ‘Strafe’ version 16.
Finally, he’d fled Monsieur Tyranny to Europe. But the rancid smell of oppression bruised his nose harder than a coke overdose as soon as he got there.
