The sky is primer-grey grim. The streets and houses, moody darker grey. Some social-housing project, shitty. Never been here but I'm roaming these streets to connect. The vibe is bad but I'm sick to my soul. Got to keep on, but no-one's around to ask for help.
Rubble and trash everywhere. Finally I come across some men, dressed in dark military uniform. One regards me with wry amusement. Maybe an officer, though no badges.
"Do you know where you are?"
He's holding the shoulder of a guy wearing a beret tilted back. Grabs the the guy's jacket collar and yanks it down broad shoulders, restricted by cuffed wrists. The officer points to an arc of black stars tattooed across the upper back.
"That means he's an assassin."
I study the killer's face, stoic and blank. But he's staring down a long street...telling me the shit I need is that way.
I walk and walk. Feel worse and worse. This whole place seems abandoned, but I just know stuff's going on. I hear a sudden noise, something landed in the weeds nearby. It moved too fast to see, but now I hear a rattle. A metallic snicker...I turn and run.
Back in my room, head bursting. Wretched and hopeless, so cold now.
Some men enter, carrying cloth sacks which must weigh 20 kilos each. Swarthy and tawny, the men wear robes and hats in the style of the Golden Crescent area. They put the sacks in my wardrobe. The eldest approaches, smiling warmly. He has a white beard and twinkling eyes.
"Cash, we know you are cool. We trust you to store this. Just take what you need for yourself, that is fine. There is plenty."
My heart explodes with gratitude and I trickle tears of pride, a kind of love. Of course I won't betray the old man's faith in me. Soon I'll have relief. Can almost taste it, smell it cooking.
When I awake, I'm actually opening the wardrobe door. There are no sacks. I thought there were sacks and I thought I'd get cured. Of course not...there's only a rack of flight jackets and winter parkas. They can't keep me warm, now.
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