Fig claws through the cobwebs of some or other muckmare, the details of which he thankfully cannot remember.
He takes the mirror off the bedstand and snorts the line of coke he prepared before falling asleep like a log.
On the spot he’s awake on the double-bed sponge mattress with a crate on either side, the Hitachi L 17 on the one crate, a few books on the other (no library here, commensurate with his avowed unbelief in property), two other crates that double as chairs scattered on the floor and against the one wall his clothes are folded in wooden tomato boxes. Read more.
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