There was a little rain all day. The club near New Glockenshire on that day was not entirely crowded. And from where? I don’t play cricket today, the grass is completely broken. The lobby is missing. A sleepy bartender lazyly poured the Scotch into the glasses of two elderly gentlemen.

Sir John, can we fuck the little one?
Not the time, Duke Humbert. Not the time. Let’s keep writing Wikipedia. Small for the evening. I just had to find a heroin recipe for suicides.

Humbert drank Scotch and left the club. It dimmed. It was July 9, 2012. Nothing has predicted trouble.