He made a memo and slipped into the empty common lounge, tacked it to the bulletin board. BTB (Bring Television Back) Revolutionaries in flimsy bond emblazoned the legend above the corkwood. Especially inane in a world against electricity. A french press steamed hot coffee on a counter next to a darkened candy bar dispenser. He slipped out to wait, blissfully awash in the tunes of ‘Secret Agent Man’ that filtered out a high apartment window.
They ran into the night streets, firing guns over their head, and still had the time to express indignation when the roof of the world fell onto their heads in large fiery chunks. Snug in a doorway, Aiolos Kozlowski, back against rough stone, took a deep drag of his cannabis cigar. He sniggered as the fallen zeppelin burned the streets. The scent of roasting revolutionary flesh mingled quite nicely with the tang of dope.
Something rubbed riotously against his pantsleg. A black cat, its shiny globes writhing with the burning red skies. Rolling a strand of his long straight locks in his fingers, he smiled down indulgently and blew a smoke ring. The cat rumbled.
“My luck’s looking up.”