He rolls a joint. It’s cold in here. ‘Someone has to stand up to the morons.

You can’t catch cancer at this time of the year. The germs are on holiday.’

He asks how do we really know Ebola exists. ‘It’s probably a plot like the Black Death

was. You couldn’t bury that many people in a  country this size, none too roomy’.

He inhales the ritual. Something good is just about to happen, the way

surprises are soon unsurprising, settle in. ‘Everything’s planned beforehand.’ In a minute,

the police will arrive whether they want to or not: it’s time for their monthly pay-off.

Lies back, exhales. ‘I don’t know why or how…  but it doesn’t matter one fucking bit.’