Fusel's fucked off

I lost him in the mall. We walked over the bridge into the rusty iron maw of East Village Kicker Emporium, the local commerce cancer in the middle of a winding of roads and motorways (we took the subway that smelled of piss and paper litter). And once past the destitute orcs ("will settle blood-feud for coin") and elf whores we were inside the heated interior. Big metal cabinets stood at every corner, each filled with heat bricks - because it's just this side of too cold for the clothes you chose.

And he disappeared in the crowd. Leaving me again.

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