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Chips. Lard fried chunks of Maris Piper, drowned in vinegar and crusted with salt. The stuff of legends. Well, British legends anyway. All wrapped up in 1980s newsprint, just the way Europe's bigwigs didn’t like. There were rebels everywhere.
‘Five die in bombing,’ the grease-stained story read. The monopoly on suffering wasn’t his, but he wore it anyway, sewn into his leather jacket; the weight of the universe hanging from his shoulders.
The Doctor tossed the chips; they tasted of ash anyway. Everything did these days.
Young, old, guilty or innocent, everybody died.
Everyone except him.