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The Cockiness of Poverty

-Tickets please!
He cut through, as if sweeped by the force of the crowd. A finger poked his shoulder.
-Are you deaf?
They remained standing, though, and he didn’t get hurt. From the escalator, he looked back with naked disdain.
-Give Eleonora my condolences! – he shouted back. – I need my money to eat!
He liked to tease them, waiting for a response more characteristic of the government employees of his childhood: a bullet in his back. The old underground had a strange effect on him. Sure, changes were made but it was still the place he fell asleep in his mom’s lap on more and more nights as the raids came more and more often.
Of course, they never noticed. He was just another college fucktard to them, teen or early tween at best. And he did need the money to eat – more than the criminals who ran the traffic company and thanks to whom he ran frequently late from class.
It seems people like me will only be familiar with the oral wow-factor, he thought, sitting down as Beethoven’s Ninth drowned the noise out.

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