Goddamn Murphy’s Law, alcohol corollary!

The occupant of the room mused on the oddities of chance for a moment. He considered indulging in the low grade imitation whiskey. Professional ethics or just a wary and empty stomach got the better of him, propelling him out the door with the package under one arm and his overcoat under the other.

He doubled back for his top hat, a matter of principle he told himself, style before expediency.

Auto-carriages, dirigible taxis, and every building belched coal smoke and white steam. The whole world felt frankly bloated and gassy. In the midst of it all darted the room’s erstwhile occupant, sliding this way and that, a gaunt figure of furtive elegance.

The package, light as it was, put more weight on his arm than the whole mess did on his conscience. That should have worried him but did not. Little did these days, not in the past 2 years, 4 months, and 17 days. As ever he refused to acknowledge why.

Some things were better left in their packages, neatly bound.