Slacks switched for 'sploring garb I ditched work, took sign in hand, assumed the requisite roadside position and launched the hitch trip. I hadn't tested the legibility range of my signage but it was white, the letters were drawn in this thick black marker and even if the passing drivers couldn't read exactly what it said, the fact I was standing beside the road like a bellend holding a handwritten sign gave sufficient indication of what the fuck I was doing.

What the soldiers found that day was so horrific, so evil, that it would be almost banished from the history books altogether. The institution was in fact using the isolated space as an experimental lab, hidden far from prying eyes.

Today's date was there on the very last row. Check in time - 7pm. Checkout time - blank. Nom de gardien, nom de chien. Name of guard, name of dog. Name Of Dog. We ran.

A quick trip to Belgium delivers a few tasty bouchees and the end of a long quest in search of liquid silvery goodness, mercury.

The most interesting thing in the system is, to the foamers delight, the trains. Were half chubby at the merest hint of laid up stock, so what? As you have read in the previous chapters of metro demolition we spent a good deal of our time avoiding the trains and staying the hell out of their way. With good reason. They are unconcerned by our weak, fleshy bodies and totally indifferent to whether said body remains in one piece, or many smeared down 100m of track.