A not-so-distant bang draws Philippe to the window. He pulls the curtain aside and spots a cloud of smoke blossoming outside the gate. A stun grenade, or possibly tear gas, tossed between rival groups of demonstrators. Will there be more injuries? Smoke inhalation, burns, broken bones. Philippe insists on knowing. Three weeks reigning over the newly restored Kingdom of Turin and this is what he's made of it.
Read more HERE.
Philippe
Jake
This weed does not want to let go, the prickly shit. I pull and pull, but the roots won’t come up. I could snap off the top and leave the roots, but that’s cheating and I want to do a good job. After all, the whole family has been so —
I fall backwards and shower myself with dirt. That's just an ambulance, right? Or maybe a firetruck? Even if I could have told the weird European sirens apart back in Turin City, sounds are different out here, stretched and distorted over miles and miles of rolling fields. Anyway, I’m being paranoid. Internal security services don’t use sirens when they abduct somebody.
Or do they?
Read more HERE.