Roller - SCP Foundation

The car sat just outside a warehouse pop-up art house at twilight. Windows up. Engine dead. Vents, shut.

In the driver's seat, a crack as the air heats to plasma, as a spark erupts from a finger. Radio bursting to life, static erupting, then silence. Then burning vegetative matter. Burning cannabis, extinguished next by lacrimal secretions. Another spark, more burning, put up to the lips, breathing in deeply. And just… holding it there.

Lungs burning, dying. A lap full of ash. A seat adjacent with once three now two pounds worth of cigars, hollowed, refilled. Blistered and raw fingers. Tropical smoke so hot it's boiling, so heavy it's enveloping.

And weeping, an exhale, a cough, choking.

"Time to die," thought the man. "Time to fucking die."

Outside, ozone, suffocating. Lightning striking twice, thrice, bodies electric, a bank of payphones desperately ringing, once, twice, eternally, screaming.

And in the art house, clothes lying, exhibits watching a gallery of hollowed suits static clinging to each other, emptied shoes, a cacophony of cellulars chiming in sync, deafening, booming through the steel enclosure.

The man, the man. Crying to himself in the car, letting the paper crumble to dust in his fingers before reaching over to another blunt.