And I'm blasting up the hill, further and further. The runners grind against the asphalt. Sparks are flying. My shoes scrape against the pavement, because this car has no floor. Smoking in high winds is difficult, but I manage, squinting against the flying embers and the bright snow above.
Asphalt turns to snow.
I'm climbing, descending, climbing, descending, into an arctic wilderness overlooking the city. A dead body lies covered by a yellow tarp, the murderers breaking for a cigarette not 20 feet away. Funny thing is, though, I kind of enjoy it. Despite the occasional pangs of feeling like a mindless sheep lost in an Orwellian nightmare, I've triumphed over Big Tobacco. I've turned my back on an addiction I never intended to hold on to for a lifetime.