705.. 706.. 707.. ..708. This seems to be alright.

Sam put down his toolbox. He took out a crowbar, hesitated for a moment and then pushed it hard between the door and the frame. The door broke open with a loud crack. The sudden sound gave Sam a jerk. His heartbeat raced, then he calmed himself: “No one hears this.”

While Sam packed back his tool, he caught a glance into the room. Typical hotel room. A mirror next to the entrance. Flat Screen TV. Soulless “art” on the walls. Goldish interior. He walked in.

A lot of space. Sam liked that. Kingsize bed, naturally. A desk and two chairs. They would come in handy. A minibar, Bingo! But first: to work!

Sam closed the curtains in front of the panorama windows, then he took one of the chairs and smashed it against the wall, as hard as he could. BANG! BANG! BANG! With three smashes, the chair came apart. Sam took the second chair. BANG! BANG! BANG!

He took a pillow and ripped it apart. Feathers everywhere. He tore the pillow case into stripes. He had to pull as hard as he could. Good quality – but not for much longer. At last he turned to the desk, the laminated booklet with the hotel services was no use. But there was a notepad.

He grabbed the trash bin and put it in the middle of the room. First came paper from the notepad. Scrumble it into little balls, not too tight – it needs air! Then the stripes of linen from the pillow case. At last Sam took the broken legs from the chairs and built a little pyramide inside the trash box.

One step to the minibar. A small bottle of vodka would do the trick. Sam did not take a sip for himself, before he poured the liquor over his work. That would come later. Matchbox. Match. Fire!

The flames where hypnotic. For a moment Sam's brain froze – like computers did with software from Microsoft. Then he started coughing. Shit! The fire had a lot of smoke. But opening the windows was no option: 7th floor hotel room windows don't do that.

Better accept the inevitable and start drinking. Sam threw everything on the bed: whiskey, vodka, cognac, beer and then himself. The first bottle went down in one long gulp. This will be a long night.

It was already lunch time when Sam woke up. His head hurt so much, he couldn't focus his eyes. He got out of the bed – not by standing up, but by crawling to the edge and sliding to the ground. Naturally one of his feet would land in the trash box, push it over and spill cold ashes all over the floor. Ahgggr. His brain was not yet in a state to formulate such a difficult concept as “Shit!”.

Sam limped over to the windows. Once there he needed a second to take a breath. Exhausting! He grabbed the curtains and with one forceful movement swifted them open. The bright sunlight hit his brain like a thunderbolt from Zeus himself. Pain. Pain!

When the pounding in his head receded, Sam's eyes were finally able to focus. He lifted his eyes and looked outside. Burnt out skyscrapers, steel carcasses torn apart like animals, hunted and ripped into pieces by monstrous beasts. Shadows of people on the few remaining walls, where the nuclear bombs found their last victims – just before they had spent the complete amount of their fury.

Sam swallowed hard in his room, in his building, the first building that was just out of range of the nuclear blast. His eyes were hard, his lips – a thin line. He forced himself to turn around.

Sam picked up his toolbox and walked out of the room and up the staircase.

805.. 806.. 807.. ..808.

Eight floors lower a pigeon flew along the street. It found a place right above the entrance door, where the huge golden sign was. A sudden noise startled the pigeon, it flew up full of fear and shat right on the sign:

“Trump Tower”.

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