Final Stand
You would think that it wouldn't be this difficult to find a can of olives.
After searching through several of the deserted grocery stores of 11th Avenue, you suspect that you won't find any canned olives to satisfy your craving.
"Why couldn't the damn looters have left me at least one can of olives?" you mumble softly to yourself as you continue to make your way around abadonded cars, rusted shopping carts and the shabby remains whatever gripped the runners as their most valuable personal possessions. With a half-cocked smile, you can't help thinking again that you would be a millionare if you opened up any of the multitudes of abandoned suit cases containing such fabulous items as grandpa's gold watch or Uncle Whats-his-names rare coin collection. But then again, who would be buying to turn your gold into green?
Your stomach gives an unpolite rumble that turns your thoughts from riches to olives. If any olives are going to be found, they had better be found soon. A few more hours and the sun will be down; and when the sun goes down, the others will come. Lord knows their appetite won't be slated by a can of olives. Grimacing, you center on the thought that they'll be more interested in chewing on your bone marrow and quinching their thrist on your blood than to be willing to sit down for a fine home cooked meal prepared exclusively by you - delightful olives or no olives at all.
Directly ahead and to your left is a small Food-Mart, which brings the faint hope of an overlooked olive can. Further on and to your right, an abandoned J.C. Penny's sign hangs forlorn against the afternoon sun beckoning shoppers to enter and shop-till-ya-drop. Continuing dead-on, 11th Avenue streaches out like the dried vein coursing through the City of Terra Casa.
Will you:
After searching through several of the deserted grocery stores of 11th Avenue, you suspect that you won't find any canned olives to satisfy your craving.
"Why couldn't the damn looters have left me at least one can of olives?" you mumble softly to yourself as you continue to make your way around abadonded cars, rusted shopping carts and the shabby remains whatever gripped the runners as their most valuable personal possessions. With a half-cocked smile, you can't help thinking again that you would be a millionare if you opened up any of the multitudes of abandoned suit cases containing such fabulous items as grandpa's gold watch or Uncle Whats-his-names rare coin collection. But then again, who would be buying to turn your gold into green?
Your stomach gives an unpolite rumble that turns your thoughts from riches to olives. If any olives are going to be found, they had better be found soon. A few more hours and the sun will be down; and when the sun goes down, the others will come. Lord knows their appetite won't be slated by a can of olives. Grimacing, you center on the thought that they'll be more interested in chewing on your bone marrow and quinching their thrist on your blood than to be willing to sit down for a fine home cooked meal prepared exclusively by you - delightful olives or no olives at all.
Directly ahead and to your left is a small Food-Mart, which brings the faint hope of an overlooked olive can. Further on and to your right, an abandoned J.C. Penny's sign hangs forlorn against the afternoon sun beckoning shoppers to enter and shop-till-ya-drop. Continuing dead-on, 11th Avenue streaches out like the dried vein coursing through the City of Terra Casa.
Will you: