The gas is red hot and expanding, settling on fingernails, coating the skin. He has been released to seep into your clothing. You carry bits of him around in paper bags - he is the new currency. When you gather enough you can mould it all together and make a clay man to sit on your desk. The memories of the black market have scarred him for life. He hides behind the monitor and some days won't be tempted out, even for sandwiches or snacks. If you listen carefully you can hear him whispering "Everything's useless, everything's useless" over and over again. Sometimes you feel like smashing him flat, pressing down and down against the desk until the whispering stops, but he is free now and even the dry cleaners can't remove him.