IT was around a quarter past midnight on a brisk Tuesday in the homely college town of Lund, Sweden. Andrew Coles, world renowned cyklist, self-described Huguenot, and one hell of a model american, sat at his desk contemplating the activities of the night. Having recently imbibed the gaseous emittance of a gently lit hash pipe, his mood was relaxed and somber, focusing on the lighter sides of life and the inanity of the modern world. Sweden, a world of wonder and delight, where beautiful women, intriguing bike rides, disastrous deity's, incredible kebabs, and beautiful women stalked the landscape. To live and learn in the audacity of its modern everyday life became his desire, a trance like stalking through the jungles of introspection and wild tomfoolery. As his thoughts digressed, they stumbled fondly into his past, recollecting the trials and tribulations of years long past and TBT's long forgotten. An old acquaintance emerged from the fog and haze, accompanied by the obscure presence of an older, glasses laden lass with the odd desire of filing books in dark and dreary libraries of the world. They called him Charlie "Wild Cat" Jones, and oh what a tale he wove. As Andrew chuckled silently to himself at the triteness of it all, questions loomed into his forlorn thoughts. How was his dear friend Gregor? Was life with Wild Cat an adventure in selflessness or a journey through companionship? Was the Wood still as West as it had been months past? And were TBT's being properly dispersed throughout the fulfilment of his life duties? But alas, these questions would live unanswered, laying dormant, 7347 kilometers away across the ocean, leaving Andrew the lone hope that sometime, someday, his thoughts could be transcribed via some electronic means.
ANNNNNDDDDDDDDD Scene.
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