'Think of us like, communists. We all pitch in.' 'Oh,' says Man. 'Barley wine, please.' 'Coming up, chuck!' says Rose. 'And the cider for me, love,' adds Mick. Rose nods her head as she works away, pouring the booze into dirty pint glasses. She hands them over and smiles politely at Man. It takes effort but Man turns from her, faces Mick who motions for him to sit down. They find a table near the dirty windows. Next to it stands a redundant fruit machine, the lights and wheels long dead. Man wonders how much money is left inside it. Not that it matters these days. People don't use it. Haven't for years. As soon as the lights went out and the lightning died people had no use for currency. It became clear then that money was only ever a device to control the masses, make them believe that their worth began with a series of numbers and decimal points displayed on a computer screen. A more potent drug than nicotine and heroine combined. Once the lights went out the people who survived discovered their own worth.
