Whatever Pedro Primera wanted: Pedro Primera got. He was never going to get used to light pockets. Fingers interlaced as he longed for his own weapons. His hands felt empty without the leathery feel of his thick wallet.
His victims were laughing beyond the grave. Squatting to use the toilet was a foreign concept. Apparently, some countries had no concept of privacy. What a state the loos were, he covered his nose: how could anyone use them? The lack of toilet paper and small basket bins wasn't even the worst part.
Doing his business, he lowered his head, contemplating on how the world was laughing at him. He could even see himself in the mirror: it wasn't a pretty sight. The water was ice cold and the soap was covered in hairs: curly pubes by the looks of it.
Fingers interlaced, he clea
