I sat in the corner of the alley, a bottle of vodka in hand. I took a large swig. I looked up, and shut my eyes. They welled with tears a little. Not just because of the black smoke and ashes floating in the air. If anything, I was too attached to books. Maybe it was from my memories with them, and how they shone light on my life when everything else didn't. It was my escape. But it seems the door has been locked, and I can only sulk and watch a few rays of light pour in and cast false hope. Fuck this dictator. I hope he gets overthrown and burned in a pile of books for irony.

3 Months Later

I walk out of the deserted brick building, $200 in my pocket. More ashes cascade on the block. Yet another burning. I brush a warm ember from my hair, and walk to the flickering streetlamp. A man in his 20s with a white hoodie stood below it. "You better have what I fucking asked for, and I don't mean a shitty paperback book from out of a puddl-"

"Do you want a 4 month old copy of The Hunger Games or do you want me to jump your pansy ass and take your money, which I assume you earned from brooming ashes away. Now, " I said and took a deep breath after my outburst "what are you willing to pay?"

"I've got $325 on me." "Deal." He handed me the money, and I quickly counted. I pulled the book out from my backpack and handed it to him. "Holy shit, this is practically new. Looks like you've got a new regular."

I smiled. "Quality is how I run. And with my legs if I were you if you don't get your ass in the alleyway and hide from the police car." We both dived into the alley, hiding under trashbags containing ashes. We peeked from under, until we saw the coast was clear.

** 1 week later**

I have become a better business man if I do say so myself. There are always those who try to bargain me into giving a book for a shitty price, and I have devised a strategy less risky than jumping the ones who clearly carry more money. I take their deal, and report them.