Thrown out on the street after all these years of hobnobbing together. In the stripy wear at that, so out of fashion.
It starts raining, tiny drips at first. “He could have waited at least until Saturday.” Forecast shows no showers and a temperature rise. “Oh well, good riddance. At least I am in the fresh air now.” Massive clouds promise inexorable havoc. No grace period. Only self-sustaining laments over the past.
Carrying a crimson rose, black suit smirks at the sight: “He has finally gotten rid of that awful couch! A dreadful pattern.”
Next stop: Wastelands.