The Raindrops of the End

The Weasel squatted, sniffing. I followed his gaze north, through the barrio. I knew the magnetic poles would be shifting soon. My compass would be useless, and The Weasel was the only one who knew the way back. But his stench was unbearable. Each time it wafted over me, I gagged. And the daily headlocks! My God, I thought. What bitter days we know as men.