It was the first time that Torgo had felt the cool breeze on his skin, at least since he had not been in the employ of his former boss, a breeze that was quite like the one that would waft through the hardened linden leaves late in an Indian Summer, carrying with it the sweet scent of buddleja, which flowers in the late Summer anyway, and hence its histamine producing pollens. This was not at all uncommon, but for mid-December? Torgo had no time for hayfever, he was on a mission. It was a Summer where lovers would lie and love, where sand would irritate the eye - there was no love for Torgo; sand enjoyed its usual ubiquity for Torgo, for he was in El Paso, Texas.
'What is this place?', Torgo paused and ruminated, muttering in his non-rhotic accent, 'I have never seen this before.'
A poorly built, extremely large and inefficient American car from the mid-late 1960s slid round the corner and hit him.