The year was 1976.
It was a year hated by farmers across Great Britain, as a record amount of rain destroyed the crops and ruined the soil.
But the fancy people of London, the metropolis brimming with culture from across the globe, had no qualms with the downpour.
Their lives were too fast and glitzy for the sorrow of the countryside to matter.
And one of those people was Gene Conti.
His latest film, End to Odyssey, was making bank across the continent.
But he wasn't satisfied.
Something had been irking him for days, and he kept thinking about it as he sat with a cigarette between her lips.
Thirty feet ahead of him, pictures moved on a large screen.
The dust particles in the air, lighted by the projector, vied for his attention. But they could not compete with the woman sitting next to him.
She wore a white dress and a white hat. Her watery blue eyes, perfectly black hair, and salacious red lipstick made her an appealing lady.
