In the middle of a cold winter's night, the City of Angels experienced the worst jail riot in its short history at the Buena Vista County Jail, a three-story brick fortress able to hold 230 inmates. It was filled with over 400 prisoners, almost double its capacity and the chronic overcrowding, as well as their increasingly filthy and inhumane conditions were considered to be the main reasons for the riot.

The situation was dire, there were often not enough blankets, toothbrushes, or beds. A few days ago, one man committed suicide when sent back to be locked in this jail for the second time: and the rats ate his face off as he hung dead by his neck in his filthy cell. In the reeking women’s ward, innocent and delicate women were sometimes compelled to sleep on a bunk three feet wide with a syphilitic prostitute, rotten and stinking with disease. Additionally, an inmate was punished for “burning newspaper as a means of heating coffee". Nothing was done though, due to a combination of bureaucratic hold-ups and fights between the city and county. Soon, the prisoners rebelled. 

They howled, broke what few breakable objects were within their reach and cursed and struck at their keepers. Cots were smashed into kindling wood; everything breakable was broken, clubs were thrust through the bars. Sheriff Traeger was struck on the leg by the leg of a cot. Deputy Frank Dewar and George Kyme, a turnkey, were struck over the head by clubs in the hands of the enraged prisoners.​​​​​​​

The remarkable lax in security at the county jail during the early decades of the 20th century allowed some prisoners to escape. Among the escapees were a former boxer with a menacing presence due to his scarred face and an old man with a grizzled gray hair and a circle beard embattled across his jaw. Their friendship has strengthened over time by sharing the same miseries in the prison together. After taking a shelter near an abandoned storage facility of citrus, wine grapes and other fruits and vegetables, they talked about their future plans. 

"I'm excited! I'm finally going to see my family once I take the train to Kansas. And maybe lace the gloves around my fists once more."

Joe threw some punches in the air, showing his techniques in a form of shadow boxing. 

"How about you Gray, what are you going to do?" 

"Why not be a mechanic Joe, there seems to be a lot of electric cars on the streets now"

​​​​​​"Ha, I was born with a destructive hands. They are not for fixing things. You're more suitable for that kind of job my old friend. You didn't answer my question though". 

"I don't really know. I've stayed in the can for too long".

Joe Boxer gave Gray a strong, respectable pat on the back. 

"Come on, now! You're a wise guy. I'm sure you'll figure something out. Just like how we've managed to escape without anyone noticing us" 

Gray smiled at the remark and bade farewell to his pugilist friend as the dawn creeped steadily towards the sleepy city of Los Angeles. 
 

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In the wash of the new light, Gray's face took on the appearance of an old photograph, one of nostalgia, so beautiful. The chilled air moved the clouds, it had been so long since his wrinkled skin felt the coolness of the winter breeze. The day had been surprisingly quiet with no indications of the riot that transpired the night before.  He stared at the Lucky Strike cigarette between his fingers that was given to him by Joe Boxer as a farewell gift. He rubbed his tired eyes with the insides of his palms. He was alone now, no family to visit, no relatives to share the news that he managed to escape. He drifted on the calm streets, aimless as a child on a summer vacation, at ease with the fluidity of time.

"Stupid old man," said a thug across the alley as Gray walked past across him. 

The thug lighted his cigarette using a leather-wrapped chrome lighter, nobody knew where he got it from. Gray noticed the thug's remarks and decided to bother him with passion. He walked lazily to the thug, feinting sickness which only those terminally ill patients in deathbed had. 

"Aw man, you reek. Get away from me, you smelly codger!"

Gray pretended to be deaf and put his hands on the shoulder of the thug and gripped him tight. The thug, annoyed, attempted to hit Gray with his scarred fist. Gray dodged the punch gracefully which shocked the thug, he clearly underestimated the old man's strength. Left with no options, the thug scampered hastily leaving his precious lighter on the ground.

Gray picked up the lighter that was too familiar for him. His fingers tremble around the cigarette as he began to light it. It has been a while since he exerted so much effort in gripping a man. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs remembering all the reefers that he smoked in his youth.  Smoke blew out between his lips, the smell and taste were just the same as he remembered. Perhaps that's what gave him comfort. 

"Hmmm. Made in Pasadena, Los Angeles. Just as I remembered" Gray remarked as he read the etched words in the lighter's outer case assembly. He put the lighter in the pocket of his striped overalls. He knew where to go next.