old tank, new tank, slav tank, jew tank

“Been going through the depot,” he said, lowering the crate. It was filled with breath masks, from clear plastic cups that would cover mouth and nose to waxed leather bags with goggle-eyes and mysterious-looking pipes. “Wondering if there’s anything there a shade more comfortable for everyday wear than having a tube jammed up my nose.”
“Not if you also want to talk,” observed Temujin, looking dubiously at a tiny rebreather apparently designed to be held between clenched teeth. “They do wash this stuff, right?”
Thompson spread his hands. “Come on, the fun is as much in the search as it is in finding anything useful. Besides, there’s some funny old stuff in here,” he said, donning a bulky black headpiece with tinted glass eye plates. “Is the air kept in the discs? Smells of rubber.”
“That’s not an oxygen mask,” said RJ.
“Mmph mphmph mm?” he asked. He took the mask off. “What is it, then?”
“It’s a hazmat mask. Protection against poison gas, virus weapons, nuclear fallout and so on. The big cylinder bits on the side are filters, the one in the middle is a sort of mouthpiece. The seal is… hmm, I think this is designed to drink through.”
“Why on earths does it have that?”
“At a guess, because in no situation where you’d need to use this would you want to be sober.”
Thompson tossed it back into the crate. “Fair enough.”