The brown-ish bicycle bag.
Not waterproof despite what common sense may have dictated. He did want to buy a waterproof one, someday, hopefully before the summer rainstorms further ruined the fabric.
The hooded poncho.
Cheap, not unlike the rest of his belongings. Yellow and plastic and with a dreadful factory smell that never quite went away. Marcellin would have thrown it away months prior were it not for necessity – though, over time, he found that being soaked was less unpleasant than wearing it, so maybe he would throw it out sooner than later.
The old polaroid camera.
A discontinued model, worth nothing to most and worth a fortune to collectors. It had been a gift, or payment, rather, though he preferred to think of it as a gift. Because Marcellin considered himself and idiot, he found solace in its simplicity (even I can understand this).
Another gift. He did not smoke regularly, but knew many who did, and even more who did not, but would take a few as bribe. They were not of a recognisable brand but with the ludicrous tax on anything imported, that soon stopped mattering.
All in cash, naturally, and in a plastic bag because of the bicycle bag’s permeable nature. Some notes were foreign. Marcellin had no idea as to their worth, but those who asked him to take them did, so he shrugged and took them anyway.
Generally in white envelopes neatly taped together in pairs. Marcellin preferred to pretend it was not among his belongings.
The artisanal honey.
A gift from that man who tolerated (but secretly hated) him. Marcellin had to rearrange the things in the bag because the jar’s unique shape took up a dumb amount of space. And once that had been sorted, he had to rearrange everything again because the bag’s weight distribution had been skewed too much. But it did not bother him, because the artisanal honey was so much sweeter than the store one, and he loved its taste.