Thursday, August 27, 2015

Sick Day

[I am ill so I'm just going to free-style a bit before I go to bed. I almost called-in, but turned up anyway... not that I'll be much good.]

"Mrs. Windonthorpe is indisposed."

What he meant was: Lady Windonthorpe is poorly disposed towards you, you lout. Which is a fair enough assessment. Nevertheless, what must be done must be done.

I offered no protest but instead my calling card and turned down the alleyway. An upturned bucket and a garbage bin afforded easy enough access to the second story drawing room. For not the first time, I was glad to have a second pair of splats. Filthy business that, climbing soot stained walls. Whole damnable city covered in the wretched stuff, excepting respectable facades of course.

With a long sigh and a pounding hangover, I spent several minutes working the window free. The room was all red silk brocade, like drowning in dark panels and velvet. It was also a smoky, stained wreck. Christ's wounds! This would take far too long.

I finally found it, glowing, behind a vomit caked waste bin and that long opium pipe I'd spent too much time with yesterday. Gingerly I retrieved the twinkling thing, beginning to blink at my proximity. I carefully stowed it in my empty watch pocket.

Then I hopped out the window a little lighter on my feet. I hurried home to my fine brass syringe and loaded it up. With a hard sigh and some dizzying pain, I pushed the tiny star back into my veins.

I really must try to be more careful. It is rather rude to break into a widow's drawing room. More foolish still to leave one's soul laying about like that.

[hrrmm, maybe it didn't turn out so bad...]

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