“Don’t turn around,” says the hoarse voice behind him.
“Who are you?” quavers Gordon, in his darkened office. “How did you–”
“You’re a good loan officer. Maybe the only good loan officer in the city. How do you survive in this business, not being on the take?”
“I’m no rat,” says Gordon firmly. “They all know it.”
Papers flip onto his desk. “There’s an application in there. A solid one. Take it to your boss tomorrow.”
“And then what?”
“Watch for my sign.”
“But how do I know you’re a worthwhile credit ri–” says Gordon, but Bat-Homebuyer is already gone.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Miss Havisham, in a rare concordance with simple student beliefs, actually does live at school. She started doing so during the winter break, when things were even emptier than usual; no longer afforded residence at her boarding room in town after a violent disagreement with its proprietor, she packed her things and paid the cinema boy a nickel to stow them in one of the empty wings. She eats in the dining hall and bathes in the gymnasium lockers. She’s almost always first to class.
In her shame, she doesn’t go exploring much of the school–until one restless April night.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
“We missed you at Vesperfest,” says Brother Tufnels, with a gentle rebuke in his voice.
“I was wrong not to attend, I know,” sighs Brother Rallen. “I’ll be at Matinsfest and Laudsfest! But I was moshing so hard to the Holy Chords that I lost consciousness, and–”
“Part of being a Metallic is judging for yourself the line between indulgence and righteous rocking.” Tufnels is smiling now. “Now, can I persuade you to help me sacrifice a baby goat on the dark altar?”
“WHAT ARE YOU GUYS TALKING ABOUT,” asks Brother van Sveren, who took vows of extreme loudness last year.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Burning Armory is four fathoms tall and its stubby fingers are pierced with sharpened bone. Its half-blind eye searches out the Princess Leaves as she coughs sand and struggles to her feet; above, Dog Shouting grips the pit’s edge, and the Papa Bosom’s mottled crew cheer and place bets.
Very few of the bets are in her favor.
The Armory snacks on a guard-turned-victim, and the Princess closes her eyes. The Wish Power is with her. The enormous portcullis rises; the Armory tries to follow her under it; the portcullis falls.
“Oh dear,” says Blow the Skin.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
“I knew the curse would come for him one day,” cries Barrymore over the old man’s body. “It didn’t even mark his body–the sight alone must have been fright enough to stop his heart. Damn that Deinonychus of the Baskervilles!”
Mortimer scoffs. “You can’t possibly believe a dinosaur did this to him!”
“It’s not like a normal dinosaur,” says Barrymore. “It’s a ghostly creature, scarred and hideous, eyes alight with vengeful flame!”
“Burning bog gas and an old man’s heart!”
Far off in the mist, something krees like an enormous eagle, and the carriage pachys snuffle and stomp their feet.
Friday, November 21, 2008
has a captain named Captain Exigon. His first mate is Zombie Lieutenant Graaahh.
“We should really do something with our missiles,” says Captain Exigon, in zombie Russian.
“Well,” says Graaahh at length, “there aren’t any countries I want to obliterate.”
“I was thinking more of treating them like treasure,” says Exigon. “We could bury them somewhere, and mark it with an X!”
“Then hunt for more!” Graaahh is getting into it. “Terrors of the seas! With a disarmament agenda!”
“Exactly!” says Exigon.
“Graaahh!”
So that’s where all the missing Russian nukes are and you don’t have to worry about them anymore.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
“Knock knock.”
“Knock who?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, come on. Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow.”
Silence.
A pointed look.
Silence.
“You’re supposed to say ‘interrupting cow who’ so I can–”
“MOO”
“Fine, dammit, you tell one.”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s–”
“MOO”
“NO!”
“Did you think the cow was just going to leave?”
“This isn’t a hypothetical door-opening scenario with persistent characters! It’s a purely linguistic construct!”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“The Doctor.”
“Doctor Who?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Get it?”
“Yyyes?”
“I thought it was funny.”
“I worked that out.”
“And anyway you already took the interrupting–”
“MOO”
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Rob walks Albie Street, his shoes clattering softly together.
“They call those crack tennies,” says Maya.
“Who calls anything ‘tennies?'” says Rob.
“You know what I mean,” says Maya. “I used to try and pull them down.”
“They’re boundary markers. Wards. Protection.”
“Do you think I need protection?” He doesn’t say anything; she tilts her head.
They turn down Twenty-Ninth. Rob leans back and sends the next pair whirling upward, where it catches by the laces on the catenary line.
“So,” she says, “do you carve magic runes on the soles or something?”
“I just use a Sharpie,” he says.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
“Detectives McMeel and Showalter, Precinct Nine and Three-Quarters,” says Showalter. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“मैं मà¥à¤¸à¥€à¤¬à¤¤ में हूà¤?” ask the suspicious yellow eyes in the crack of the door.
“We just need to know if you saw anything on the night of September… forty-eighth,” says Showalter, checking his notescroll. “There was an incident.”
“मैं सà¥à¤…रों से बात नहीं है!”
“We’re going to have to continue this downtown,” sighs McMeel.
They drop through a manhole and into a mine cart, whose blue-and-reds flicker on stalagmites as they hurtle toward the sub-sub-substation.
Monday, November 17, 2008