Where was Stiletto?
Stockholm as it happened, so no help from that quarter. Gregory was at the Royal Festival Hall waiting for Eaglebeard who had been delayed. Why he would want to be stuck in traffic rather than use his hand was baffling.
The Snowdon exhibition hadn’t disappointed. Amazing photographs and no sign of The Rabbit.
Sunday. Breakfast and Campari weren’t the usual mix, but Gregory had travelled down to Brixton to have breakfast at the new café bar, Parissi. Everybody said Brixton was the new happening place in London and definitely no trouble.
The girl sat on the stool at the bar didn’t look quite right. Her face was odd, and Gregory couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was rude to stare. She was pretty but pretty strange at the same time. Then the lump appeared in her cheek, and slowly drifted down, under her mouth, and up the other side, disappearing near her left ear. About the size of a marble, Gregory was both fascinated and seriously alarmed, and forgot that it was rude to stare.
Suddenly the face exploded as the skin peeled back, revealing a miasma of tentacular activity, like a worms-nest on acid. No features to speak of, just slime and motion.
So, no trouble then.
Like the eye at the heart of a hurricane, the rest of the girl was normal, except for the large and weird looking gun that she slowly took from her tiny handbag.
Spyros, the proprietor, who had been making a customer’s latte behind the counter, calmly leant over and threw the freshly made coffee into the heaving mass of motion.
Glancing over at Gregory, he placed the cup in the sink and with a smile, dryly commented, “goddamn aliens!”
Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018