Where was Stiletto?
Stockholm, as it happened, so no help from that quarter. Gregory was at the Royal Festival Hall on the south bank of the Thames in London, 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 better yet, 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, safer now with gentrification, and definitely no trouble.
The girl, sat on the stool with her back to the bar, facing Gregory, 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 with a nice frock, but pretty strange at the same time. Then a lump about the size of a marble appeared in her cheek, and slowly drifted down, under her mouth, and up the other side, disappearing near her left ear. Gregory was both fascinated and seriously alarmed, and forgot that it was rude to stare.
Suddenly her skin peeled back as the girl’s face exploded into 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 of a hurricane, the rest of the girl was normal, except for the large and weird looking gun that she slowly removed 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. The nightmare creature emitted a blood curdling scream of agony, as the tentacles thrashed blindly, only to be cut short by the razor edge of Gregory’s sword, drawn like fluid poetry from the folds of his stylish Abercrombie overcoat, parting the writhing mass from the attractive body below.
Handing Gregory a napkin to wipe the slime from his antique blade, Spyros placed the cup in the sink, and with a smile, dryly commented, “Goddamn aliens!”
Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018