crew would come
and actually do something?
The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular
because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an
especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet
little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.
I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and
had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a
cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while
Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there
and invite her to dinner.
I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I
would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I
was in one bad mood.
My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there
waltzing in combat boots.
Dean opened up as I reached with the key. “We have to
talk,” I told him. “Let’s rehash the argument
over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working
twelve hours a day for two months.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t get into my own house, that’s what
happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!” The Goddamn
Parrot was in fine voice. “When did that damned thing come
home? How did it get inside?”
“Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it.” He
nodded his head toward the Dead Man’s room, scowled.
“He told me to let it in.” Dean shuddered.
On cue, I heard from Old Bones.
Garrett. Come here. I want
to review events of the past few months.
Him and his hobbies. “What you’re going to hear
about is events of the past few hours.”
Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has
as little to do with His Nibs as he can.
“That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know
I was having some trouble.”
“I’ll make some tea,” Dean said, by way of
offering a white flag.
“Sounds good. Thanks.” When he gets those big hurt
eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. “But you, you traitor,
you deserter,” I snapped through the doorway of the small
front room, “you’re going to star in an experiment to
see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer.” The shape my head was
in, I was real short on tolerance.
I went into the Dead Man’s room.
Pickled parrot?
“He must be good for something.”
Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?
“Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not
having to deal with Dean’s nagging. I was getting used to not
having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He
came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped
me on the head.”
The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a
coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.
He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an
ugly nose it is, too.
The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his
room—the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his
insistence even though he cannot see—and your gaze is drawn
to a wooden chair at the room’s center. Maybe you could call
it the Dead Man’s throne. It is massive—but it has to
be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all
the years I have known him. He
has
grown seedier. Though
he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble
when his attention wanders.
His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz.
It’s like an elephant’s trunk a little over a foot
long.
Bad day?
“It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally
ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever
since. Why don’t you just dig into my head?”
I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext
examining the subjective side.
This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional
distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You
can’t win with him.
This is not good.
“Hey, I hardly got started.”
I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style
gods, all
and actually do something?
The crowd howled and mocked the ogre. Ogres are not popular
because they are just not nice people, generally, but this was an
especially tough crowd. They would have laughed had he been a sweet
little old nun. Times had the mob in a vicious humor.
I spied my new friend Adeth. She wore a darker, longer wig and
had changed apparel, but I was sure it was her. She moved like a
cat now, without wasted motion, absolutely graceful. Maybe while
Dean made up his mind to answer the door I could stroll over there
and invite her to dinner.
I hammered the door some more. Then I got my key out again. I
would unlock the damned thing again, then kick the chain loose. I
was in one bad mood.
My head still throbbed like a couple of pixies were in there
waltzing in combat boots.
Dean opened up as I reached with the key. “We have to
talk,” I told him. “Let’s rehash the argument
over that damned lock that cost me more than most guys make working
twelve hours a day for two months.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t get into my own house, that’s what
happened! Some damned fool put the chain on!” The Goddamn
Parrot was in fine voice. “When did that damned thing come
home? How did it get inside?”
“Hours ago, Mr. Garrett. I thought you sent it.” He
nodded his head toward the Dead Man’s room, scowled.
“He told me to let it in.” Dean shuddered.
On cue, I heard from Old Bones.
Garrett. Come here. I want
to review events of the past few months.
Him and his hobbies. “What you’re going to hear
about is events of the past few hours.”
Dean shivered again. The Dead Man gives him the creeps. He has
as little to do with His Nibs as he can.
“That dressed-up buzzard over there should of let you know
I was having some trouble.”
“I’ll make some tea,” Dean said, by way of
offering a white flag.
“Sounds good. Thanks.” When he gets those big hurt
eyes it is hard to stay mad at him. “But you, you traitor,
you deserter,” I snapped through the doorway of the small
front room, “you’re going to star in an experiment to
see if parrots make good hasenpfeffer.” The shape my head was
in, I was real short on tolerance.
I went into the Dead Man’s room.
Pickled parrot?
“He must be good for something.”
Do I detect a measure of crabbiness?
“Things are closing in on me. I was getting used to not
having to deal with Dean’s nagging. I was getting used to not
having to deal with your outrageous demands. Then you woke up. He
came home. I went out for a walk and a bunch of ugly wazoos bopped
me on the head.”
The picture the bird brought in had you lunging through a
coach without the forethought to open the nether exit.
He has moments when he looks beyond the end of his nose. And an
ugly nose it is, too.
The Dead Man has a human look to him. You glance into his
room—the biggest in the house and poorly lighted at his
insistence even though he cannot see—and your gaze is drawn
to a wooden chair at the room’s center. Maybe you could call
it the Dead Man’s throne. It is massive—but it has to
be to support four hundred and some pounds. He has not moved in all
the years I have known him. He
has
grown seedier. Though
he can protect himself if he concentrates, mice and bugs do nibble
when his attention wanders.
His outstanding feature, other than size, is his schnoz.
It’s like an elephant’s trunk a little over a foot
long.
Bad day?
“It was a bad day when I got woke up at a totally
ridiculous hour, thank you very much. It has gone downhill ever
since. Why don’t you just dig into my head?”
I would prefer that you told it. I get more subtext
examining the subjective side.
This from a guy who insisted I had to maintain my emotional
distance when I reported to him. We might as well be married. You
can’t win with him.
This is not good.
“Hey, I hardly got started.”
I read you. These are not friendly gods. These are old-style
gods, all
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