| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol I No. 3 |
| On With The Show |
There is a screech of mis-aligned brakes, a
colourful fury of hurled invective and a high-pitched singing noise
as the space-time continuum repairs the rent in its fabric wrought by
a rider in too much of a hurry to worry about physics. "Last time I
let Andy adjust the bloody brakes" comes a dark muttering. A sudden
chill fills the air and the light leaves as there is a spontaneous
solar eclipse. Confused birds fly to their roosts in an almighty
thunder of flapping. In the dim twilight the black and silver Harrier
glows with a faint, electric-blue shimmer, a nimbus not unlike the
magic of St Elmo's fire. A red glow blinks into life on the rear as
the Bush & Mueller lamp realises it has become dark. The bike stares
sullenly at its mistress, who is stripping off her silver Specialized
BG road shoes in order to save her cleats, wondering why they have
stopped and when they will start off again.
The woman pushes into the Cake Stop, surveys the goings-on. She
smiles in satisfaction to see that the avatar she left to maintain
some semblance of seemly behaviour amongst her fellows has been
suitably convincing to have near-seduced that Adonis of two wheels
whose elbow she has fancied for some time. That will make things
easier later. However she is not best pleased to see that it was not
sufficient to prevent the attentions of that dastardly creature The
Archaeologist upsetting Steelman. Had she not spoken to the Don only
the
previous week and recommended that he revise his treatment of those
who pay late? He had seemed quite willing to concede that they were
all cyclists or one sort or another, and none of them deserved scare
tactics, especially when she pointed out there was an entire category
of road user much more deserving. Surely threatening them with Yenrod
was a little harsh? Perhaps The Archaeologist simply had not received
the memo since his email address had been blackballed.
Where had Hasufel gone? Oh well, he would come back when he was
hungry. They always did. Except for Chuffy, who had vanished out the
door after those 8 pints of Minglemangler and hadn't been seen in
days. The woman is now weary from searching for him, her legs and
arms coated in a film of sweat, grime and dead insects, and some
rather less pleasant looking traces of her travels through places not
mentioned on any OS map or Cyclecity Guide.
Leaving her avatar tracing fingers up the inside of Gunner's manly
bicep with a mischievous glint in its eye, she makes her way to the
bar, noting without any external trace of her observation the
jumpiness of Kitzy and Thanatos, nervous as a pair of unweaned
kittens after the events of the day and practising their litany
against fear. The woman wonders if she should explain to them that it
would be quite some time before they had enough control of the Voice
for their names even to be make-someone-laugh words, but decides
against it. They are young. They have many years before them in which
to learn. Sheriff Strutt is
declaiming his views on speeding to the jukebox in the corner, which
is doing its level best to respond with well-thought arguments but
doesn't really have much to say as it agrees with him on all points
anyway. To the ignorant, Kathy is drunkenly practising for a part in
a Shakespeare play, but the woman knows she had simply had a couple
of pints too many of the local scrumpy and is searching for her
ferrets.
"Usual please, Claire," the woman says. A pint mug appears, filled to
the brim with a brew made from the finest produce of Assam. It is
accompanied by a fine porcelain plate upon which rests a slab of
Soreen malt loaf, food of the gods. "Any sign of him?"
"No, I'm sorry. Did you not find him?"
"I looked everywhere, Claire. The others haven't noticed he's gone
yet, have they? I don't want to put the wind up them, after all. Did
he leave an avatar as well?"
"I don't think so. I think they're so used to having him around that
they can't imagine life without him so they just fill in the blanks.
What is that stuck to your chest?"
"It's probably a piece of Snargleflap." The woman brushes it off with
a dismissive gesture. "There's a lot of them about in the border
zones at this time of year. They're not too much bother unless they
get stuck in your derailleur." She sighed. "Fingal's ready to head
out again and go looking for the pink-haired little sprite, but I
need to let the lactic acid drain.
Maybe I should try luring him back with a trail of beer."
"I think that only works on hamsters," Claire comments, wrinkling her
delicate little nose. "The blood on the floor is Thanatos', by the
way," she adds, being sure to get her apostrophe in the right place.
"He has been playing at being Kwizatz Haderach again."
"Could be worse," the woman responds wryly. "He might have put a
condom on his head and started pretending to be Duke Leto the God
Emperor." She shakes her head, tired and a little sad. "I'd better go
talk to Aeroflash and Nutty, see if they know anything. We need to
find him, Claire. I'm worried he's going to try his crazed Doppler
shift experiment."
"I thought you'd put that out of his head when he couldn't keep up
with you even though he was on a red bike?"
"It'll take more than that to dissuade the blighter. Those 8 pints
might just have pushed him over the edge."
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