A wastrel.
I mean, wasteland. Hem! Forethought had not deigned to visit upon this moonraked
plain. Fallen crumbs of civilization’s midnight rarebit punctuated a once clean
slate. It was an abysmal landscape of broken dreams and discarded
aspirations, the emerald city viewed sans its magically tinted Raybans.
Knuckles Umbergrint knew the sight all too well. He sighed a rumbly sigh.
Connors and all his amorphous ilk would be found in such a place. Totally.
Whether to
press onward, to seek the wretched-yet-seekable, this he turned over in his
thoughts. He breathed deep the strangely musty open air, tinged with…
something. Change on the wind. A twinkly sort of glint came to his eye.
Whistling a stark opposition to his surroundings, he continued forth. The
soundtrack swelled as it will when a righteous warrior sets his mind. Into the
red sun, on to glory or doom. Aw yeah.
Exterior, a
public house. Our hero, if so he can be named(indeed it may be too soon to
call), approached the establishment of frivolity and broken days with all the
subtlety of a freight train. In burst he, our own Gandalf Springsteen, the
bearer of perplexing tidings. “It’s monstrous! I need- someone must-” The depth
of the problem was nigh unpronounceable. “Something must be done, stopped! I
can pay the man brave enough-!”Gandalf attempted to catch his breath as a patron
deigned to provide an answer.
“You’ll be wanting ol’ Cloakroom
McGraw.”
"Cloakroom?"
"Tha's his legal naem,"
Clarence Staven McGullicuddy snickered. "Right on his berth
certificate."
"But he'll know? He'll
help?"
"I shouldn't see why
not."
“Where do I find this man?”
“Hang on, boyo.” Clarence downed
the last of some foul brew. “Ah! Where were I? …If yer value yer gizzard
stuffing, you’ll need an introduction.”
Gandalf popped his metaphoric
monocle. “Friendly, is he?”
“Long story, but magic.”
Gandalf blinked. “What?”
Clarence paid him no neverhow.
“Come to the turnstile when the time’s stuck, and I’ll bring you to Cloakroom.
Cross examination aside, yer on yer own.” There was the unmitigated sense that
the conversation had terminated. Perplexed, Mr. Springsteen took once again to
the molassed street corners, the question of temporal halt-grinding on his
mind.
Today, crowds were Mr. Bruce’s
friend. Among the surging souls, one small smirking figure safeguarding a
suitcase was insignificant. He tired of
these alliterations. Just as he reached for his watch, the person he awaited
conveniently appeared. One Horace Grumbly. This tall disgruntled shell of a man
made his murky way to his uncherished appointment.
“Mr. Bruce.”
“Mr. Grumbly. Right on time.”
“Did you expect otherwise?” A grumbly harrumph.
“Not at all; thought the perishable. Shall we get on?”
Horace rummaged inside his jacket. Mr. Bruce wandered in the
heart of his mind’s eye, imagining a litany of secrets that might be hidden
within that pocket. Myths, fanciful creatures, the true purpose of aglets.
At long anticipatory last, a secrety packet was produced.
“Here, then,” quoth Grumbly. “Though I don’t know what good it can do you.
Meaningless trivia to add to the heap. Doubtful anyone keeps track anymore.”
"Oh, I keep track, Mr. Grumbly, I keep very good
track."
"That's very well for you. What about our
interests?"
"Which interests are you referring to, Mr.
Grumbly?"
"Don't you trifle with me, Mr. Bruce. Nor parfait, nor
turnover! This isn't finished between us!"
Mr. Grumbly swanned off, leaving crumbs in his wake. He
would marshal his next attack, and return when the time was right. Blast that
Mr. Bruce. Blast his infernal calculations and machinations and…
gentrifications! Maybe? BAH! To the devil with him.
Mr. Bruce secured his prize away and did at last check his
timepiece. No ticking. No motion of cogs. Resignation shuddered through the
wayward envoy. Inconvenient, but no matter. He was, Mr. Bruce, as yet 3 steps
ahead. It was his nature and vocation.
But
omniscience yet eluded him. Had he but turned at that moment, a curious sight
awaited his pondering eyes. Mister Springsteen stumbled unsteadily onto the
scene. Turnstile. That much he comprehendified. And if the great churning innards
of that pale blank face high above them had not ceased their motion, he were an
avuncular primate.
“Yeh found
the place!” Clarence Staven McGillicuddy crowed in his ear. “And why’s the
clock stopped? a body might wonder. A trade secret to be sure, boyo. Shall I
tell yeh?”
To Be Continued...