Grimbeau

The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague
‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for March & see if they’re fully booked for The Ides’, said Bonzo to Gnasher, who never questioned hors d’oeuvre or any spare morsel going
Simultaneously elsewhere times were changing too. Perhaps Slow-Slow-Quick-Quick-Slow was the way of it after all…
If evidence were necessary the characters froze halfway through what they were doing next and the room filled with a vatic silence, which you must find uneery. Indeed the rumpus next door in the greenhouse made it all but impossible to focus at all. Our friends remained unmoved showing no a flicker of awareness.
Time it seemed was indeed up. Keys echoed in the corridor. They had a life of their own as well.