Tumbledown Ave. | Chapter 9
Froth Floating Angel Killin' Self-Fulfilling Prophecies (aka The Wheel Is In The Autumn)
Walking down from the windmill, where the body of the Calm Bruise laid like a silver brooch half-molten in a lava pit, Agent Oganesson approached the sound of a mad dog barking, the sound of angry children playing, the whistling of washing lines—she unconsciously pressed her hand to her belt, where her gun sat, limpid, expectant.
Leaning over a fence, she watched the dog barking, living in a chicken coop - two storey - adapted into its cage, a hutch for an Alsatian. It continued to bark, wrothful, not at Oganesson, but into the middle distance. She wondered whether it saw an Angel, looked to the same point, saw nothing.
“Joris Bunsen?” She called out, and the door to a battered caravan immediately swung wide with a bang, “Are you Joris Bunsen?”
“I am the 24th most common element in the earths damned crust,” he barked, wearing nothing more than an ill-fitting white dressing gown suitable for a woman’s build, “I am roasted, froth floated, ya can call me anything you like, luv, I’m Hemmoorer Eimer.”
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