Over the gangplank, through the glass doorway, into Reception. From hinderdesk, Peggy (marginally the fatter of the two Cerberidae ad portas) intimated to me that the hot tub was being serviced. —
Cerberidae, Billy, Peggy
- Strapon! You who have been my accountant for these several years! Bodies still ok beneath the patio? Or did the Vat-man sniff them out again? —
Strapon
I turned. Mid-twenties. Stupid haircut like something you see on a nature documentary about oddly-coloured monkeys, company polo shirt in some colour or pattern, tracky-bums ‘n’ trainers, bleached gnashers. Eyes which were windows on a terrible, yawning void. A plastic name tag affixed to his breast announced him as John Virgil, Marketing ‘n’ Placemaking. And a smell came off him, of the yobspray – Jason, I think they call it – with which they anoint themselves purposing to mask the malodorous enchantments of the witch Perspira. —
John Virgil
The door swung open to disclose Peggy plenitudinously occupying the lintel, and brandishing like a shield a gigantic Get Well Soon card. —
The Get Well Soon card
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