Back in Montypee; the aftermath of another of Mr Luvvertory’s sponsored k-holings. As his personality reintegrated, renewing acquaintance with all the anxieties, the tics and twitches, the barely suppressed hysterias that contributed so much to the formation of his identity, Costa as was proper and condign began bitterly to regret the trust he had reposed in his subordinate. The line he had crossed. Overfamiliarity. Reeled out of the Fruit & Nut Flake, stumbled down the hill. But not left into the precinct with the shop and the pharmacy, and the little knot of drunques and junquies coagulating outside. Instead, his winding torque, the uncorrected bias of his gyroscope – in short his ket-legs – swayed him round the corner to the right, into the cul-de-sac which was there like an appendix. —
K-holing, Costa
The nearest braggart, this being none other than Lord Snatch the squattocrat – abruptly shut off his torrent of wordwanking scatsprach. Head turned slowly, a chilling sort of hydraulic swivel, in Costa’s direction. Gob gaped, shaping as if to offer speech. Tongue flickered over parched lips. To Costa, the merest glimpse of the thing; seeming forked. And then somehow the process, all the inner whirring and pumping and flushing, was completed, and maxillo-facial muscles exacted various grimacings, and the word was churned out in response to the external stimulus. —
Lord Snatch
- Then you are determined on your course. Ah well, nothing’s to be done, I suppose. Men call him Ianeass the Gimp, since it is your pleasure to know. —
Ianeass the Gimp
- No, said Onanisticles the scagsmith lingering still, but all the same, having once beat such overwhelming odds, you must not linger over the dice. Fly away now, son of Astarte, fly away and never return. —
Onanisticles the scagsmith
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