“As you join the good ship earth, and mingle with the dust, You’d better leave your underpants with someone you can trust…”
I’ve always been mystified by that line. After all, once I’m dead, my underpants won’t be of any value to me, and i really don’t mind if Robert Mugabe capers around with them on his head. No hang on… if he is going to do any capering in them I want a nasty dose of crabs (and not the kind you’d eat for dinner) when I go to dust and worm-food.
I’m still waiting on editorial input from Pyr. It’s a little distracting. I’m working rather haphazardly on Bolg, PI – the misadventures of my pictish ‘dwarf’ (he’s genetically a dwarf – with achondroplasia, and an added dose of longevity). This my first attempt at an adult (and it is quite… adult, more by innuendo and mockery than graphic content, but still) first person, and I’m not in a hurry to do it again.
“I’ll be there ASAP.” Having a jack to a microphone and earphone in my helmet made me feel like an electric monkey (and you can’t buy one of those easily) but it was convenient. I was at her gate just as she was tossing the rather anemic Goth-boy out of it. She had the grace to look embarassed. “You came a lot quicker than I expected.”
“It’s a problem,” I said, dryly. “But I’ve got a cream that helps.” She looked puzzled so I took her back into the house. “Tell me about the ransom demand.”
She showed me the text message, which I did a good imitation of reading for the first time. Twenty five grand… wasn’t really much by her standards. But she was pretty high maintenance. “The trustees’ll never give it to me,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m going to have to… to raise the money somehow.”
That was going to be interesting. You don’t even want to think about vampire loan-sharks. And conventional banking is a little awkward when you don’t get up ‘till dark, and your identity and and date of birth don’t appreciate being examined.