Hmm, I only really reach the prompt at the end, but it was in my mind all the way through -- it's just the build up took longer than I expected!
Twisted The snow was centimetres deep on the pavement but Monkeybutt's monkeys had been out with the snowploughs so the roads were clear at least. The edges of the pavements... well, they were tens of centimetres deep in snow and if you wanted to cross the road you either had to judge where the snow was best packed, climb to the top and then jump back down, or you had to break through a snow wall and hope it didn't collapse on you in the process. And then repeat the process on the other side.... There was also black ice on the roads, but luckily the cars were mostly skidding off and gently ending up in one of the pavement-shrouding walls of snow so, looked at from a highly specific point of view the snowploughs had done their job well. "Oi, mister!" I looked around, hearing a voice that seemed oddly familiar but seeing no-one around me. "Down 'ere!" I looked lower than I was expecting -- the snow had pretty much driven the street urchins underground, literally, to the cellars and basements of other people's building, clinging to steam pipes for warmth, or setting fire to things that probably shouldn't be burned in an enclosed space. There was still nothing to see until I realised that there was a scrap of black cloth caught on a snow drift that might, if I squinted, be moving. I grabbed it and hauled and the snow around it collapsed and an urchin pulled free. I dropped it and let it find its feet. "Thanks mister," said the voice, somehow contriving to sound grubby. A face wrapped in a heavy football-team-supporting scarf tilted in my direction and the voice said, much more quietly, "ohhhh shi-" "Twizzle," I said, having finally dug the memory of the voice out of the vaults of my mind. I like to keep the vaults closed, sealed shut with superglue for the most part, but being a private investigator means that there have to be keys and oxyacetylene-torches-on-stand-by to get back in. "I thought Mad Frankie dealt with you?" There had been issues a few months ago over a spate of small thefts and Mad Frankie has sent the Anger Management to round up the urchins and cull their numbers.
"Not me, guv," said Twizzle. A strong cockney accent appeared out of nowhere and he (or possibly she, they were mostly a shapeless mass thanks to layers of stolen clothes) tried for a jaunty caper and fell over on the snow. I sighed, a noise which has been liked to the death-rattle of a pit-pony in a particularly polluted mine. "His nibs did send a few gentlemen, like, round to visit some of the more... daring of the urchins and orphans, but not me, guv." "Drop the accent," I growled. "I hate fake accents. And fake tans." "'m not tanned," muttered Twizzle sounding more androgynous but a lot more normal. "You will be if you put that accent back on," I said. "What are you doing in a snowdrift?" "Suffocating," muttered Twizzle. I got the impression that he (or maybe she) was somehow proud of the cockney accent, for all that London was at least 2000km distant. "I can put you back in there," I said. It wasn't much of a threat but it would have involved me touching Twizzle again and even the urchins knew that touching me was an invitation to get three kinds of rampaging skin diseases. Not that I have any signs or symptoms, I'm purely a carrier, but word gets around. At least, Monkeybutt's words have gotten around and I can't even get a doctor to examine me now and prove she's lying. "Right," muttered Twizzle and I started to wonder if the accent was better than the muttering. An unnecessary snow-plough started making its way along the street ahead of us. "I got dumped in there by the twisted sister." "Fiona?" I said, startled despite myself. The Scoliosis family -- a name they were strangely proud of, depsite it being a medical condition -- were rumoured to be at war with Mad Frankie and so hadn't been seen in the City for a couple of years now. "Yeah," said Twizzle. "That one. She ordered one of her goons to drop-kick me, only it was Harry the Hugger so he just dumped me in a snow-drift and told me to suffocate quietly if I knew what was good for me." The snow-plough veered in our direction and I wondered if the driver had been looking for one of us.
Greg - completely fair, particularly with a prompt like this.
Ah, Mac out and about on his own this time. A delight(?) as always. Also... I quite like Twizzle and hope they manage to survive the incoming snow plough attack.
3 comments:
Hmm, I only really reach the prompt at the end, but it was in my mind all the way through -- it's just the build up took longer than I expected!
Twisted
The snow was centimetres deep on the pavement but Monkeybutt's monkeys had been out with the snowploughs so the roads were clear at least. The edges of the pavements... well, they were tens of centimetres deep in snow and if you wanted to cross the road you either had to judge where the snow was best packed, climb to the top and then jump back down, or you had to break through a snow wall and hope it didn't collapse on you in the process. And then repeat the process on the other side....
There was also black ice on the roads, but luckily the cars were mostly skidding off and gently ending up in one of the pavement-shrouding walls of snow so, looked at from a highly specific point of view the snowploughs had done their job well.
"Oi, mister!"
I looked around, hearing a voice that seemed oddly familiar but seeing no-one around me.
"Down 'ere!"
I looked lower than I was expecting -- the snow had pretty much driven the street urchins underground, literally, to the cellars and basements of other people's building, clinging to steam pipes for warmth, or setting fire to things that probably shouldn't be burned in an enclosed space. There was still nothing to see until I realised that there was a scrap of black cloth caught on a snow drift that might, if I squinted, be moving. I grabbed it and hauled and the snow around it collapsed and an urchin pulled free. I dropped it and let it find its feet.
"Thanks mister," said the voice, somehow contriving to sound grubby. A face wrapped in a heavy football-team-supporting scarf tilted in my direction and the voice said, much more quietly, "ohhhh shi-"
"Twizzle," I said, having finally dug the memory of the voice out of the vaults of my mind. I like to keep the vaults closed, sealed shut with superglue for the most part, but being a private investigator means that there have to be keys and oxyacetylene-torches-on-stand-by to get back in. "I thought Mad Frankie dealt with you?" There had been issues a few months ago over a spate of small thefts and Mad Frankie has sent the Anger Management to round up the urchins and cull their numbers.
"Not me, guv," said Twizzle. A strong cockney accent appeared out of nowhere and he (or possibly she, they were mostly a shapeless mass thanks to layers of stolen clothes) tried for a jaunty caper and fell over on the snow. I sighed, a noise which has been liked to the death-rattle of a pit-pony in a particularly polluted mine. "His nibs did send a few gentlemen, like, round to visit some of the more... daring of the urchins and orphans, but not me, guv."
"Drop the accent," I growled. "I hate fake accents. And fake tans."
"'m not tanned," muttered Twizzle sounding more androgynous but a lot more normal.
"You will be if you put that accent back on," I said. "What are you doing in a snowdrift?"
"Suffocating," muttered Twizzle. I got the impression that he (or maybe she) was somehow proud of the cockney accent, for all that London was at least 2000km distant.
"I can put you back in there," I said. It wasn't much of a threat but it would have involved me touching Twizzle again and even the urchins knew that touching me was an invitation to get three kinds of rampaging skin diseases. Not that I have any signs or symptoms, I'm purely a carrier, but word gets around. At least, Monkeybutt's words have gotten around and I can't even get a doctor to examine me now and prove she's lying.
"Right," muttered Twizzle and I started to wonder if the accent was better than the muttering. An unnecessary snow-plough started making its way along the street ahead of us. "I got dumped in there by the twisted sister."
"Fiona?" I said, startled despite myself. The Scoliosis family -- a name they were strangely proud of, depsite it being a medical condition -- were rumoured to be at war with Mad Frankie and so hadn't been seen in the City for a couple of years now.
"Yeah," said Twizzle. "That one. She ordered one of her goons to drop-kick me, only it was Harry the Hugger so he just dumped me in a snow-drift and told me to suffocate quietly if I knew what was good for me."
The snow-plough veered in our direction and I wondered if the driver had been looking for one of us.
Greg - completely fair, particularly with a prompt like this.
Ah, Mac out and about on his own this time. A delight(?) as always. Also... I quite like Twizzle and hope they manage to survive the incoming snow plough attack.
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